Murder at the National Gallery (30 page)

Mason shrugged, exhaled. “Drained. And exuberant.”

“Drained I can understand. Exuberant? About having
Grottesca
leave us?”

A smile crossed Mason’s lean lips. “You know me too well, Court. I left out sad. Yes, there is a profound sadness at having
Grottesca
leave the National Gallery.”

“They’ve planned quite a homecoming celebration in Ravello. Feel up to it?”

“I think so, although I could certainly do without this trip.”

Whitney laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you complain about a trip to Ravello. But I know what you mean. There wasn’t any decision to be made. The Italian government, Minister Betti in particular, insisted you be present. Hands-across-the-sea sort of thing. Actually, you should be flattered. The Italians could have told us to simply send the painting back without fanfare.”

“Maybe that would have been better.”

Whitney went to the window. “Looks like a beautiful evening. What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“Noon. I’ll accompany the painting to the airport.”

Without looking back, Whitney said, “Luther, I hate to delve into anyone’s personal life, but I feel compelled to do that with you.” He turned to face him. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Your behavior since
Grottesca
arrived. Paul has expressed concern, too.”

“Paul Bishop? Why would he be concerned about me?”

“I know there’s little love lost between you and Paul, and a hell of a lot of professional jealousy. But Paul is a decent man. He has a personal fondness for you.”

Mason wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead, he said nothing.

“I’ve also noticed what Paul’s referring to,” Whitney said. “I passed by the Caravaggio gallery the other day and saw you standing in front of
Grottesca
, staring at it as though mesmerized. I kept going. When I returned fifteen minutes later, you were in the same spot. You hadn’t moved.”

Luther replied, “You might say I’ve taken every opportunity this past month to soak it up. It’s like knowing someone will die in a month and wanting to embrace that person for every possible living moment. I knew the minute it arrived that I would have this limited time to examine it, to revel in its detail. If that seems—well, if it seems weird to you and Paul, I can only say that it isn’t. The study of Caravaggio has consumed my professional life. The last opportunity I’ll have to appreciate the work is when they hang it in the church in Ravello.”

Whitney sat on the arm of the sectional and placed his hand on the curator’s shoulder. “Luther, my only concern is your well-being. I expect many more years of outstanding service from this senior curator and would hate to think the emotional, and I suppose physical strain of this exhibition might have depleted you.”

“I assure you that isn’t the case. But I appreciate the sentiment behind your words, Court.” He stood. “I’m fine. A good night’s sleep is all I need, and a pleasant flight tomorrow,
accompanied by my friend, Signor Grottesca.” He laughed. “I talk as though I’m accompanying a child.”

“The Italian ambassador and his staff will be with you,” said Whitney. “Richard and Maureen from Public Information. Annabel Reed-Smith representing the White House. The journalists who’ve signed on—I think there are four, including your friend, Mr. Pims.”

“Yes. Scott decided at the last moment.”

“I sometimes wonder, Luther, how you can remain friends with him.”

“Why?”

“He’s so—he’s so—I’ll be direct—he’s so—”

“Obnoxious?”

“I’m glad you said it, Luther.”

“Scott can be overbearing. But there are redeeming qualities.”

“I suppose there are. Just hard to see. Well, it should be quite a party in Ravello.”

“And I’d better get home to pack,” Luther said. “I can only thank you again, Courtney, for your kindness and professional support.”

“All of it heartfelt,” Whitney said, his arm draped over Luther’s shoulder as he escorted him to the door. “You ought to take a few extra days in Italy. Relax. Soak up some sun. You’ll be in your favorite town.”

“Maybe when the exhibition is finally over.”

“You did a wonderful job, Annabel.”

Annabel and Washington MPD art-squad chief Steve Jordan entered Dumbarton Oaks through the 32nd Street entrance, a block east of Wisconsin, and stood in the Veracruz Room, part of the wing housing the pre-Columbian collection. They then moved to the Post-Classic Room, stopping in front of a display case.

“There it is,” Jordan said.

