James cut the motor and sat back against the driver door. “It's real, and whoever is doing this is more than your average hacker or rank amateur.”
“You sound as if you've had some experience with this sort of thing.”
“Required training.”
Her gaze met his. He didn't elaborate, and she didn't ask.
“Innis may be a bit of a wanker,” he continued. “But he's good, and not above taking a quick look at secure sites. Bloody hell, nothing is secure. But what he saw, the method they used, scared the shit out of him. According to Innis it was real high-level, sophisticated, the sort that is almost impossible to detect unless you've done it yourself.”
“Cate was well known. She'd had a lot of success and exposure, a celebrity with her first book optioned to film. There's been a lot of publicity about the accident. It could be just some hacker trying to find out about her next book.”
He didn't say anything and she knew he didn't believe it. Neither did she. But she was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that someone had hacked into Cate's server, looking for something.
What?
She thought of the break-in at the Tavern. The local authorities had written it off as just another robbery, easy target with no one home. But as far as she could tell, nothing of value had been taken. And what about the files and photographs thatwere scattered across the floor of the taproom? James had been certain then that someone was looking for something.
She grabbed the door lever. An attendant met them at the entrance to the gallery, her gaze sliding over them with cool appraisal. They were escorted into the main gallery, past displays and movable walls beneath strategically placed lighting that created a visual experience of an artist's work. Jonathan Callish was supervising the placement of a painting, standing back chin propped on his hand.
“Just there,” he instructed the young man who moved the painting an imperceptible micro-millimeter. Then, “We just need to adjust the lighting and it will be perfect.” Callish turned to greet them.
Jonathan Callish was the owner of Bankside Gallery, one of several small but well-known galleries near the Tate Modern on the bank of the Thames River. He was in his early fifties, slender, with thinning gray hair, and impeccably dressed. Kris guessed Saville Row by the cut of his suit, that fit as if it had been made for him, with gleaming leather shoes, and polished nails. His father had served with Paul Bennett during World War II.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Kris held out her hand, aware of his faintly surprised expression as she introduced James Morgan.
“Of course,” he replied. “Such a tragedy about Ms. Ross. And of course, I was hoping to have a showing of her father's work in the coming months. Dreadful news.”
“That's what I want to speak to you about,” Kris replied.
They accompanied him through the gallery with high ceilings and glass-domed lighting, white walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and polished chrome light fixtures strategically located on suspended overhead tracks that could be repositioned depending on the layout of the art being displayed.
They passed a display of contemporary art, the images in bold slashes of black and red against a stark white background, the series titled “War and Aftermath.”
Several of the canvases depicted war in graphic blood-red and stark black images. The last canvas in the grouping was sharp contrast—“Aftermath,” in slashes of startling black images where nothing of life remained.
“This particular exhibit has been somewhat controversial,” Callish explained, almost apologetically, then added, “But the artist has gained quite a following.”
She studied the images. They were cold, void of any feeling, and yet filled with an almost brutal reality, the eyes of those in the first canvases—“War”—streaming blood-red tears, while those of “Aftermath” were only contorted, lifeless shapes.
“There's a lot of anger there,” James commented.
“You see it,” Sir Jonathan turned and looked at him with excitement. “The message the artist was trying to convey. You have an eye for art.”
“Blood, death, nothing,” James replied. “It's all there, if you know what to look for.”
Kris glanced over at him with more than a little surprise. The realities of war that most people never saw, except in a video game or movie?
She looked back at the series of paintings. There was also sorrow and despair in the bent and twisted forms.
“Very interesting,” Kris commented, forcing herself to study the images in spite of the fact that they evoked emotions she'd worked hard to move past.
She had attended several showings in New York and London over the years. Everyone had their own perspective on a certain subject. The approach this artist had taken with the collection seemed to closely resemble the Futurism movement of the pastcentury in its abstract symbolism. It had also enjoyed a recent revival among collectors in New York.
“I am always interested in people's reactions.”
A young woman joined them. She was slender, dressed in black, with slashes of vivid color in the scarf she wore about her shoulders, not unlike the paintings, her dark hair pulled back into a long braid. She wasn't beautiful—that was too easy a description. Striking was more accurate, with dark, almond-shaped eyes, exotic, with the vivid color of the scarf against the emotionless canvas of her face.
“This is the artist,” Callish introduced them, his expression shifting to some other emotion.
