Con Artist, page 19
That reprieve is undone when Lancaster continues, “It was in an ornate gold frame, like they’d use in a gallery, and when scene techs pulled off the back, there was over a hundred thousand dollars in counterfeit bills inside.”
My brain’s processing speed works at half-capacity while I try to understand what this means. For more than half a year, I just wanted to find the guilty parties responsible for these art thefts. For the past two months, I’ve flip-flopped between wanting to solve the case and wanting to sweep it under a rug. For almost three weeks, I’ve been convinced she had nothing to do with the heists, even if she is being secretive about her work. This changes everything. My instincts are unreliable.
Every part of me wishes I could give her a cushy deal like Bobby, but it’s unlikely any prosecutor or judge will go easy on someone involved in a cross-border operation to defraud the US government.
“What does this mean for my case?” I finally ask.
“It’s time to bring her in. What we have might be as solid as soup right now, but hopefully she’ll give us something we can go on when we make her sweat. Take Sanders and go pick her up. I want something to report back to the Buffalo office by end of day.” And with the flick of her wrist, she dismisses me.
I place both hands on the armrests of the upholstered armchair, raise myself on my shaky legs, and make my way out of her office. The noises around me buzz about, but I can’t decipher anything on account of the blood thumping in my ears.
During my training, I’ve been part of intense raids and tactical drills that have made grown men wet their pants. I’m not a coward. Yet, knowing I have to expose who I really am to Georgia when I never got the chance to tell her the truth makes me more scared than I’ve ever been.
Twenty-five minutes later, Sanders drops an arrest warrant on my desk, clamps a hand on my shoulder, and asks if I’m ready to go. This isn’t something I could ever be ready for.
The elevator dings on the fifth floor, and Sanders steps out first. He walks to Georgia’s door and stands to the side with his back to the wall. I should be doing the same, but I’m stopped in front of the charcoal gray door with the number 502 etched on a gold plate below the peephole, thinking about all the times I’ve knocked and she’s answered before. From her little dinosaur pajamas to her stunning black dress, I’ve seen her at both ends of the spectrum. I’ve seen her when she was expecting me or when I dropped by to surprise her. Somewhere along the line, it became less of an effort to catch her in the act of doing something illegal and more because I just wanted to see her.
My hands are shaking as I lift my fist to knock. I can hear her inside, listening to Charlie Puth—one of her more modern singer-songwriter choices. I hate that I know that about her. That I know her music preferences and favorite sports teams. Hate that I know what she’d choose for takeout and her favorite type of cocktail. Mostly, I hate that I know how her lips taste and how her skin feels.
“Earth to Prewitt. You good, man?” Sanders eyes me with one hand on his service weapon.
I wave off his concern and finally knock on the door. The volume decreases on the upbeat pop ballad drifting into the hallway. Footsteps near the door, and after a brief pause, the chain lock and deadbolt disengage and the door opens enough for Georgia to greet me with a smile.
“Hey. I didn’t know you were home to—” She stops speaking when Sanders moves to stand beside me, looking every bit the mountainous federal agent he is. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you brought a friend.”
“Peach—” I stop myself before I utter her nickname and give Sanders reason to doubt my headspace. It’s a mess, yes, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Georgia, we need you to come with us.”
Sanders narrows his eyebrows. “Miss Dewan?”
Georgia mimics Sanders’ gesture, but directed at me. “Yes?”
He pulls out his badge and flashes it at her. “I’m Special Agent Sanders and this is Special Agent Prewitt. We’ve got a warrant for your arrest. You’ll need to come with us.” Sanders slips his badge back into his jacket, exposing the pistol in his holster.
I’m afraid to make eye contact with Georgia, so I stare at Sanders, getting irrationally angry with each movement he makes.
“What are you talking about? Special agent? I don’t understand.” She opens her door wide, exposing her black-smudged overalls, her easel set up near the window, and drawing supplies sprawled across her kitchen island. “Archie? What is he talking about?” she shouts.
“I promise I’ll explain everything. We just need you to come with us.”
“Archie! He just said he had an arrest warrant! What the hell for? I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
At that moment, two of our neighbors open their doors to peek their heads out. Meredith with the slew of cats in 504, and Mrs. Nitske in 510. Sanders turns and tells them to stay inside, leaving me facing off with Georgia. If looks could kill, she’d also be adding murder of a federal agent to her list of charges.
