Art of Deception

When she walked into my office, I thought she was lost. Not many people show up without first contacting me or making an appointment. Fewer still come alone. None has ever looked like her.

Tall and willowy with impeccably straight auburn hair styled into an elegant long bob, she looked to be in her mid-30s, though her flawless skin and delicate features made it hard to be certain. She was definitely a few years younger than I was. Her pale blue eyes made a quick sweep of my office, left to right, as though cataloging its contents to form an initial impression before she spoke. When her eyes finished their scan and locked onto mine, I felt as though I were being subjected to the same precise scrutiny.

"Mr. Weber?"

I pushed back from my microscope and rose from my desk. "Yes. May I help you?"

"I hope so. I bought a painting I think may be a forgery. I'm hoping you can tell me whether I'm right."

Straight to the point. I liked her already.

"I'll be happy to try."

"No offense, Mr. Weber, but I expect you to do more than that. I'm here because I'm told you're the best."

"And who told you that?"

She smiled. "Just about everyone. But I'm sure you knew that."

"Just about?"

She didn't take the bait. "Just about."

"You're not going to tell me the name of the poor, misguided soul who tried to direct you elsewhere?"

"No. I don't think I will."

"Doesn't matter. I have a pretty good idea who it was. And please, call me Adam."

She walked forward to my desk and extended her hand. "Carina."

"Nice to meet you, Carina. So, tell me about this painting."

We moved to what passed for a sitting area in my lab, a few mismatched chairs haphazardly arranged around a small wooden conference table with one wobbly leg.

The painting in question was a portrait of a sharecropper by William Aiken Walker that she had purchased at a smaller gallery in Boston eight years ago. The name of the artist didn't surprise me—there had been a fairly well-publicized case involving forgeries of some of Walker's lesser work back in the mid-1990s—but the date of purchase did.

"Most of my clients come to me before they buy or shortly after. You bought this eight years ago. Why bring it to me now?"

"The more pieces I collected, the more something about this one seemed...off. I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain it."

"I understand. A lot of times it starts with a gut feeling. We'll get to the bottom of it." I hesitated before continuing. "You realize, of course, most galleries and auction houses, at least those I work with most often, only offer grace periods of between..."

"Yes. I know too much time has passed for me to get my money back if it's a fake."

At least she knew what she was getting into. "So, you're sure you still want to know?"

She cocked her head and stared at me with those startling blue eyes.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" she asked.

"I'm not a collector."

"Yes, but if you were."

I paused before answering. "Sometimes I wonder. I mean, if I really loved the piece, would it matter? Before Michelangelo was Michelangelo, he made money forging ancient Roman sculptures. He'd break off pieces, bury the sculpture in a garden, and then claim he'd discovered a masterpiece. One day, a Cardinal figured out the sculpture he'd purchased was a fake. Instead of being pissed and having the artist thrown in jail, he was so impressed with his talent that he invited him to Rome."

She raised an eyebrow. "It sounds an awful lot like you're trying to talk me out of bringing you my business."

I laughed. "Not at all. Believe me, I'm happy to take your money. Got my eye on a Fourier transform infrared microscope. Amazing instrument, but damned expensive. Every little bit helps."

"I'd be glad to chip in."

"I'll need a few weeks. Send me everything you have regarding provenance, then I'll write up an estimate. Have the painting shipped here, and I'll get to work."

I started to rise from my seat, then decided to throw caution to the wind. "Or you could always bring it by yourself," I added.

She looked perplexed. "Why would I do that?"

I instantly felt two feet shorter. There was not a single good reason why she should hand-deliver a painting worth almost six figures to my office. I didn't know what to say, but I spoke anyway, the words tumbling out before I knew how to piece them together. "I just meant...if it was easier to...I don't really know," I finished with a defeated shrug.

She watched my fumbling with an amused grin, then said, "Oh. I thought maybe you wanted to see me again."

She seemed to savor the dumbfounded expression on my face for just a moment before pivoting toward the door. I was left to stare at the enticing sway of her hips as she swept from the room and into the street.

*******

Five weeks later I was pacing my office, waiting for her to arrive. I paused to straighten the chairs around the conference table for the third time. I'd fixed the wobbly leg three weeks ago.