Annabel shifted her perspective to avoid encountering glare on the protective glass. Peering back at her was a gleaming
gold monkey. She smiled. “Nice to see it back where it belongs,” she said.

They admired a were-jaguar and a black basalt serpent in other cases.

Annabel said, “I can’t believe this actually happened. It actually worked.”

“Sometimes it does. Most times it doesn’t. We got lucky, no small thanks to you.”

“I did nothing. All I did was call to tell you that someone had left that message on the machine in the Atlas Building and then made one phone call to the—‘perp.’ Right? End of involvement.”

“Which makes it even better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your cover wasn’t blown. We never used your name, just put out the word that an important dealer in pre-Columbian was in the market, no questions asked. We did indicate it was a woman. If we’d been pressed, we would have used your name or had you do it. Frankly, the guy wasn’t very smart. He knew nothing about art, didn’t even ask for your name when you called back to arrange the meet. When we arrested him, he asked who you were. I told him you were a South American collector temporarily living in Washington.”

“You never told me who he was.”

“A fence who took the items off the hands of the pair who stole them. They weren’t employed by Dumbarton. Outside contractors with access.”

Because the theft had not been made public, the return of the items to Dumbarton Oaks was also kept quiet. As far as anyone knew—aside from Jordan, Annabel, a few other law-enforcement people, and Dumbarton Oaks management—the items had never left.

“Drive you somewhere?” Jordan asked as they stepped outside into crisp sunshine.

“Thanks, Steve, but a walk will do me good. Such a lovely day. I have to ask you one thing, though.”

“Shoot.”

“When you said that my cover hadn’t been blown, what did
you mean by that? No, strike that. I know what you meant literally. But I have the sinking feeling you’re pleased my identity wasn’t revealed because you might ask me to do this again.”

“Would I do that to a beautiful woman like you? Especially such a tall one?”

She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. “You know something, Steve. I think you would.”

“Enjoy your walk, Annabel. Best to Mac. What does he think of his wife’s fling with crime?”

“He—no problem.”

There hadn’t been a problem with Mac because Annabel hadn’t told him.

Why?
she pondered as she took her time returning to her gallery, stopping to admire the pretty homes nestled together on Georgetown’s narrow streets, laughing at one garage on which signs in six languages warned against parking in front of it, seemingly on pain of death.

Why hadn’t she told her husband?

It wasn’t a matter of deciding not to tell him. She had every intention of doing that. From the beginning, one of many bedrocks upon which their wonderful marriage was based was the absence of secrets. They didn’t tell each other everything, of course.
Their
Constitution allowed for a reasonable amount of individual liberty, as well as strict adherence to the First Amendment.

But her cooperation with Steve Jordan was something she should have shared with Mac before she became involved, and she knew it. She envisioned the range of responses he might have had. Foolish of her to lend her name and reputation to criminal activities. Foolhardy to place herself even potentially in harm’s way. She was busy enough as it was, with the White House arts group, running her gallery, keeping up with friends, tracking down a madman who smashed pre-Columbian objects and ex-wives—busy enough being a wife.

All arguments
she’d
raised over the course of their marriage when he strayed from his latter-day quiet, genteel life of college
law professor to lend his name and reputation to solving murders or helping friends prove they hadn’t committed them.

Placing
himself
in harm’s way. Adding an unnecessary entree to an already full plate.

Being a husband.

She stopped at the French Market to pick up the makings of a salad, and French bread. She was on her own for dinner that night because Mac was dining out with an old friend. He’d asked her to join them, but she’d begged off. She needed an easy night at home with a low-calorie dinner and the chance to pack carefully for her trip to Italy the following day. She had the whole evening ahead of her. Mac was off after dinner to a monthly low-stakes poker game with high-stakes friends at the National Press Club. Shades of Harry Truman’s famous gatherings.

The rest of the afternoon went quickly and smoothly, aside from an infuriating conversation with a representative from the insurance company who wanted to give her even less than the Tlatilco had been insured for because, he claimed, “Your security was not up to standards.”