“Please, Peaches,” I whisper while Sanders is out of earshot. “I’ll explain everything shortly.”
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. The only indication she’s a living person and not a statue is the tear running down her cheek. One that I’m afraid is the precursor to many.
“Come with us, ma’am.” Sanders reaches around his back to grab handcuffs.
I hold my hand out to stop him. “Those won’t be necessary. Right, Georgia?”
“Miss Dewan. Only people I can trust call me Georgia.” She grabs a jacket and her keys from the hook by the door and shoves them in my hand. “Lock up for me, will you, Special Agent Prewitt?” She spits my name like it’s the most vulgar curse word a person could utter. In the three minutes from when she opened the door with a smile until now, it’s clear her feelings toward me have changed drastically.
Not that I can blame her. I should have told her the truth before now. Before this all blew up, just like Nate predicted. Now I not only have to contend with her potential criminal charges, but with her hating me for being a hypocritical liar.
Georgia walks with Sanders, allowing him to loop his arm through hers. She stands as far as possible from me in the elevator. Sanders opens the rear door of the SUV and slides in the back with Georgia. Our suspect.
The ride is silent, except for the persistent sniffles coming from the back seat. Each one tears me open a little more.
We lead her into the basement interrogation room at headquarters, sitting her in an uncomfortable metal chair that is bolted to the floor. Protocol is to leave the suspect for a period of time and study their behavior. When I step into the room on the other side of the two-way mirror, she looks like a person who has been crushed. Her shoulders are slumped, her face is streaked with tears, and her eyes are red. There’s not a hint of defensiveness in her posture or guilt in her eyes. Only heartbreak.
“I’m going to handle the interrogation, Prewitt. You’re too close to this,” SA Hopper says from behind me.
I don’t argue. I am too close to this and I know I’m not the best person for this job. Not for Georgia, and not for the bureau. My allegiances are divided, and one team has a larger portion than the other.
Still, I stand and watch. Hopper enters the interrogation room, and Georgia doesn’t even look up. She just stares at nothing, blinking out one tear after another.
“Georgia Dewan, I’m Special Agent Hopper. Can I get you anything before we start?”
Finally, Georgia’s eyes flick to Hopper. “I’d like some answers.”
“We’ll get to those. First, I need you to tell me why you think you’re here,” Hopper instructs as he takes his seat.
“I. Don’t. Know. That’s why I’m asking.” She narrows her eyes and tenses her jaw. “If I thought I had a reason to be here, I wouldn’t be so confused right now.”
“Okay.” Hopper slaps down a folder on the table, opens it, and slides a photo out. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s a commission I finished a few weeks ago. How did you get this?”
“I’ll ask the questions. What was your customer’s name?”
She hesitates to respond. “If you’ve seen this, I’m sure you know the answer.”
“Listen, Miss Dewan. This will go a lot easier if you answer the questions as I present them. The more you cooperate, the more likely you are to get a deal.”
Again, she pauses. She doesn’t appear to be nervous about answering, just refusing to. “Let me ask you, Agent Hopper; have you ever pretended you cared about someone, weaseled your way into their house—into their heart—then dragged them out of their home for no apparent reason and refused to answer their questions?”
That summary of my actions—the accurate summary—is enough to cause a fist to clench around my heart and two more to twist my stomach in opposite directions.
“No, ma’am. I’m not a field agent.”
“Well, then I guess there’s no reason I can’t be honest with you.” Georgia looks straight at the two-way mirror, right where I’m standing.
There are two things I’m uncertain about. One, that this piece of glass is, in fact, a mirror on the opposite side. Two, that I’ll ever recover from the hatred in her eyes.
Chapter thirty-two
Key Witness
Georgia
I have no idea what’s going on right now. This Hopper guy seems to think he can make me confess to some crime I’ve committed without telling me what I’m actually here for. Joke’s on him, though. I don’t even jaywalk. We can sit here all day, and the best he’ll get from me is that I once almost stole a grape at the grocery store, but I felt bad, so I put it back. That was also twenty years ago.