I'd made up some excuse about why I needed to deliver my report to her in person rather than emailing it. Something about wanting to illustrate my conclusions by referencing specific aspects of the work itself. I'd offered to meet somewhere more convenient for her, but she'd insisted my lab was fine.

She arrived ten minutes before we were scheduled to meet at 4 p.m., dressed in a blue pencil skirt and white button-down blouse.

On the conference table sat the painting. I took the chair in front of it, and she took the one directly across from me. I placed two printed copies of my report on the table and slid one across to her. I had splurged on fancy binding. She glanced at the report cover, hands held folded in her lap, then looked back up at me.

"So. What's the verdict?"

Her voice was calm, without a trace of anxiety about the results of my investigation. She probably realized I hadn't asked her to meet me in person to deliver good news. Or maybe she was so rich she just didn't care.

"It's a forgery," I said. I've found it's best to be direct when breaking bad news. "One of the best I've seen, actually, but still a fake."

I watched her face for a trace of surprise, disappointment, or anger. She just sat there stoically and nodded.

"I see. And how do you know this?"

"Well, nothing seemed amiss with the provenance. The documentation was all expertly done, probably based on papers from some of Walker's other works with a few minor alterations. My guess is the forger even used period typewriters. It's definitely vague enough to be suspicious, but there were no definitive 'gotchas'."

She leaned forward attentively as I spoke, propping an arm on the table and resting her chin between the fingers of her right hand.

"The frame is also top notch," I continued. I flipped the painting over and ran a stylus along the edges. "Wood was probably cannibalized from period pieces of furniture. Smart to pick an artist who was active in the early 1900s. It's a lot harder to find matching wood if you're forging the work of an old master."

I flipped it back over and used my stylus to mimic the motion of a brush over the canvas. "Brush strokes are well done. Consistent with what you'd find in most of Walker's work. Signature's a match, though that's not surprising, considering it's the easiest element to forge. And the pigments are just about perfect."

"Just about?" she asked.

I smiled. "Just about."

I pointed to some small white clouds in the middle distance. She leaned forward to see where I was pointing, then decided she needed a better view. She stood and walked around the table, taking the chair next to mine. She slid forward and sideways, bringing herself so close to me that her right leg rested lightly against my left. She leaned over the painting and stared at the clouds.

"I did a chemical analysis of scrapings from various sections. Here, the forger knew enough to use lead white paint, just like Walker. That's how early forgers of Walker's work got caught. They used zinc white instead."

"But here," I pointed to some yellowish strands of grass at the foot of the paintings' subjects. "See this yellow? It's chemically very similar to a yellow pigment that Walker used in most of his work. But it's not an exact match. This particular variation of the pigment is called Hansagelb, named after the German company that manufactured it."

She turned to me with a skeptical look. "Seems like a bit of a stretch. Surely you can't expect the artist to have used the same pigment in all his work. I imagine he had more than one type of yellow."

"Absolutely true," I said. "However, I did some research into the history of this pigment, and it turns out that American artists didn't have access to it until after World War II. It would have been tough for Walker to get his hands on some, especially since he died in 1921."

I'd rehearsed that big reveal several times before her arrival, and I turned to her, anxious to see how it had landed. She was no longer staring at the painting. She was looking directly at me.

"You really love your work, don't you?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"The way you talk about it. Your eyes light up. It's refreshing to see someone so passionate about his craft."

"Yeah. I do love it," I said, holding her gaze. "Except the delivering bad news part," I added hastily.

"Actually, you rather seemed to enjoy that part, too."

I must have looked sheepish, because she laughed and waved her hand dismissively. "It's fine. I like that you have a flair for the dramatic. Anyway, you warned me up front that I might not like the results."

She stood from the table and gestured to the paintings that dotted the walls of my lab. Each had a small note card below it with handwritten text. She walked to the far wall and pointed to a portrait of a French nobleman.

"I thought you weren't a collector," she said, cocking her head.

"I'm not. Those were gifts. From clients."

"Forgeries you unmasked?"

I nodded. "The cards explain what gave them away. One of these days I'll make them into engraved labels and mount them properly."

