Bodies Of Art Mystery: Marked Masters Part 11

"I'd prefer three, but it depends on the price." He acted like he didn't understand, but I figured he knew more English than he let on. Then I had a brainstorm that should have come to me sooner. "A pension? Please? Close to the Duomo? Or to the Via dei Serragli maybe?" The Palazzo Medici was on the Via dei Serragli, and I had no hope of staying there. But at least it gave him an idea of the area I aspired to and might give him some ideas. Apparently, the clues worked.

"Across the Arno?" he asked.

"If it's close."

He nodded and made a quick turn.

I had some contacts in Florence, of course, but if I could use the taxi driver to secure my room, I'd be a little more incognito. Max knew many of my European connections and had the contacts to easily find out more-and spill the beans about where I was, much like he had to Tony B just a few days ago. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was a place to start.

At some point, when I had a little privacy, I needed to get some digital face time with Ca.s.sie to explain the whole situation to her and get her focused on new tasks. While I needed to keep old "loose lips" from giving away my current location and everything else, she needed to be the go-between for Max and me. Nico and I had worked too hard to get me to Florence under Tony B's radar, and I needed to keep Max from telling anyone else. Ca.s.sie had turned into quite the charmer where he was concerned, and I decided I'd better use that a.s.set in this situation. I didn't particularly like talking to my boss on a good day-unless I had earplugs to combat the shouting-and this was far from the figurative blue skies kind of moment. Though the literal sky outside my taxi window was pretty close to perfect.

Ten minutes later we were on the Oltrarno side of Florence, and a short street past Via dei Serragli. I didn't catch the name of the street we turned onto but understood when he pulled up to a nondescript white-and-blue home. The place was small in comparison to its Medici-inspired neighbors. In fact, I think it was once a carriage house of some sort. But my driver opened my door with a flourish, grabbed my bag, and motioned me to follow him to the door, my luggage bouncing on its little wheels behind him.

I had no real idea what he told the severe dark-haired woman who greeted us. She thawed a bit when my driver started talking euros, and I pulled money out to pay him. He quoted another number, looking at the hotelier for confirmation. When she nodded, he flashed his white teeth at me and raised his eyebrows as if proud of the bargaining he'd accomplished on my behalf. The sum was less than I expected, but I also a.s.sumed it didn't include any meals. That was fine. A soft bed in a quiet house off the beaten path and off Tony B's or Moran's radar was all I asked. The driver left, and minutes later I was ushered up the narrow stairs and into my accommodations.

The room had a lovely view of the cathedral skyline over the intermediate rooftops and a balcony where I could gaze onto the signora's garden. She spoke to me in rapid-fire Italian, of which I knew enough to realize she was asking if the room was satisfactory. "S. Buono."

I didn't try anything further. My mind was feeling a little foggy, and I didn't want to misspeak and risk accidentally saying something offensive. I pa.s.sed enough euros to cover a week, thanking the heavens that Ca.s.sie had sent what money she had. The signora actually smiled then, but the facial movement was so fleeting I almost missed it. She motioned that the toilet was down the hall, and then she finally left me alone.

I sank onto the twin bed, covered with a lovely rose and lace spread. The walls were white, and a crucifix hung over the plain wooden headboard. It was austere but comfortable. A tiny closet was in one corner, and an overstuffed chair upholstered in a muted floral stood in the other, with a pine chest topped by a wood-framed mirror filling the s.p.a.ce between. Overall, acceptable. Close to the main part of Florence, and the perfect bolt-hole for someone who needed to venture out yet have a place to run and hide.

There on that lovely lace coverlet, I felt my body start to quiver. My gaze drifted to the window, picking out Brunelleschi's magnificent dome atop the Duomo. I stared hard at the sight, willing myself to calm, for my courage to return once more to the forefront.

I didn't know if it was some form of shock, a bit of exhaustion, or a large measure of common sense that invaded my physical being, but I soon realized my mind and body were trying to tell me what my stubbornness attempted to ignore. I couldn't do this alone. Not here. Not now.