But I’m a lot less upset about being in this room than I am about the person who brought me here. The man who made me fall in love with him, only for me to find out it was all a lie. That he’s not a fire inspector. That he didn’t just show up in my life in some kind of funny meet-cute. That the feelings I have—had—for him are not reciprocated. Everything was an act. And I still don’t even know why.
“Honesty is the best policy here, Miss Dewan,” Hopper states. “If you answer my questions, then this will be a lot easier for everyone.”
“My customer’s name is Isabella Russo.”
He writes something down, then refocuses his eyes on me. “And how did you meet Mrs. Russo?”
I note the use of ‘Mrs.’, which implies he knows she’s married. This obviously has something to do with her or her husband. “I didn’t. She heard of me from a friend, then contacted me from my social media page. We’ve never met.”
He studies my face for a few more seconds, so I lift an eyebrow that I hope portrays I’d like to move on.
“What was the friend’s name?”
“Caroline something. I don’t know her either. We only ran into each other about two months ago. I drew a picture of her family, so I gave it to them. Oh, Brown. Caroline Brown.”
Hopper continues to ask me about my interaction with Caroline, where we were and what exactly was said. He asks how she contacted me afterward. I show him the messages on my phone, as well as the initial call log from Isabella. I never thought having a diary of messages and phone calls would come in handy, but I also never thought I’d have to prove my innocence for a crime I’m in the dark about. Then I also explain about Isabella’s request to sign the legal document, insisting I not share their photos or videos.
“Those are all being brought into evidence now. What else can you tell me—”
“What do you mean their photos are being brought into evidence?”
“I’m not sure if you realize this, Miss Dewan, but our warrant includes seizing anything in your apartment we deem helpful for our case.”
That freezes me in a panic. All of my drawings for the exhibit are packaged for transport and tucked under my bed frame. If any of them get ruined or brought into evidence, it would be nearly impossible to re-create them all in less than three weeks. Nor do I want to re-create some of them. After a few seconds, I plead again, “Just tell me what this is about, please. I’m not a criminal.”
“We’ll get to that part. What can you tell me about the art thefts in Chicago?”
Thefts? There have been multiple? “Agent Hopper, we seem to be on completely different channels. You’re talking to me like I know what you’re saying, but I don’t. I know of a theft from Smith Goldstein & Co. because I have news alerts set for that gallery on my phone. Other than that, I haven’t heard of anything.”
He furiously writes down something else before looking at me from a pair of non-expressive eyes. That must be a class at Quantico. “Why do you have alerts set?”
I take a deep breath, folding my hands together on the table in front of me. “I’m supposed to have my first exhibit there in a few weeks. Ever since I finished the drawing for Isabella, I’ve been working on pieces for that. I set alerts to see when the official press release went out so I could share it with people I care about.” Again, I look at the stupid window that every person who’s ever watched a TV show knows is a two-way mirror. I’d be willing to bet Archie is on the other side.
“So you haven’t heard about the other thefts in the area?”
This guy is dense. Is it an interrogation technique to repeat every question and hope I’ll give a different answer? If it is, it’s stupid.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever painted a replica of a famous work, Georgia?”
I guess now we’ve established enough rapport, he thinks he can use my first name. “Yes.”
His eyes shoot wide for a split second, but he schools his expression like a good little agent. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“I went to art school, Agent Hopper. Replicating famous works is a good way to hone your skills and train your eye to notice the smallest details. Not to mention, I’ve done at least twenty paint and wine nights with my friends. I don’t know how many versions I have of Starry Night, all in different stages of drunkenness. I can gift you one if you’re interested.”
He bites his bottom lip, but I don’t miss the near smile. “Have you ever sold a forgery to anyone else?”
“Woah. Slow down there. There’s a big difference between painting a replica and creating a forgery, Agent Hopper. The paintings I’ve made have been either for educational purposes or for entertainment. I’d never forge another artist’s work.” Even the implication I’d do something that atrocious makes me furious. “Art has been my life for as long as I can remember. And not in the way most people see it. I feel art. It’s like oxygen to me. That might sound crazy or stupid, but it touches me on an emotional level. What any famous work represents is that artist’s ability to touch people’s hearts with the stroke of a brush or curve of stone. I wouldn’t sell a forgery to save my soul.”
This guy studies me again, like I’m an SAT prep course. He’s put more effort into getting something out of me than I did in high school biology. “That’s a passionate speech.”
