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Jack stared across the portrait at her for a long moment. "Yes. They do."
Grace stepped forward, pointing to the lower right-hand corner. "Here's the signature and date. This was right about the same time Copley did the portrait of Paul Revere that hangs in the MFA in Boston."
"Do you mind if I take a closer look?" Callie asked.
"Not at all."
Callie turned on one of the crane-necked lamps on the table and angled it toward the surface of the painting. Getting in close, she hovered about three inches above the canvas, moving slowly around the edges toward the center. When her body got close to Jack's, he didn't step away.
A soft smile was playing across her lips when she stood up.
"What do you see?" Jack asked.
"He needs some work. There's about seventy-five years of smoke and dirt stuck to a varnish coat that has yellowed with age. He's going to have to be handled very carefully, with a lot of love, but the canvas is sound."
"Maybe you'd like to do the work."
Callie glanced at him in surprise. "Excuse me?"
Grace tried to cover up the awkward silence that followed by laughing softly. "You have to buy him first, you know, before you hire someone to work on him.''
"No matter what he costs, he will come back to the family." He turned to Callie. "Are you interested in the project?"
It was a long time before she answered. "This painting carries a huge historical significance because of both the subject matter and the artist."
Jack shrugged. “So are you saying you're not interested? "
"It's more than I've ever handled before."
"Then if you do it right, it'll make your career."
"I do it wrong and both the painting and my reputation are ruined."
Grace glanced back and forth between the two of them. Callie was staring at Nathaniel Walker. Jack was looking-at her.
She wondered what he was thinking and decided that perhaps he just saw in Callie the opportunity to give someone a chance in the big leagues.
* * *
Smith had just lit a cheroot and was leaning back against the headboard in his room when his cell phone rang. "Yeah?"
"Hey," Tiny said. There was a lot of static cutting through the connection.
"Tell me you're somewhere over New Jersey."
"Not even close. We were delayed because of a bomb scare, then rerouted away from bad weather. I won't be in New York until midmorning tomorrow. Where do you want me?"
Smith cursed and then gave him the Hall Building's address. "We'll be in her office. Top floor."
"Righto. Now what's up with this Gala thing? "
"Standard issue glamour party. About five hundred people coming. I've talked with Marks. If you decide it's safe, his boys are willing to crawl all around the place. You'll have plenty of backup if you need it."
"Good to know. What do you think?"
Smith blew out his frustration. "I don't know. The victims have been killed in their homes and I'm pretty sure the guy works alone. You need to get a sense of the space before you decide. If you think you can keep her safe, it would mean a lot to her to be able to go."
"Will you be reachable?"
This was something Smith had been debating. If he wasn't on the job, he shouldn't be floating around in the background. One person, and only one person, had to be in charge and there was no way he could play second fiddle, even to Tiny, in a situation involving Grace. The best course of action was for him to get the hell out of town, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not until the Gala was over and she woke up the next day safe and sound.
"I've booked a room nearby. You can reach me anytime and I'll be there in a heartbeat if things head south."
"Sounds good to me."
"Vic," Smith paused. He never used Tiny's given name. "Take good care of her."
Crackling came over the line and then his friend said, "Look, I've got to ask. What's this woman to you, anyway?"
Everything, Smith thought.
"Just another client." He stabbed out the cheroot.
"Yeah, sure, Boss. In five years of working with you, I've never seen you like this."
"All you have to do is make sure she stays alive, okay? Do that and I might even promote you."
"To what?"
"Maybe I'll start calling you Medium."
Tiny laughed.
As soon as the call ended, Smith dialed another number. Senator Pryne's private line was answered briskly by the man's chief of staff.
"It's Smith," he said. "When does he want to leave?"
"Will you be able to be in Washington the day after tomorrow?" The smoothness of the woman's voice, the diction, the stench of political power made Smith sick.
"Yes."