Tony B could have eyes and ears all over Italy, and we were already here because we presumed Moran had something in play in Florence. And despite all of my safeguards, either of them could play cat and mouse with me as long as it remained interesting, whether I liked it or not.

True, I had resources of my own, people who would keep me safe and work with me as I needed. But I'd acknowledged the risk of trying to reach out in any of those directions. Who was to say that any or all of my contacts hadn't already been compromised? Hadn't already spotted me on my journey in and left a friendly message to that "nice Tony B" who would have called earlier and asked to be alerted if the signorina arrived in the city? I already knew Moran's objective was stealing masterpieces, but I had no idea what game Tony B was playing at the moment beyond holding The Portrait of Three.

My body shook harder, and I hugged my torso, feeling aghast when tears splashed onto my skirt.

Okay, this is quite enough. The paranoia must end this minute.

There was only one thing to do. Call the one person I could count on to back me against Moran or Tony B. Nico was out. He hated fieldwork and had reiterated his feelings on the subject back in the Miami airport. Ca.s.sie would be in Florence on the next flight if I called her, but an art restorer/personal a.s.sistant was not the skill set I needed.

I retrieved my phone from my bag and dialed. The call was picked up immediately.

"Where the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l are you?"

I took a quick breath, then answered, proud of the steady tone in my voice, "Florence, of course."

"Meet me at Ghiberti's Doors in fifteen minutes," Jack barked.

"I'll be there in an hour."

He was sputtering as I cut the connection.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Before I met Jack, I needed to talk to Ca.s.sie. However, before I could talk to Ca.s.sie, I needed to make sure Jack couldn't storm the castle because I'd put him off schedule. I turned off my phone and removed the battery. If he'd worked at superspeed, he may have locked onto my GPS position already, but I doubted it. I can remove a battery in record time, and I was primed to do so even before he gave his ultimatum.

So how was I going to call Ca.s.sie? Well, my very bright a.s.sistant obviously realized I might ditch my burner phone, so she had included another something extra with all those lovely euros she added to my rolling wardrobe bag-one of the Italian-based phones we kept in the office. The foundation had phones for every country, and for a country like Italy that was particularly helpful. I won't go into detail, but while my smartphone contract is supposed to enjoy worldwide coverage, such isn't always the case.

I extracted the always to remain secret from Jack phone from my bag and dialed. I may not have been able to see her as we spoke, but safe audio was always better than risky video.

"It's about time you called," she huffed in greeting.

"h.e.l.lo to you too. Or, I guess I should say buon giorno."

"Yeah, yeah. Quit being clever. I'm mad at you."

Eek! Not what every boss dreams of hearing. "I'm sorry, Ca.s.sie, but truly, this has been my first real chance to talk to you. Clive wouldn't let me have a phone on the plane, and I threw away the burner phone at the airport to keep Jack from tracking me, and-"

"I know. I know. Stop. It's okay," Ca.s.sie said. "But I have some news, and I've been dying to tell you. But you wouldn't call. Are you in a private place?"

I walked over and closed the drapes at the balcony door, suddenly paranoid. "Yes, super secret. Tell me what you have."

"Well..." And Ca.s.sie launched into a lot of technical jargon about how she finally found a way into some of the corrupted areas of the flash drive I'd discovered last month in one of Simon's hidey-holes. She'd been mining the portions she could open, matching up stolen works of art against sheets from Interpol and the FBI. Not all of the art on the drive were missing, so we had been operating under the a.s.sumption that whatever was still where it belonged was on a potential hit list for theft by Simon or, through his connection, by Moran. The inaccessible sectors worried us for obvious reasons. We couldn't try to put out alerts on things we knew nothing about. But now Ca.s.sie had news.

"I got the one sector open, and I'm going to fine-tune my technique to see if I can get more sectors accessible by the end of the day. However, here is the clincher." Ca.s.sie went silent then, and I was nearly biting my nails in antic.i.p.ation. When she didn't speak right away, I thought I'd lost the connection.