“If that’s what we’re calling the truth these days, then sure. Though, it seems people in your office have a hard time with truth called any name.” I glance up at the mirror again, but it gives away nothing. No shadows or movement to indicate someone else is there.
Hopper leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you know anyone who would create a forgery?”
If someone is out there forging art that not only means something to me, but to thousands of people, darn right I’m going to try to help. My heartbreak has to have a reason. “You need to give me more to go on here, Hopper. What kind of forging are you asking about? I’m assuming paintings, since that’s what you asked about, but are we talking realism? Pop art? Abstract? Impressionism? What time period? Modern? Renaissance? What medium? Watercolor? Oil?”
He glances down at his notes, grabbing a few papers and adjusting them on the table to straighten them. “A little bit of everything.”
“Then you’re not looking for one person. You’re looking for multiple artists.” I lean back in my chair, now studying Hopper with the same intensity he gave me.
He raises one eyebrow as he asks, “What makes you say that?”
“Because there’s a big difference between forging an oil portrait from the renaissance and a watercolor landscape from the forties. No one is that good at everything that they could pass them off for the originals.”
He scribbles down some more notes, then pushes his chair out to stand. How nice his isn’t bolted to the floor. Mine is secured at a distance better suited for someone six feet tall.
“I’ll be right back.” With that, he walks out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Chapter thirty-three
Fed Ex
Georgia
After all this time, I still don’t know why I’m here. Archie promised he’d explain everything to me, but he’s either been ordered not to speak to me or he’s a coward. Whatever his reason, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. Everything was a lie. Not everything. The times he looked like he was at war with himself, those were no doubt real. The times I felt like he was hiding something, they were definitely real. His cat allergy appeared real; I don’t know about the shellfish. But the care and concern, the interest he pretended to show in my work, it was all a lie.
In a stunning turn of events, the door opens after several minutes and in walks Archie. Looking every bit the six-foot-tall chastised child he deserves to feel like. “Georg—”
“Miss Dewan.”
He heaves a sigh as he drops into the chair across from me. “I turned the cameras off. Everyone else is off discussing everything you told Hopper.”
I clench my jaw, wanting to say so much and nothing all at the same time. I settle on, “I’d rather be in a room full of shedding Siamese cats.”
“Peach—”
My brain’s processing speed works at half-capacity while I try to understand what this means. For more than half a year, I just wanted to find the guilty parties responsible for these art thefts. For the past two months, I’ve flip-flopped between wanting to solve the case and wanting to sweep it under a rug. For almost three weeks, I’ve been convinced she had nothing to do with the heists, even if she is being secretive about her work. This changes everything. My instincts are unreliable.
Every part of me wishes I could give her a cushy deal like Bobby, but it’s unlikely any prosecutor or judge will go easy on someone involved in a cross-border operation to defraud the US government.
“What does this mean for my case?” I finally ask.
“It’s time to bring her in. What we have might be as solid as soup right now, but hopefully she’ll give us something we can go on when we make her sweat. Take Sanders and go pick her up. I want something to report back to the Buffalo office by end of day.” And with the flick of her wrist, she dismisses me.
I place both hands on the armrests of the upholstered armchair, raise myself on my shaky legs, and make my way out of her office. The noises around me buzz about, but I can’t decipher anything on account of the blood thumping in my ears.
During my training, I’ve been part of intense raids and tactical drills that have made grown men wet their pants. I’m not a coward. Yet, knowing I have to expose who I really am to Georgia when I never got the chance to tell her the truth makes me more scared than I’ve ever been.
Twenty-five minutes later, Sanders drops an arrest warrant on my desk, clamps a hand on my shoulder, and asks if I’m ready to go. This isn’t something I could ever be ready for.
The elevator dings on the fifth floor, and Sanders steps out first. He walks to Georgia’s door and stands to the side with his back to the wall. I should be doing the same, but I’m stopped in front of the charcoal gray door with the number 502 etched on a gold plate below the peephole, thinking about all the times I’ve knocked and she’s answered before. From her little dinosaur pajamas to her stunning black dress, I’ve seen her at both ends of the spectrum. I’ve seen her when she was expecting me or when I dropped by to surprise her. Somewhere along the line, it became less of an effort to catch her in the act of doing something illegal and more because I just wanted to see her.