She returned home at six, slipped into a favored knock-around-the-house purple sweatsuit, walked Rufus, and prepared her salad. Silly, she thought as she washed lettuce and placed it in a plastic salad spinner, that she hadn’t told her husband about her part in Steve Jordan’s sting. Especially now. It had been a success. The pieces were safely back at Dumbarton Oaks, and she was safe and sound. “How childish,” she said aloud, cutting an Israeli tomato into wedges. Chances are Mac would get a kick out of her adventure. She’d tell him the minute he got home.

But by the time he returned from his poker game at midnight, Annabel had been asleep for an hour. And then, somehow, in the bustle of the following morning, the opportune time didn’t present itself. Mac had an early meeting at the university and was out the door by seven-thirty. He embraced her in a bear hug before leaving, kissing her softly on the lips, then harder. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

“I’ll miss you too,” she said. “Damn. Here I am making
these all-expenses-paid trips to Italy, but every time I do you have a conflict.”

“Don’t make me feel guilty,” he said. “The hell with expenses being paid. Let’s make plans to go to Italy together. We’ll sit down when you get back, compare our calendars, and pick a time that works for both of us.”

After a stop at the gallery to brief a young part-time employee who would mind the store in her absence, she was driven to Dulles Airport in a Lincoln Town Car sent by Carole Aprile.

“All set for the hero’s welcome?” Annabel asked Luther.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And well deserving of a hero’s reception,” Scott Pims boomed. The cameraman and soundman traveling with him sat off to the side on large black equipment boxes.

“And you’re capturing it for posterity,” Annabel said to Pims.

“Of course. Does a falling tree in a forest make a sound if no one is there to hear it? Luther is a stout redwood in the art world. I intend that everyone hear the noise he makes.”

When he falls?
Annabel thought. And then wondered why she had thought that.

Mason appeared to Annabel to be uncomfortable with the conversation about him. “All I want,” he said, “is to live a life of beauty and calm.”

“And so you shall,” Pims said. “Come. Time to board.”

Everything had gone so easily.

When Mason had first formulated what at the time seemed an outrageous fantasy—making off with an original Caravaggio—he had no idea how to go about it. But as things began to fall into place—Carlo Giliberti’s discovery that the Italian Mafia, led by Luigi Sensi, actually had
Grottesca
; a source of funding with which to buy it, or, rather, pay off the intermediaries, provided by the unscrupulous collector Franco del Brasco; and the availability of master forger Jacques Saison to create the necessary copies—the biggest obstacle was how to
physically spirit the original from the National Gallery after it had been authenticated and exhibited.

When he’d told Pims that he intended to make the swap in Italy, he was being truthful. At that juncture, it had seemed the most sensible approach. If something went wrong, it would be easier to extricate himself from any resulting brouhaha while far from the National Gallery.

But Pims was right. He wouldn’t be able to predict the situation in Italy when the painting was returned. And so he changed his plans. The switch would be accomplished at the National Gallery itself.

Mason’s reputation for being obsessed with
Grottesca
, at times to a point of irrationality, proved valuable; he played that card throughout the month, standing in front of it for hours after the tourists were gone. Everyone in the Gallery started talking about his infatuation with the work. Early on, Luther wondered whether it would be better to adopt an aloof stance where
Grottesca
was concerned, make it seem that he didn’t care that much about it.

But again it was Pims who suggested that to be half-crazed about the painting would work to Mason’s advantage. “Like not picking a fight with a crazed man in a bar,” Pims had said. “We don’t mess with crazy people.”

“I’m not crazy,” Luther had countered.

“A matter of opinion.
Controlled
craziness, Luther.
Slightly
crazy about
Grottesca
.”

That was the way Mason played it, although it didn’t take much playacting. He
was
“crazy” about
Grottesca
, about almost all of Caravaggio’s work.

Another ingredient of the plan was for Luther to make a point of always carrying other paintings with him wherever he went in the National Gallery. “Now that the exhibition is underway,” he told colleagues, “I can finally get around to studying these other paintings.” And so he moved from West to East buildings, in one gallery and out the other, arriving at meetings and leaving them with at least two works of art under his arm or in an oversized leather portfolio.