"h.e.l.lo, Ca.s.sie, h.e.l.lo."

"I'm here."

"Why did you stop talking?"

"I paused for dramatic effect."

I sighed. I couldn't help it. I'd had very little sleep in the past seventy-two hours, had to listen patiently to an overly enthused rock star art fanatic, and a moment before had p.i.s.sed off a man whom I needed to work with-though we did always seem to get the job done better if there was friction between us. Maybe that was why I called him before Ca.s.sie, so I could put him off and wind him up in the process. Suddenly, I realized she was talking, and I hadn't been listening.

"Ca.s.sie, wait. I have jet lag on steroids. Humor me, please, and tell me what you just said after pausing for dramatic effect."

She laughed then, and I knew I was forgiven for s.p.a.cing out. "I'm sorry. I know you must be totally wiped out. Do you have a nice place to stay?"

"Yes, a room in a private home. My taxi driver was very accommodating. I'll text you the address."

"No worries. I can get it from this call."

It seemed like everyone knew where I was except me. But I tuned back in when she started talking art again.

"It was the snuffbox that really brought it all together. Nico sent it to the office by courier and added a note to check out the mark on the bottom. He thought it was a forger in Florence and wanted you to have the information as soon as possible."

"Okay, let me find a pen and pad-"

"No, I'll e-mail you." I heard her clicking keys and knew when I replaced my battery I would have e-mail pings on my regular cell. I was wishing I'd asked the landlady for some water. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until I started talking.

"Are you listening, Laurel?" And I realized I wasn't-listening, that is.

"No, Ca.s.sie, I'm sorry. I zoned out again when I heard you doing the e-mail thing. But I'm back now. I promise."

"You need to find an espresso."

"What I need is some caffeine rocket fuel. Let me walk around while we talk. Maybe that will help. Okay, go."

"Well, the mark is one used by the particular forger Nico knew about, but more importantly, the forger's mark is forged."

"What?"

"Right. The forger's mark on the snuffbox is almost the same as the Florentine forger, but two things give its provenance some major problems. One is there's an extra curlicue on the lower end of the mark. One never made before by this forger."

"But he could have just gotten careless-"

"I thought of that, but nope. I called Nico." Ca.s.sie giggled. "I would say I'd awakened him, but I don't think he was sleeping, if you know what I mean. He apparently was 'entertaining' the rock group's publicist. To thank her for helping you."

Was the man a machine, for heaven's sake? I couldn't even think about s.e.x at the moment. If my body went horizontal, I would be comatose. Maybe that was it. They did it standing up.

"Laurel! Earth to Laurel."

d.a.m.n! Did it again. "Sorry. What did Nico say?"

"He gave me some names and numbers, and I made a few calls. Turns out, several more forgeries with this same kind of new mark have been appearing on the scene lately, from small items like the snuffbox to paintings and sculptures. Each one a better copy than this particular forger had been known for throughout his career."

"So, he's been getting better?"

"No, he's been getting dead."

I must have heard her wrong. "Come again, Ca.s.s?"

"He died. Almost a year ago. Under most mysterious circ.u.mstances, I might add. And less than a month later the first of the forgeries with this new mark appeared at Sotheby's. In all, Nico's contacts told me about almost a dozen pieces that have now been discovered, and with the quality of the work, the fear is there are many more out there that people are taking as the real thing."

"And...the new forger...is taking the signature...of the dead forger?"

"Or using the dead forger to keep people from realizing someone new is in the game."

Yes, my brain felt fried and fuzzy, but this was strangely starting to make sense. "As long as people recognized the older forger's mark, any items discovered as fake would be attributed to a dead man, and the new forger could continue working merrily along. Is that the idea?"

"What I figure, anyway."

"But, Ca.s.s, if he's as good as everyone says, and as good as the snuffbox implies, why didn't he forge the forger's mark truer. Why the extra curlicue?"

"Ego?"