My hands are shaking as I lift my fist to knock. I can hear her inside, listening to Charlie Puth—one of her more modern singer-songwriter choices. I hate that I know that about her. That I know her music preferences and favorite sports teams. Hate that I know what she’d choose for takeout and her favorite type of cocktail. Mostly, I hate that I know how her lips taste and how her skin feels.
“Earth to Prewitt. You good, man?” Sanders eyes me with one hand on his service weapon.
I wave off his concern and finally knock on the door. The volume decreases on the upbeat pop ballad drifting into the hallway. Footsteps near the door, and after a brief pause, the chain lock and deadbolt disengage and the door opens enough for Georgia to greet me with a smile.
“Hey. I didn’t know you were home to—” She stops speaking when Sanders moves to stand beside me, looking every bit the mountainous federal agent he is. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you brought a friend.”
“Peach—” I stop myself before I utter her nickname and give Sanders reason to doubt my headspace. It’s a mess, yes, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Georgia, we need you to come with us.”
Sanders narrows his eyebrows. “Miss Dewan?”
Georgia mimics Sanders’ gesture, but directed at me. “Yes?”
He pulls out his badge and flashes it at her. “I’m Special Agent Sanders and this is Special Agent Prewitt. We’ve got a warrant for your arrest. You’ll need to come with us.” Sanders slips his badge back into his jacket, exposing the pistol in his holster.
I’m afraid to make eye contact with Georgia, so I stare at Sanders, getting irrationally angry with each movement he makes.
“What are you talking about? Special agent? I don’t understand.” She opens her door wide, exposing her black-smudged overalls, her easel set up near the window, and drawing supplies sprawled across her kitchen island. “Archie? What is he talking about?” she shouts.
“I promise I’ll explain everything. We just need you to come with us.”
“Archie! He just said he had an arrest warrant! What the hell for? I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
At that moment, two of our neighbors open their doors to peek their heads out. Meredith with the slew of cats in 504, and Mrs. Nitske in 510. Sanders turns and tells them to stay inside, leaving me facing off with Georgia. If looks could kill, she’d also be adding murder of a federal agent to her list of charges.
“Please, Peaches,” I whisper while Sanders is out of earshot. “I’ll explain everything shortly.”
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. The only indication she’s a living person and not a statue is the tear running down her cheek. One that I’m afraid is the precursor to many.
“Come with us, ma’am.” Sanders reaches around his back to grab handcuffs.
I hold my hand out to stop him. “Those won’t be necessary. Right, Georgia?”
“Miss Dewan. Only people I can trust call me Georgia.” She grabs a jacket and her keys from the hook by the door and shoves them in my hand. “Lock up for me, will you, Special Agent Prewitt?” She spits my name like it’s the most vulgar curse word a person could utter. In the three minutes from when she opened the door with a smile until now, it’s clear her feelings toward me have changed drastically.
Not that I can blame her. I should have told her the truth before now. Before this all blew up, just like Nate predicted. Now I not only have to contend with her potential criminal charges, but with her hating me for being a hypocritical liar.
Georgia walks with Sanders, allowing him to loop his arm through hers. She stands as far as possible from me in the elevator. Sanders opens the rear door of the SUV and slides in the back with Georgia. Our suspect.
The ride is silent, except for the persistent sniffles coming from the back seat. Each one tears me open a little more.
We lead her into the basement interrogation room at headquarters, sitting her in an uncomfortable metal chair that is bolted to the floor. Protocol is to leave the suspect for a period of time and study their behavior. When I step into the room on the other side of the two-way mirror, she looks like a person who has been crushed. Her shoulders are slumped, her face is streaked with tears, and her eyes are red. There’s not a hint of defensiveness in her posture or guilt in her eyes. Only heartbreak.
“I’m going to handle the interrogation, Prewitt. You’re too close to this,” SA Hopper says from behind me.
I don’t argue. I am too close to this and I know I’m not the best person for this job. Not for Georgia, and not for the bureau. My allegiances are divided, and one team has a larger portion than the other.
Still, I stand and watch. Hopper enters the interrogation room, and Georgia doesn’t even look up. She just stares at nothing, blinking out one tear after another.
“Georgia Dewan, I’m Special Agent Hopper. Can I get you anything before we start?”
