The small, crappy old oil was recovered from Bradley Deagan’s small, crappy old apartment. She’s really not sure it’s going to be of any interest to Mitzi but she promised to keep her up to speed on developments, so that’s what she’s doing.
The young detective puts it face down on the big scanner in the squad room, makes a JPEG, attaches it to an email and calls Mitzi’s number.
‘Fallon.’
‘Lieutenant, it’s Kirstin Collins. You near a computer?’
‘Too near. I’m going stir-crazy in an office smaller than my kids’ bathroom. What’ve you got?’
She hits send. ‘I just mailed you a copy of a painting uniforms recovered from Deagan’s apartment. It was wrapped in cloth and hidden beneath boards.’
Mitzi checks her mailbox. ‘Not here yet. Any sign of Deagan — dead or alive?’
‘Nope. He and his vehicle have just vanished. Mail was stacked up at his place. No one has seen or heard of him since he was at the Dupont diner.’
‘This painting, is it the one he tried to stage the con with?’
Kirstin stares as it. ‘I don’t know. I’ve not had time to check. There was no picture on the case papers.’
‘Does it look religious?’
‘Not really. But it’s very old and seems the right shape and size. Way I figure it, if it was a fraud the court would have let him keep it, right?’
‘Sure. It’d be his property. Your mail’s just come. Hang on while I open it.’
Kirstin doodles and waits. She draws flowers. Big sprays of them. It’s the only thing she can sketch.
Mitzi watches the image shutter its way from top to bottom of the frame. ‘How’re things, Kirstin? How you holding up?’
She finishes the head of a rose. ‘Okay, I miss Irish and can’t believe he’s not about to walk through the door. The funeral’s in a couple of days. Probably won’t be many people there. Hell, it might just be me and the priest. Will you come?’
Mitzi squirms. ‘Like to, but to be honest, I can’t afford the flights or the time. I’ve got two kids waiting for me back in California, my sister’s breaking up with her husband and my ass is stuck in London. I’m sorry. Why don’t you mail me the details and I’ll send flowers.’
Kirstin scrubs over the roses she’s drawn. ‘You know what — he’s got no use for flowers. Send me a bottle of whisky and I’ll drink it in his memory and have one for you too.’
‘You got it.’ The full painting is now on her screen. ‘Download is okay, Kirstin — I got it now.’
‘Is it the one you mentioned?’
‘Don’t know, but I know a man who will. Thanks for thinking of me.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Hey, you need something — you need to talk about anything — you call me, right?’
‘Thanks.’
Kirstin Collins hangs up. She puts the painting back in the cloth it was wrapped in and ties string back around it.
Then she goes to Irish’s desk and sits there. Just squats in his tatty old chair and swings it left and right, left and right. And she keeps on swinging until she feels a tiny bit better.
93
Bronty breaks from booking his Lundy trip and stands behind Mitzi to examine the digital copy of the painting. ‘This is of knights,’ he says disappointedly. ‘The Ghent Altarpiece shows several groups of people coming together to pay adoration to Christ. The missing panel is of judges, not knights.’
‘Meaning this is, like, the worst forgery ever?’
He leans closer to the monitor and peers at the edges of the oil. ‘I’m not an expert, but do you see this colouring here, around the edges? It’s not right. These dark shades are out of character with the rest of the painting.’
Mitzi shifts her head and looks at it from different angles. ‘Isn’t that some kind of border?’
‘It might be. Or, it could be evidence that there was once another painting over the top of it. One that’s been stripped away.’
‘The judges, you mean?’
‘There have been rumours in the past about the panels. During restoration work, it was suggested there was a painting underneath at least one of them. Certainly, that would fit with the way the folding canvases show different scenes when the altarpiece is opened and closed. And remember this is the work of two men, firstly Hubert van Eyck, then his brother Jan.’
Mitzi has to trawl her memory. ‘You know this crook Deagan showed the painting to Christie’s — to a bunch of art experts — and they said it was a fake. They must have looked at the same things you’re staring at and dismissed them as baloney.’
Bronty’s still focused on the image, studying every brush stroke. ‘Maybe at that time the painting hadn’t been stripped back.’
‘I can ask Kirstin to check in the files.’
He pulls up a chair and sits alongside her. ‘The altarpiece is a really important piece of work. Which is why everyone from Napoleon to Hitler tried to steal it. The triptych is regarded by many as the first major painting of the Renaissance, the forerunner of realism and certainly the greatest oil of its time. So to put these knights in there, to give them credibility, to immortalize them as a major presence in the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb was hugely significant at the time.’
Mitzi’s almost afraid to ask the question. ‘Why? They’re just knights.’
‘No, they’re not. Like I said, van Eyck had already painted a panel of knights fitting that description. This is different. Look more closely.’
‘That one in the middle isn’t — you know who?’
Bronty nods. ‘It might well be. And if it is, those knights gathered around and behind him are of the Round Table.’ He pokes the monitor with his fingertip. ‘Look here and you can see a circular emblem on their shields and three golden crowns on the flag behind Arthur.’
Mitzi’s not looking. Her eyes are on something else. ‘Holy shit, have you seen this?’ She taps the screen.
Bronty studies a background figure of a priest, shown on horseback, carrying a bible and a cross. The crucifix is identical to the one they have a sketch of. The one Amir Goldman was killed for.
A knock on the office door turns their heads.
It opens and Annie Linklatter stands there, timidly, holding an envelope. ‘This is the DNA profile you’ve been waiting for, ma’am.’
94
It’s been an unusual day for Angelo Marchetti.
No alcohol. No coke. No gambling.
The Italian has stayed clean for almost twenty-four hours and has spent the time getting his head together. Devising a way to stay alive and start a new and untroubled life. The key to it all is recovering the original memory stick. He can use this to leverage Gwyn into a situation that will make him vulnerable to Mardrid. Without it, he’s a dead man.
Sophie Hudson said a lot before she died. She named the cops investigating the Goldman shooting and gave up the fact that she handed the memory stick to a woman from the FBI.
Mitzi Fallon.
Marchetti is staring at a head and shoulders squad shot of the lieutenant as he works from his hotel room. She’s in full LAPD blues and looks too momsy to press his buttons. He prefers slimmer, younger women with bigger breasts and longer hair. That said, she’s clearly an exceptional investigator, with the emphasis on ex.
Ex robbery squad. Ex homicide with an ex-husband.
The briefing note he’s got shows her life almost has as many screw-ups in it as his. She’s short of money and has two young daughters to look after.