The Wives of Beverly Row 3: Lust Has a New Address (2 page)

Gabe lifted his eyebrows. “Something like that,” he said.

Ariel shook her head. “Gabe, you’re crazier than I thought.”

“You look so sexy when you argue,” Gabe said.

Ariel took a sip of her wine. She rolled her eyes.
What did he think? That he could flatter her into going to jail for him?
Their food arrived and it looked delicious. Ariel tasted the salmon and it melted like butter in her mouth.

“Fifty-fifty partners after my expenses,” Gabe said. “That’s almost two-and-a-half-million apiece.”

Ariel was still shaking her head. “Let’s just assume for one minute that I actually could forge that painting.”

“I know you can.”

“It’s one of the most complex pieces of art you could have come up with, Gabe. The sky tones in that painting. The detail in the waves.”

“I know you can do it, Ariel.”

“That painting has been archived. They’ve got high resolution imagery of every square inch of the canvas, including what’s behind the frame. There’s no way you could reproduce it. There’s no way of even knowing the hidden markings on the original.”

“What if I told you there was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got the archival imagery.”

“Front and back?”

Gabe pulled a laptop from his briefcase and opened it on the table. The restaurant was pretty expensive, not the kind of place you could usually pull out a computer, but Gabe never cared about things like that. He opened an image file. It was a high resolution archival image of the entire canvas of
Storm on the Sea of Galilee
, including the markings on the edge of the canvas, the part that was usually covered by the frame. Those parts of the canvas were kept secret precisely to prevent forgers from reproducing them.

“Where did you get this?”

“I’ve been working on this for a while,” Gabe said.

“And do you have the back too?”

Gabe opened another file. It was the back of the canvas in the same high resolution format. Ariel could see the place on the back that Rembrandt himself had signed the canvas. She could also see various other markings in Dutch and Italian and French, probably written by the owners and dealers who’d handled the painting during its four-hundred year history.

She was impressed. Getting a file like that was no easy feat. It was almost as difficult as getting the painting itself.

“I’ve also got the authentication reports.” He proceeded to open a forty page text document prepared by the museum’s staff outlining every single identifying feature of the canvas.

“Where did you get all this?”

“I’ve got a contact at the insurance company.”

“They held all of this on file?”

“Yes they did.”

“Are they the ones offering the reward?”

“No. The museum is offering the reward.”

“And are they good for it?”

“They are,” Gabe said. “I checked their corporate filings. They’ve got the five million in a special trust account, earmarked for the very purpose.”

“They’ve had the money in a special account all this time?”

“Yes they have. It’s been sitting in the account for fourteen years.”

“How long are they planning on leaving it there?”

“Fifteen years,” Gabe said. “Which is all the more reason to act quickly.”

Ariel was still shaking her head. She had to admit though, she was intrigued. The information Gabe had given her contained everything she needed to create an exact replica of the original painting, right down to details of the canvas grain, the framing material, the chemical composition of the paint, carbon analysis of the canvas and frame, everything.

“So what do you think?”

“I think you’re a fool, that’s what I think. I think you
want
to go to jail.”

“Come on,” Gabe said. “Look at this, you’ve got to admit, it’s a good start, isn’t it.”

Ariel had to give him that much. “It’s a start, Gabe. I’ll give you that. But that’s all it is.”

“I’ve got more,” Gabe said.

“What more do you have.”

“I’ve got a canvas.”

Ariel looked up at him. The number one reason forgeries got discovered was because of the canvas. For a talented forger, recreating the artwork wasn’t the hardest part of passing off a forgery. Reproducing an exact painting was what they did and they were very good at it. The hard part was finding a canvas that would pass a chemical analysis. The flax used in creating the canvas was a natural material and had a unique signature that could be detected using laboratory processes.

“What do you mean, you’ve got a canvas?”

“I’ve got the same canvas as the one used for the original painting. The same exact batch.”

“You’re crazy, Gabe. How could you even know they’re a match?”