Finally, Georgia’s eyes flick to Hopper. “I’d like some answers.”
“We’ll get to those. First, I need you to tell me why you think you’re here,” Hopper instructs as he takes his seat.
“I. Don’t. Know. That’s why I’m asking.” She narrows her eyes and tenses her jaw. “If I thought I had a reason to be here, I wouldn’t be so confused right now.”
“Okay.” Hopper slaps down a folder on the table, opens it, and slides a photo out. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s a commission I finished a few weeks ago. How did you get this?”
“I’ll ask the questions. What was your customer’s name?”
She hesitates to respond. “If you’ve seen this, I’m sure you know the answer.”
“Listen, Miss Dewan. This will go a lot easier if you answer the questions as I present them. The more you cooperate, the more likely you are to get a deal.”
Again, she pauses. She doesn’t appear to be nervous about answering, just refusing to. “Let me ask you, Agent Hopper; have you ever pretended you cared about someone, weaseled your way into their house—into their heart—then dragged them out of their home for no apparent reason and refused to answer their questions?”
That summary of my actions—the accurate summary—is enough to cause a fist to clench around my heart and two more to twist my stomach in opposite directions.
“No, ma’am. I’m not a field agent.”
“Well, then I guess there’s no reason I can’t be honest with you.” Georgia looks straight at the two-way mirror, right where I’m standing.
There are two things I’m uncertain about. One, that this piece of glass is, in fact, a mirror on the opposite side. Two, that I’ll ever recover from the hatred in her eyes.
Chapter thirty-two
Key Witness
Georgia
I have no idea what’s going on right now. This Hopper guy seems to think he can make me confess to some crime I’ve committed without telling me what I’m actually here for. Joke’s on him, though. I don’t even jaywalk. We can sit here all day, and the best he’ll get from me is that I once almost stole a grape at the grocery store, but I felt bad, so I put it back. That was also twenty years ago.
But I’m a lot less upset about being in this room than I am about the person who brought me here. The man who made me fall in love with him, only for me to find out it was all a lie. That he’s not a fire inspector. That he didn’t just show up in my life in some kind of funny meet-cute. That the feelings I have—had—for him are not reciprocated. Everything was an act. And I still don’t even know why.
“Honesty is the best policy here, Miss Dewan,” Hopper states. “If you answer my questions, then this will be a lot easier for everyone.”
“My customer’s name is Isabella Russo.”
He writes something down, then refocuses his eyes on me. “And how did you meet Mrs. Russo?”
I note the use of ‘Mrs.’, which implies he knows she’s married. This obviously has something to do with her or her husband. “I didn’t. She heard of me from a friend, then contacted me from my social media page. We’ve never met.”
He studies my face for a few more seconds, so I lift an eyebrow that I hope portrays I’d like to move on.
“What was the friend’s name?”
“Caroline something. I don’t know her either. We only ran into each other about two months ago. I drew a picture of her family, so I gave it to them. Oh, Brown. Caroline Brown.”
Hopper continues to ask me about my interaction with Caroline, where we were and what exactly was said. He asks how she contacted me afterward. I show him the messages on my phone, as well as the initial call log from Isabella. I never thought having a diary of messages and phone calls would come in handy, but I also never thought I’d have to prove my innocence for a crime I’m in the dark about. Then I also explain about Isabella’s request to sign the legal document, insisting I not share their photos or videos.
“Those are all being brought into evidence now. What else can you tell me—”
“What do you mean their photos are being brought into evidence?”
“I’m not sure if you realize this, Miss Dewan, but our warrant includes seizing anything in your apartment we deem helpful for our case.”
That freezes me in a panic. All of my drawings for the exhibit are packaged for transport and tucked under my bed frame. If any of them get ruined or brought into evidence, it would be nearly impossible to re-create them all in less than three weeks. Nor do I want to re-create some of them. After a few seconds, I plead again, “Just tell me what this is about, please. I’m not a criminal.”
“We’ll get to that part. What can you tell me about the art thefts in Chicago?”
Thefts? There have been multiple? “Agent Hopper, we seem to be on completely different channels. You’re talking to me like I know what you’re saying, but I don’t. I know of a theft from Smith Goldstein & Co. because I have news alerts set for that gallery on my phone. Other than that, I haven’t heard of anything.”