She walked from painting to painting, pausing now and then to examine a few of the works and scan the cards below them. As she bent over to read the cards, I tried to keep my eyes from wandering to the fabric that tightened across the lovely curve of her ass.

"Fascinating," she said. "Though I'm sorry to say you won't be getting my Walker. It may be a fake, but I like it too much. Plus, it'll make for an interesting story." She sighed. "An expensive story, but an interesting one."

"I saw how much you paid for it in the provenance documentation," I said. "If I found out I'd lost that kind of cash, I'd probably want a drink." I took a deep breath. "Can I buy you one?"

She stopped in the middle of reading a card, straightened, and turned to face me. "Yes," she said, smiling. "I think I could use a drink."

*******

We grabbed a booth at a bar not far from my lab in Brooklyn. She ordered a martini. I had a scotch. One drink turned into two, then three. The conversation flowed easily, and Carina's demeanor gradually shifted from stern and reserved to warm and playful.

It was delightful to watch her loosen up. On a few occasions she would reach across the table and touch me lightly on the arm when laughing at one of my stories. Sometimes she had to lean forward to make herself heard over the music, and when she did, I was able to steal a couple glances down her top. I thought I was being discrete, but she caught me at least once, because I saw her smirk and shake her head disapprovingly before leaning back in the booth.

"So, who told me you weren't the best?" she asked.

"What?" I said, confused.

She leaned forward and her blouse shifted, exposing one strap of her white bra. She paused and stared at me with a mischievous expression, as though daring me to look.

"The day we met," she said more loudly. "You said you knew who told me you weren't the best. Tell me who you think it was and I'll tell you if you're right."

I paused before answering. "Lauren Schrader," I said, as neutrally as possible.

She touched her nose with one index finger and pointed the other toward me, as though we were playing charades. But she was tipsy enough that her finger slipped off her nose and onto her cheek. It was adorable.

"Why don't you like her?" she asked.

"I never said I didn't like her."

She laughed. "Oh yes, you did. C'mon, Adam. Spill."

As a matter of professional courtesy, I never speak poorly of others in my line of work, even Lauren. But whether it was the alcohol or just the desire to please the gorgeous woman sitting across from me, I decided to forget my manners this evening.

"She's a hack. Doesn't even take the job seriously. Sees herself as an unappreciated painter who just dabbles in forensic science to pay the bills until someone recognizes her genius. It's pathetic. She only got the in-house position at the Kiefer Gallery because she's sleeping with the head of the Modern and Contemporary Art department."

I drained the last of my scotch and set the glass down a little too hard.

"You wanted that job, didn't you?"

"No," I lied. Then, when I saw her expression, "Okay, yes. But this isn't bitterness speaking. Or, at least, not only bitterness speaking."

"You sure? No offense, but it sounds a bit like sour grapes. I mean, how do you know she's even sleeping with that guy?"

"Because I'm the one that caught them. Lauren is my ex-wife."

Carina's eyes widened. "Wow, I'm sorry," she said. "That's..."

"In the past," I interrupted, smiling so that she could see I wasn't upset.

"So," I asked, keen to steer the conversation and my own thoughts in a different direction, "what do you do for fun when you aren't collecting original works of art? Yacht racing? Vineyard cultivation?"

"Ahhh...It's poke-fun-at-the-rich-girl time, is it?"

"Depends. Are you rich?"

"Would a rich girl deign to be seen with a philistine like you?"

"Ouch," I said, putting a hand over my heart. She laughed.

"Okay, let me see here. I'm good at appraising things." I leaned back and stroked my chin with an exaggerated motion as I examined at her face.

"You're a lawyer."

"Nope."

"CEO?"

"Nope."

"Bank robber?"

She pursed her lips and touched a finger to them. "Shhh...don't tell anyone."

"Okay. I give up."

"I'm a freelance graphic designer. I work from home."

"Right," I said dismissively.

"I'm serious!" she protested.

"Most graphic designers I know can't afford original Walkers."

"Most graphic designers you know probably aren't living off an outrageous inheritance from their dead parents."

Damn it, I thought. "I guess it's my turn to say I'm sorry," I offered.

"Don't be. It was a long time ago. I was nine."

