from some work he had bought from my gallery.”
“How?” I asked him.
“I’m getting divorced, so we had to have our assets valued. My lawyer found an art appraiser to review what we’d collected.”
“He determined you had fakes?”
“Yes. At first, he told us that something was bothering him about the pigment on the piece, something he didn’t expect to see. He had it tested and found that the pigment hadn’t been available—didn’t even exist—when those pieces were done. It was very new. Therefore, they were forged.”
“They? How many paintings were forged?”
“Two.”
“And you bought both of those from…”
He nodded.
“Both from me,” Madeline said, taking full responsibility. Madeline turned to Jeremy. “Isabel will be helping me at the gallery, so I wanted her to know everything.”
“Of course,” Jeremy said. “Having you work here will be wonderful.” As he spoke, his eyes lighted on me again, and I felt some kind of current travel up my spine. I stopped myself from quivering visibly. I’m not really a quivering kind of girl, so the moment was odd.
Jeremy held my eyes a little longer. If he was upset about discovering that some precious artwork had been forged, he didn’t show it.
“Izzy.” He paused. “Is it okay if I call you Izzy?”
I nodded. “That’s what most people call me.”
“Even though ‘Isabel’ is much more beautiful,” Madeline added, smiling.
Jeremy nodded. “Well.” He paused. “Izzy, this may seem a little quick, but could I take you out sometime? Just for a drink?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” My eyes shot to Madeline.
“You should!” Madeline said. “Jeremy has traveled everywhere, done so many things.” She took a few steps and put a friendly hand on his arm. “He’s a charming conversationalist. You can speak with him about anything. Absolutely anything.”
It was those last two words, spoken firmly, that made me realize Madeline very much wanted me to go out with Jeremy. And even more importantly, to discuss the issue of the forged paintings with him.
I looked back at Jeremy Breslin.
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” he said.
“I’d love to.”
12
Madeline Saga’s oddly shaped gallery was well situated for frequent walks past the place, either on Michigan Avenue on one side or on the narrow pedestrian mall on the other. Both provided large windows to see the artwork inside, of course, but also to see Madeline.
These frequent, somewhat obsessive walks were an attempt to soothe ever-mounting emotions—toxic, hateful emotions—connected to Madeline Saga.
From inside the gallery, the glare of the glass made it hard to see pedestrians outside. And so it was simple to walk by, back and forth, to see what Madeline was doing. Everyone who had dealt with her knew how Madeline got when she was working at the gallery. But of course, Madeline didn’t see the gallery as a job. It was her life.
And now Madeline could be seen through the Michigan Avenue windows, through the snow, growing lighter, while the skies grew yellow with sun. And, yes, there she was, introducing her assistant to Jeremy Breslin, of all people, the one who had discovered the fakes.
But how brazen, how bold, this introduction, as if Madeline felt no remorse.
Madeline didn’t seem to notice people watching her—whether through her windows or in person. She didn’t notice because they didn’t matter to her, whether they were full of awe or hate or anything in between. Art mattered to her, her gallery.
But neither would be part of Madeline’s life for long. They might be the end of her altogether.
13
I met my father for lunch. In addition to Charlie’s news about his potential move, I wanted to ask him about the Madeline Saga case.
My father had developed this dining game of sorts; in every restaurant, he wanted to try something he’d never had before. I wasn’t sure how he’d struck upon this, but I was happier than usual about it that day, since it gave the impression that he liked Chicago, that he would not be moving, and therefore I wouldn’t have to decide how I felt about that.
This time, he’d picked the Bongo Room in Wicker Park. Currently my father was cutting into—I kid you not about this—Pumpkin Spice and Chocolate Chunk Cheesecake Flapjacks. And that wasn’t all that was in the dish—there were graham crackers, too, and vanilla cream and all sorts of stuff.
I’d gotten a chicken and avocado salad that had melted provolone on it. I never thought I’d use the word decadent when referring to a salad, but that’s what it tasted like.
“How is it?” I asked my dad after watching him take a few bites.
“I do not know.” He took another bite, chewing it slowly. “Odd,” he said.
Since no other information seemed forthcoming, and I wasn’t quite ready to launch into the topic of his moving, I brought up Madeline Saga. “Mayburn said he had you do some general research,” I said. “What did you find?”
“What I found was the defeating fact that art crimes usually aren’t solved,” he said. “So, Izzy, you’re fighting an uphill battle with this one. Only around ten percent of stolen art is ever recovered. And the prosecution rates are even lower.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Seems like it would be relatively simple to have security cameras these days and see everything that happens to a painting.”
“Yes. If the art simply stayed on one wall. But removal is often needed for cleaning, for transporting to other galleries or museums, for an exhibition or relocation in the gallery itself.”
“Madeline moved from Bucktown to Michigan Avenue last year.”
“Well, then there are many danger points.”
“Danger points?”
“In the moving process alone, there are many points where criminals can get in. There’s the crating of art, there’s leaving those crates standing until they can be shipped, there’s loading of the crates into a truck, there’s the driving part of the journey, there’s the unloading. And then the art sits wherever it’s been unloaded until it’s unpacked. And then it sits there until it’s installed.”
“Wow.” I felt overwhelmed at the realization. “So I should be tracking down and talking to everyone who was involved, even in the slightest, with the move of the gallery.”
“You got it. I’d guess there were probably five to ten people involved. At a minimum.”
He asked me what I did when I was at Madeline’s gallery.
When there were no clients in the store, I told him, I tried to study what I could. Madeline had a binder for each artist she represented, almost like a catalogue, listing their bios, their previous shows and exhibitions, PR pieces and more. These files also contained manifests from each time a piece was shipped. I studied the information from the two forged works, hoping to find some sort of discrepancy or clue. As yet, I’d found nothing.
But I had begun to cobble together not only some understanding of art but also of the art world.
My father listened closely, taking occasional bites of his flapjacks. “You’re learning,” he said. “But it also sounds as if you’ve begun to nurse a healthy new appreciation.”
“Exactly!”