"Yeah, I could see that."

"Have you seen Jack yet?"

I looked at my watch. I had just over a half hour, and it would take me almost that long to cross the Arno River and make it to the Piazza del Duomo. Unless I hurried. No, he might see me, and him thinking I was hurrying to meet his mandate would never do. A stroll was positively a necessity.

Plus, it was much easier to watch for people following me if I wasn't running headlong into crowds of tourists. And there would definitely be tourists.

"Okay, Ca.s.sie, this is good information. Send anything you want Jack and me to see on my foundation e-mail address. Send anything for my eyes only to my personal addy. I'll share this forger info with Jack and see what he's come up with in the meantime."

My own final word reminded me. I had more for her to do in the interim.

"Speaking of which, while Jack and I are starting things going here, I need you to do a little judicious charming of the Max Monster." I filled her in about the Tony B problem and gave her carte blanche to spin the story so Max understood his mistake without completely revealing Tony B's larceny. I knew I might need to tell Max everything later, and if I did, I would have Jack and Nico beside me to back up the story. But in the meantime, I needed Ca.s.sie to stress to our boss that my current location needed to always stay confidential until this entire operation ended. Too many twists continued forming in our plotline, and I didn't need old loose lips creating any new traps.

"Also, remind him Nico saved him airfare to get me to Italy. That alone should send the man over the moon with happiness and get him to agree to most everything you ask."

"Will do. What should I tell him if he wants to talk to you?"

I thought over my current fiscal state and how Max ordered all of my monetary requests must go through my personal a.s.sistant, even though I was supposedly the new head of the London office. A glance at the mirror over the bureau revealed my face wearing its most evil smile as my blue eyes glowed. "Tell Mr. Max we'll use the same go-between procedure he authorized for my budgetary needs. If he needs to speak to me, he has to ask you to initiate the request."

"Feeling a little vindictive, Laurel?"

"Feeling a lot vindictive, Ca.s.sie. Talk to you soon. I'm behind schedule to face a volcano."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

As fast as I walked-okay, as quickly as I strolled-Jack still beat me to the east doors of the Baptistery. I figured he'd been waiting there the whole time.

The Gates of Paradise are the famous fifteenth-century doors of the octagonal Baptistery of Saint John, crafted in bronze by Lorenzo Ghiberti over a fifty-year time span. Of course, the doors on display are copies, but the original masterpieces-believed by art historians, my humble self included, as heralding the beginning of the Renaissance due to their masterful work of perspective-those magnificent doors are now behind protective walls in the cathedral museum adjacent to the Baptistery. But no matter. One look at the copies was enough to take a person inside the vision as the images leapt out in a manner defining Renaissance art. This was the beginning use of the three-dimensional perspective, and Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise gave the art world its new sense of depth.

At twenty-one when he began the commission, Ghiberti learned as he worked, producing tiles projecting a vanishing point where the lines in each image converged. Creative points in the designs were shortened because Ghiberti realized that doing so extenuated the depth of the scene and defined a distinct foreground, middle, and background. The best part? Anyone viewing the doors became part of the scene.

Copies or original, the way the images leapt out not only offered significance to art history, but I'd always found studying them to be an amazing way to spend an afternoon. Despite the other tourists jostling for their chance to see.

Equally breathtaking, but for other reasons, was the thunderous look Jack shot my way when I caught his attention. My gaze made a quick sweep of the perimeter in case I needed an escape plan. Though the calendar showed it was past the height of the summer tourist season, the crowds were still thick enough in the Piazza del Duomo. I could get away from him if I really wanted to. From the furrowing of his brows, I a.s.sumed he came to the same conclusion. Though his actual greeting surprised me.

"You have no idea how worried I was."

I couldn't win, whatever way I answered. A glib quip would sound cra.s.s, and a simple thank you would come across as stupid or sarcastic. So I smiled and patted his arm, and it surprisingly seemed to work. He slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, and we headed for the Giotto Bell Tower. Without another word of lecture, I might add.