"Nine?" I said, my jaw slackening. "That must have been awful."

"It was hard. I was an only child. They died in a car accident, and I moved to Ohio to live with my mom's sister. She was nice enough, but she never wanted children of her own, or anyone else's.

"She worked as a conservator at the local art museum, so I spent a lot of time there either watching her work or just wandering the halls, looking at paintings. I used to lose myself in those paintings. I'd imagine what my life would be like if I could be a part of those canvases: sprawled on the grass at a summer picnic watching ducks bob on the lake, exploring a rustic farmhouse in bare feet with my sister, standing atop a lighthouse listening to waves crash against the glistening black rocks."

Carina stared into the middle distance slightly above my head, lost in recollection. Then her eyes snapped back to meet mine.

"I guess that's where I developed my love of art. I'm not really a connoisseur of any specific artist. I collect works that speak to me in the same way that those paintings did when I was nine."

"I'd love to see your collection sometime," I said, genuinely curious.

"How about Friday night?" she asked. "There's a great Italian place not far from where I live. You treat me to dinner, then we'll swing by my place and you can point out all the other forgeries I've unwittingly purchased."

I laughed, then shook my head apologetically. "Sorry. Not a fan of that idea."

She looked surprised. "Why's that?"

"You're loaded," I said. "How about you treat me to dinner?"

*******

Until I saw Carina, I worried that I may have overdressed for dinner. I looked fairly dapper in a navy blazer and my best pair of dress jeans, but she was simply stunning. Her hair was up in a messy bun and she wore a strapless black dress that straddled the line perfectly between sexy and elegant. A simple diamond pendant nestled between the swell of her pert breasts, which were the ideal size for her lithe frame.

Dinner was delicious, and our conversation flowed freely and easily. We shared tiramisu for dessert, then took an Uber to her place.

She lived in an impressive brownstone in Prospect Heights. Bright and open, it was decorated in a minimalist aesthetic. The few pieces of furniture she had were all sleek lines and sharp angles. There was almost no clutter anywhere; everything seemed to have its place.

"Wow. You're a lot neater than I am."

"My thoughts always feel cluttered," she said. "Like I can't focus sometimes. This helps calm me."

We walked the perimeter of her living room. Paintings of various sizes dotted the walls. Some were prints, but most looked like originals. It was an eclectic collection of artists, just as she had described at the bar, and was impressive without feeling ostentatious.

"Is that a Pissarro?" I asked, pausing next to a scene of two women kneeling and talking in a grassy field.

"Yes," she said, moving in front of me. Her hair was inches from my nose. It smelled faintly of apple blossoms. "From his neo-impressionist period. Not a great example, but the best ones are well outside my price range."

With her body so close to mine, I was finding it difficult to focus on making conversation. "What was it that you saw in this particular piece?" I asked.

"It's more about what I felt. Connection." She joined the fingers of her hands together as she spoke the word. "Two people pausing from their daily labor to share something, maybe a secret longing or a dream of a different life. Most of the canvas depicts this expansive, open space, yet the work still manages to convey an intense intimacy."

As she spoke, my eyes were drawn not to the painting, but to the strands of hair that had escaped her bun and now rested delicately against the nape of her neck. I inched closer to her, so near I could almost feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"Tell me what you see," she said, aware of my presence but not moving her eyes from the painting.

I let her words hang in the air for a moment while I decided how to answer. When I spoke, I moved my lips to within a few inches of her ear and the words came in a whisper.

"I see the freckles on your shoulder," I said. "I see a ringlet of hair resting against your neck, and I'm wondering what you'll do if I brush it aside and kiss your skin. I'm surrounded by beautiful paintings, yet you're the only thing in this room I want to look at. It's been that way since you first walked into my office."

I waited for her reaction, but she neither spoke nor moved. It was as though she hadn't even heard me.

I bent my head and placed a soft kiss on the side of her neck, right above her back. I heard her breath catch in her chest, but she remained motionless.

I trailed kisses up the side of her neck, stopping just behind her ear. When I placed my right hand gently on her hip, she sighed and relaxed into me, pressing against my erection. When she didn't move away, I slid my hand up her side, cupping her right breast through the fabric of her dress.