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“As far as her health goes, she’s fine,” Tyler said.
“Tyler, please don’t be mysterious. What on earth has happened to Irene?”
“At the moment, she’s in police custody,” he said.
“Police?! Good God,” Katrina said.
“Yes, but she’ll probably be turned over to the FBI in a few hours,” he said. He chuckled. “I’m sorry, that’s not exactly reassuring, is it?”
“But that’s—that’s preposterous, I can’t believe it,” Katrina said. “What could Irene possibly do that— Jesus Christ, Tyler, the FBI?! What did she do?”
“Actually, that’s how I found out,” he said. “The police called me because they want to talk to you.”
“Me? Talk to me?! Tyler, for the love of God, what do I pay you for? Can’t you take care of it?!”
“I’m afraid not. Apparently, a couple of the high-priced authentic masterpieces Ms. Caldwell has been selling are forgeries,” he said. “The police would like to know if there are any more, and they know she’s sold a few pictures to you.”
“Holy shit,” Katrina said, sinking into a chair.
“Since the call came from Elmore Fitch, the authorities take it quite seriously, and they would like to know what you might have to say on the subject.”
“Holy shit,” she said again.
“They may want a slightly more comprehensive statement, Katrina,” Tyler said dryly.
Katrina didn’t hear him. She was looking at the wall directly across from where she sat. Her brand-new Rauschenberg dominated the wall, delivered just days ago by Irene Caldwell. It represented a considerable investment—and if it was fake? She was badly shaken, not merely by the thought of the money but by the very idea. Fakes—from Irene Caldwell?
“How did he know?” she blurted out.
There was a short pause before Tyler said, “I’m sorry . . . ?”
“GodDAMN it, Tyler! Elmore Fitch couldn’t tell a Van Dyck from a Vermeer! How did he know his painting was fake?”
“Oh, yes,” Tyler said. “Apparently, he got an anonymous tip? He was told these particular fakes have a newspaper clipping hidden in the lower left corner. With a recent date?”
Katrina lurched to her feet, still clutching the phone convulsively, and stumbled over to her gorgeous new Rauschenberg. She was dimly aware that Tyler was talking, but she didn’t hear a word of it. She bent down and stared at the lower left-hand corner of the painting. It took a moment, but she found it: a small strip from the New York Times.
With a date from just a few weeks ago.
Her Rauschenberg was a fake.
Just before she screamed, she realized Tyler was speaking again, and she forced herself to focus.
“. . . told them you would speak to them at my office, and they agreed, but they would like it to be today. Apparently Mr. Fitch is twisting a few political arms? So can you drop by this afternoon? Say, three o’clock?”
Katrina looked at the painting again and felt a sudden shiver of anger. “Bitch,” she hissed. If Irene Caldwell had cheated her, it was totally worth a trip into town to make sure she paid for it.
And then louder, to Tyler, she added, “Three o’clock. I’ll be there.”
Katrina went to the interview still angry, and glad of an opportunity to strike back at Irene for what she regarded as a true crime—forging great art. But two minutes into it, she realized that the two sour-faced cops had no idea what a Rauschenberg was. “Wasn’t he that comic? On Saturday Night Live couple years back?” one of them said, straight-faced.
The other cop was looking at a rumpled piece of paper. “Jasper Johns. That mean anything to you?” he asked.
“Not personally,” she said. “He’s a great artist, though.”
“Uh-huh,” the cop said dubiously.
“You know Elmore Fitch?” the other one asked.