Gabe just smiled. “They’re a match,” he said. “The same batch of canvases, imported through the port of Antwerp in 1631 by the Dutch East India Company.”

“You got a hold of a canvas from the same batch?” Ariel couldn’t believe it. That was the holy grail of forgery. Not only was the canvas from the same era, but it was from the same roll, made of the same crop of flax. It would match perfectly.

“So what do you say, sweetheart?” Gabe said. He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. Ariel was flustered. She was used to Gabe’s flirting, she’d been married to him for virtually all of her adult life, but something about the situation was making her heart race. She took a deep breath.

Gabe got up from his seat and came around the table. He took Ariel’s hands in his and looked into her eyes. She didn’t know why but she stood up to meet him.

He put his arms around her and leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth. She was in a daze. It happened before she could even think clearly. His lips touched hers and pressed against them. She knew he had a girlfriend, that receptionist at the gallery, what had her name been?
Lucy
. Ariel pictured her. She imagined what Lucy would be feeling if she saw Gabe there, making out with his ex-wife.

“Let me walk you out to your car,” Gabe said.

Ariel hadn’t finished her meal yet but she didn’t care. She was feeling reckless. Something about making out with Gabe now that he was no longer her husband, gave her a thrill. It was weird because there had never been a thrill like this when they were married. She tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that was excited her so much now but hadn’t excited her before.

Gabe threw some cash on the table and gathered up his things and then took Ariel by the hand and led her out of the restaurant. In the parking lot she led him toward her car. She realized what it was that was exciting her. For all the years that she’d been married to Gabe, he’d been the cheater. She’d figured out a way to live with that for a while, she’d told herself whatever she needed to believe to get through each day, but in the end the marriage had fallen apart because of it. Now she was beginning to realize that during those years, she hadn’t just been jealous of Gabe, she’d been jealous of the girls he was cheating with. She’d wondered what it would be like to be one of those women, one of those lucky women who could enjoy Gabe’s company, let him buy them dinner, flirt with him, fuck him, and then go home knowing that they had just fucked some other woman’s husband. They weren’t the victim of his philandering. They could enjoy him, they could enjoy every inch of him, and all the time they would know that he had a wife at home who was paying the price for it.

Well, now
she
was that woman.
She
could enjoy Gabe,
she
could kiss him right in front of everyone in this fancy restaurant, and it was Lucy who had to worry about where he was and what he was up to. Now it was her turn to have all the fun, and Lucy got all the work.
It was ideal!

III

Z
OLA LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW
at the passing city streets. Jake was driving.

“What bar is it?” Zola said. She felt very strange. She wasn’t sure what emotion to feel. She looked at Jake, her husband. He was humming along to the radio. She’d never seen him in such a good mood. He was so excited. He hadn’t even been this happy on their wedding night! He hadn’t been this excited the first time they’d made love.
This
was what excited him.

“It’s a place on Vine,” he said. “You won’t have heard of it.”

Zola was worried. She’d lived in LA her whole life. She knew what people meant when they said you wouldn’t have heard of a place.

“What style is it?” she said.

“Quit worrying,” Jake said. “It’s Irish.”

She nodded. She knew it was going to be an awful place. She was beginning to feel cheap, dirty. She was allowing her own husband to drive her to a bar to meet another man, a stranger, a pervert from the Internet who liked to fuck other men’s wives. How had she been reduced to this? She was a good woman, a nice person, a loving wife. She knew she deserved more than this.

“Have you been there before?” she said.

Jake nodded.

“To meet women?”

Jake didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the road. He was driving faster than he should. He could get pulled over. Zola could tell he was excited, impatient to get to the bar.

They pulled up outside the place and Jake parked the car. Zola sat there next to him, waiting. She wasn’t sure what to do?

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you coming in?”

“It’s not my date,” Jake said. “It’s yours.”