He furiously writes down something else before looking at me from a pair of non-expressive eyes. That must be a class at Quantico. “Why do you have alerts set?”
I take a deep breath, folding my hands together on the table in front of me. “I’m supposed to have my first exhibit there in a few weeks. Ever since I finished the drawing for Isabella, I’ve been working on pieces for that. I set alerts to see when the official press release went out so I could share it with people I care about.” Again, I look at the stupid window that every person who’s ever watched a TV show knows is a two-way mirror. I’d be willing to bet Archie is on the other side.
“So you haven’t heard about the other thefts in the area?”
This guy is dense. Is it an interrogation technique to repeat every question and hope I’ll give a different answer? If it is, it’s stupid.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Have you ever painted a replica of a famous work, Georgia?”
I guess now we’ve established enough rapport, he thinks he can use my first name. “Yes.”
His eyes shoot wide for a split second, but he schools his expression like a good little agent. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“I went to art school, Agent Hopper. Replicating famous works is a good way to hone your skills and train your eye to notice the smallest details. Not to mention, I’ve done at least twenty paint and wine nights with my friends. I don’t know how many versions I have of Starry Night, all in different stages of drunkenness. I can gift you one if you’re interested.”
He bites his bottom lip, but I don’t miss the near smile. “Have you ever sold a forgery to anyone else?”
“Woah. Slow down there. There’s a big difference between painting a replica and creating a forgery, Agent Hopper. The paintings I’ve made have been either for educational purposes or for entertainment. I’d never forge another artist’s work.” Even the implication I’d do something that atrocious makes me furious. “Art has been my life for as long as I can remember. And not in the way most people see it. I feel art. It’s like oxygen to me. That might sound crazy or stupid, but it touches me on an emotional level. What any famous work represents is that artist’s ability to touch people’s hearts with the stroke of a brush or curve of stone. I wouldn’t sell a forgery to save my soul.”
This guy studies me again, like I’m an SAT prep course. He’s put more effort into getting something out of me than I did in high school biology. “That’s a passionate speech.”
“If that’s what we’re calling the truth these days, then sure. Though, it seems people in your office have a hard time with truth called any name.” I glance up at the mirror again, but it gives away nothing. No shadows or movement to indicate someone else is there.
Hopper leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you know anyone who would create a forgery?”
If someone is out there forging art that not only means something to me, but to thousands of people, darn right I’m going to try to help. My heartbreak has to have a reason. “You need to give me more to go on here, Hopper. What kind of forging are you asking about? I’m assuming paintings, since that’s what you asked about, but are we talking realism? Pop art? Abstract? Impressionism? What time period? Modern? Renaissance? What medium? Watercolor? Oil?”
He glances down at his notes, grabbing a few papers and adjusting them on the table to straighten them. “A little bit of everything.”
“Then you’re not looking for one person. You’re looking for multiple artists.” I lean back in my chair, now studying Hopper with the same intensity he gave me.
He raises one eyebrow as he asks, “What makes you say that?”
“Because there’s a big difference between forging an oil portrait from the renaissance and a watercolor landscape from the forties. No one is that good at everything that they could pass them off for the originals.”
He scribbles down some more notes, then pushes his chair out to stand. How nice his isn’t bolted to the floor. Mine is secured at a distance better suited for someone six feet tall.
“I’ll be right back.” With that, he walks out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Chapter thirty-three
Fed Ex
Georgia
After all this time, I still don’t know why I’m here. Archie promised he’d explain everything to me, but he’s either been ordered not to speak to me or he’s a coward. Whatever his reason, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. Everything was a lie. Not everything. The times he looked like he was at war with himself, those were no doubt real. The times I felt like he was hiding something, they were definitely real. His cat allergy appeared real; I don’t know about the shellfish. But the care and concern, the interest he pretended to show in my work, it was all a lie.
In a stunning turn of events, the door opens after several minutes and in walks Archie. Looking every bit the six-foot-tall chastised child he deserves to feel like. “Georg—”
“Miss Dewan.”
He heaves a sigh as he drops into the chair across from me. “I turned the cameras off. Everyone else is off discussing everything you told Hopper.”
I clench my jaw, wanting to say so much and nothing all at the same time. I settle on, “I’d rather be in a room full of shedding Siamese cats.”
“Peach—”
