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59
Upper East Side
Phillip’s shower was twice the size of the kitchen in Magdalena’s old apartment in Alphabet City, an aquatic wonderland of marble and glass, the shower for the man who had everything. Magdalena could never recall which of the many brushed-chrome handles performed which function. She turned one and was blasted by water cannon on all sides. Frantically she tried another and was caressed by a gentle tropical cascade. She washed herself with Phillip’s male-scented soap, dried herself with one of Phillip’s monogrammed towels, and then contemplated her nude form in Phillip’s gilt-framed mirror. She found the image unappealing and sorely in need of restoration. Portrait of a drug dealer, she thought. Portrait of a thief.
Portrait of an unknown woman...
In the master bedroom there was no sign of Phillip other than the stain he had left on the sheet. Their lovemaking had bordered on rape and had been accompanied by the constant tolling and chiming of his mobile phone. Magdalena’s was tucked in her Hermès handbag, which lay at the foot of the bed, along with the clothing Phillip had ripped from her body. Aware that others were listening, she hadendured his assault in muted silence. Her ravenous lover, however, had been in fine voice.
Dressed, she took up her handbag and went in search of him. She found him downstairs in the gallery, standing before the forged Gentileschi. He was wearing the expression of curatorial refinement he always donned for the benefit of his guileless investors. Phillip Somerset, patron of the arts. To Magdalena he would always be the uncultured philistine whom she had first encountered that night at Le Cirque. Bud Fox with a dash of Jay Gatsby. A forgery, she thought. And quite an obvious one at that.
“How good is it?” he asked finally.
“Better than the version at the Getty.”
“Price?”
“All things being equal... thirty million.”
“I need to unload it.”
“I would advise against that, Phillip.”
“Why?”
“Because the painting came from the same source as the ones that were sold by Oliver Dimbleby in London. If another picture emerges from the same so-called old European collection, it will raise red flags. The painting needs an entirely new provenance and sufficient time to cool off. We might also want to take the attribution down a notch or two.”
“Attributed to Gentileschi?”
“Maybe circle of Gentileschi. Or even a follower.”
“I’d be lucky to get a million for it.”
“I didn’t buy a painting in Florence, Phillip. I bought the greatest art forger in history. He’ll pay dividends for years to come. Put the Gentileschi on ice in the warehouse and be patient.”
Phillip stared at his phone. “I’m afraid patience is a virtue I can’t afford at the moment.”
“Who is it now?”
“Harriet Grant.”
“What’s going on?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
They ate their seafood Cobb salads at the table in the kitchen, with CNBC playing softly in the background. Magdalena drank Sancerre with hers, but Phillip, parched from his bedroom exertions, guzzled iced tea. His phone lay faceup at his elbow, silenced but aglow with incoming message traffic.
“You never told me his name,” he said.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Parity, I suppose. You have your forger, and now I have mine.”
“But you acquired your forger with ten million dollars of my money.”
“You wouldn’t have any money if it wasn’t for me, Phillip. Besides, I went to a great deal of trouble to find him. I think I’ll keep him all to myself.”
