Bill Bradford gave a long sigh as he changed into his civilian clothes and headed over the quarterdeck to the parking lot. He turned on the local news station as he always did. It was just past five o’clock, the national five minutes were over, and the local news came on.
“The weather has turned sultry again, and the weatherman says there’s a chance of some southern flow moisture coming to us out of Baja California if the onshore flow will hold off a little and not blow all of the rain into Arizona.
“San Diego Police and the FBI arrested a local artist today on charges of fraud in a complicated scheme to paint and then sell copies of seventeenth-century old Dutch masters as originals. The charges are fraud, conspiracy, and interstate transfer of the fraudulent paintings. Santa Barbara Police cooperated in the arrest. They say the dealer there was selling the ‘just found’ lost old-master paintings for as much as a hundred thousand dollars to private collectors. The name of the local artist has not been revealed pending the search for more members of the conspiracy.
“In other news, another water main broke this morning—”
Bradford snapped off the radio and pulled to the side of a Coronado street. He shook his head in surprise and denial. He suddenly felt cold and shivered. How? It had to be Xenia. Why didn’t they give her name? Were they hunting him? He thought it through, and decided that the police would only want to talk to him. They couldn’t charge him with anything. He wasn’t that good a painter. He started the Honda and drove on to the co-op studio on India Street. Two men in suits and holding hats sat in the small display area. Rollo stood there talking to them. He turned.
“Oh, Bradford. Didn’t know if you’d be in today or not. These men from the FBI want to talk to you.”
“Why? They want to buy a painting of mine? Hell, they can talk as I paint. I haven’t done any good work now in three days, and that has to stop. Upstairs, gentlemen, and you’ll see how a starving artist works.”
One of them started to protest, but the other shook his head and they all went up the stairs. At the door to the studio, Bradford stopped and held up his hand.
“Yes, I heard about the arrest of an artist for fraud. It can’t be me. However, I’m allowing you into my studio, but not authorizing you to search the place or to remove anything. Are we agreed on that?”
“Yes, we agree. We just want to talk to you,” said the taller FBI man Bradford mentally named Jeff.
They talked. It was what Bradford had expected. Yes, they had Xenia in custody.
“I’d seen some of the portraits she did and was blown away at the quality of her work. She’s a gifted artist. I liked the modern work she does better, like the marine she’s working on now.”
“Did you know that she was painting copies of old masters?” Mutt, the shorter of the FBI duo, asked.
“I’ve had some art training. Anyone who has had art history courses can recognize the style and type of painting of the seventeenth-century artists. Every artist born copies old masters for practice, to see if he or she can get the light just right, get the tone and feel of the painting.”
“Did you know she was selling them?” Jeff asked.
“Of course. We try to sell everything we paint. That’s why we have a gallery downstairs. Would either of you be interested in a nice marine for your office? I specialize in marines.” He picked up a finished and dry oil from a table. It was oil on canvas and not yet framed. “How about this one? I can have it hanging on your wall for only a hundred and forty-nine dollars. Plus tax, of course.”
The FBI men looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Mr. Bradford. Did you know to whom she was selling the copies and how much she was getting for them?”
“Hey, her business. We try not to pry. If Rollo sells a nude to a grade-school teacher, I’m supposed to report him? Hell, this is a co-op so we can pay the rent, not so we can baby-sit each other. Of course I didn’t ask her how much she sold her paintings for. I knew the prices downstairs. We don’t snoop on each other. There are six of us here. Have you talked to everyone?”
“You’re the last,” the Mutt FBI clone said.
“Good. Now if you’re not going to buy a painting, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ve been working on this windswept tree on the cliff for two days, and I still can’t get it right. If you can’t help me there, then I’d appreciate it if you leave.”
“So far, Mr. Bradford, you haven’t been charged with anything. We understand you’re in the Navy. It would be in your best interest not to leave town for the next few days.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” He pointed to the door. The feds took one last look around and went out the door and down the steps. When he figured they should be out of sight, he started down. Rollo was halfway up.
“You heard,” Rollo said. “She must have been getting big bucks for those old master copies.”
“How did they get onto her?”
“The FBI said they couldn’t tell me, but that they had been watching her for a month or more. Watching all of us. They came early this morning when I arrived. Xenia was still sleeping. They rousted her out. Had a search and arrest warrant, searched her room, found an old master copy, and took her and the painting downtown.”
“You talked to them first?”
“Well, yeah.”
“You knew she was doing the copy work?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And you spilled your guts to the feds, didn’t you, you slimeball. Without you they probably couldn’t have arrested her. Did she have the fraudulent painting hidden?”
“Yes.”
“And you told them where it was. You little fucking bastard.”
Bradford hit him with a punch that came so fast, Rollo didn’t have time to dodge it. The blow caught him on the side of his head and slammed him to the floor. He looked up with surprise and anger.
“So what did you tell them about me, you traitor?” Bradford said.
“You? Nothing.” He scooted backward on the floor toward the door. “Nothing about you. You don’t do copies.”
“So you’re the one who’s been searching through my studio when I’m not there.”
“Hey, just once. I needed some good canvas and you usually had more than you needed.”
“Yeah, sure. What’s important now is how can we help Xenia.”
Rollo stood cautiously. “You’re not going to hit me again?”
“No. If I did, I’d probably keep right on hitting you until your face was a bloody mush and your brains were spilling out a big crack in your lousy fucking skull. How can we help Xenia?”
“Bail? I couldn’t help her there. They want ten percent of the bail price for a bond. Not a chance with me.”
“You tell them I was sleeping with her?”
“Yes, but I said I did too. So that cooled that down.”
“You’re a real bastard, Rollo. And a fucking bad painter. You should stick to living rooms, one-story apartments, and fences.”
Bradford turned, put his brushes back in the jar of water, and at the door, turned off the lights.
“Stay out of my way, Rollo. Then I won’t have to kill you.” Bradford pushed past the startled artist and hurried down the stairs. He wondered if the FBI had had a search warrant and raided his apartment. When he drove home to the second-floor, three-room apartment in Coronado, he found that the FBI had been there. The landlady met him.
“Nothing I could do,” Mrs. Chalmers said. She was about forty, round and plump, with thick glasses and a limp. “They had a warrant, so I opened the door for them so they didn’t break it down.”