Zola didn’t know what to say to that. It
was
his date. He’d arranged every bit of it. He’d taken her picture, created the profile, made contact with the man. He’d set up the date, the time and place, he’d even supervised her while she got dressed. He’d said his reputation was on the line and he didn’t want her letting him down. It was as if she was a piece of his property, a sports car he owned, and he was letting his buddies take her for a test drive. She felt sick.

“Is it really a date?” she said.

“What else would you call it?”

She didn’t know. She didn’t want to make him mad, she didn’t want to get in a fight, the whole point of this was to try and get closer to him, to get him to love her more.

“You’re right,” she said, trying to smooth things over. She knew she was going too far, no woman should be agreeing to something like this as a way to connect with her husband, but she was desperate. She was afraid he’d get bored of her and kick her out and then where would she be? She knew women from her neck of the woods who’d done a lot worse than this. The man she was meeting might even be nice.

“So what should I do?” she said to Jake.

“Just do whatever he wants. It’s a date. Just go along with it, enjoy it. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“It
is
fun,” she lied.

“Just make me proud. He’s going to be on the forum tomorrow telling everyone what you’re like. If he says you’re frigid I’ll die.”

“I won’t let you down,” Zola said. She looked up at him. She didn’t know what she was looking for, support, friendship,
love?
She didn’t get any of those things. “What’s his name again?”

“I told you. Peter. Now go, and don’t let me down.”

“Are you waiting out here?”

“I’m going somewhere else for a drink. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” Zola said and she got out of the car. She felt utterly alone on the sidewalk. Jake pulled away immediately and drove off. She felt like she had no husband, like a hooker being dropped off by her pimp.
How had her life become this?

*

S
HE WENT INTO THE BAR.
It was a dingy, dark little place with black, wooden tables and a long bar against the back wall. A few younger guys were playing pool at the front. Jake had said it was an Irish bar but there wasn’t much Irish about it other than the name. Neon beer signs gave the place an eerie, reddish glow.

She took a stool at the bar.

“What can I get you?” the bartender said. He was an overweight, balding man wearing a Dodgers T-shirt.

“How about a beer?” she said.

She felt silly waiting there at the bar. She was dressed in a very skimpy, black dress that hardly covered her thighs. It was cut low at the front, revealing a huge amount of cleavage. She remembered getting her boobs done. She’d done that for Jake too. She’d thought that would make him love her more. Now she could see that it had just made her a more valuable piece of property that he owned, something even more desirable that he could share with his friends.

“Zola Medeiros,” a voice said from behind her.

She was taking a sip of her beer and she swallowed it. She turned and saw the man, Peter. She’d had no idea what he was going to look like. The men posted hundreds of pictures of their wives but never thought to post a picture of themselves. Maybe that was part of it. The men were the owners, it didn’t matter what they looked like. The wives were the property to be shared.

“You must be Peter,” Zola said as he leaned in and kissed her on the cheeks awkwardly.

Peter took the stool next to her. She looked him over. He was wearing plain jeans, the high-waisted kind that looked old-fashioned to Zola. He also had on a pair of generic sneakers and a T-shirt that said Las Vegas on it. He didn’t look rich. For some reason Zola had expected all the men on the forum to be wealthy. This guy looked like he drove a bus for a living. He had a big gut, hairy arms, and a messy mop of light brown hair under his ball cap. He was about forty-five, Jake’s age.

“The one and only,” Peter said as his eyes crawled over her. They lingered on her cleavage for a good fifteen seconds before meeting her eyes.

She had no idea what to say. “This is my first time doing this,” she said.

“So I hear. Don’t worry, Jake told me to go easy on you.” He winked.

Zola smiled. She supposed she should be grateful for that. “Are you married?” she said.

“Happily,” Peter said. “Coming up on twenty-two years this fall.”

“Congratulations,” Zola said.

“My wife is a very big admirer of your husband actually.”

“Oh,” Zola said. Of course it made sense, why wouldn’t Jake have slept with this man’s wife? He was from the same forum. But it caught her off-guard. It was just so strange.