“Marriage license?” Well that wasn't unusual. But the name on the license was definitely of the female persuasion.
“So the wanker goes both ways. Each to his own personal taste I always say.”
He continued his search. As he suspected, information for the gallery and most of Callish's personal information was supposedly protected by the usual well-known security programs and firewalls. If the average person realized how weak the average internet security measures were, they'd have a freaking coronary.
The simple truth was, there was no such thing as security. It was commonly known in the cyber world—whatever a security company or some rogue individual could put out there, someone else could break into—find a hole, a gap in the wall, then slip in. They were all playing the same game, it was just a matter of speed—get in, get the information, then get out. And everything was for sale.
He scanned the next screen, same boring shit. Then, “Hello?”
There were several drafts of funds labeled business development. The destination was an account at an international bank in Paris.
Business development? There were at least two dozen entries over the last two years. He did the mental math and whistled. There was almost twenty million dollars in transfers, not exactly pocket change.
It appeared the transfers had been made by two different identities. He followed several links, then searched the name that came up on the receiving end of all those transfers—Le Noir.
Foreign language had never been his best subject. In fact he'd dropped out. But he didn't have to be a language expert to figure this one out.
Le Noir, loosely translated, The Dark Side. Not exactly what he would have chosen for the name of a gallery.
“All right,” he said to himself. “Let's see what we can find out about this new business enterprise.” He entered several search words, the name of the gallery and cross-linked it to Callish.
The usual public information came up. The gallery had opened the year before. There had been an extravagant opening with media reviews about the 'eclectic' blend of art and artifacts offered at the gallery. There were pictures—Callish, an attractive young woman, the artist Alyia, an assortment of guests, artist-types, and a man who showed up in the background of several photographs.
“Let's take a closer look.”
He saved one of the shots, then opened it in the program he'd used to enhance the photographs Cate had brought him of her father's war-time work.
This character was dark, dark hair and eyes, definitely Mediterranean type, he thought. Or possibly Middle Eastern?
Artist? Or just an art wonk who hung around galleries?
He definitely wasn't the artist type, not that this character had a sign hung around his neck, and not that he was an expert. He just didn't look the type.
Collector? Not old enough.
They were usually short, pudgy, balding, like Callish, with some artsy type on their arm, and more money than they knew what to do with, the type who purchased according to a financial portfolio, or just because, and then hid the treasure away where it was found fifty years later when the person died. Like the old wanker who dropped dead the year before. No heirs, the authorities open up the residence and discover two Van Goghs, a Monet, and a Picasso that hadn't been seen for decades.
Again, just an observation.
He scrolled through several more photographs from the opening night, lots of fanfare, accolades about the success of theLondon gallery, names of some of the attendees, apparently big names in the art world.
“Blah, blah, blah.”
He went back to Callish's financial portfolio, cruised through several files. There was a lot of money moving through the London Gallery that just didn't add up to the opening of a second gallery. He started a search on the artist, Alyia.
She had apparently come on the London art scene two years earlier, critical acclaim, some good reviews. Others did a pass on her work. Bottom line, the art world was unimpressed, but still she had the showings at Callish's Bankside Gallery. It paid to be sleeping with the gallery owner.
He dug a little deeper—education, family, known associations, that sort of thing. Everything came up perfect. But the information only went back five years.
“No such thing as perfect,” he muttered.
He cross-referenced the information to school records—educational institutions were easy to break into. He came up with a blank. According to those records, a student by the name of A. Malik had been removed from the school register—deceased!
“Then who the hell is Callish married to?” He went back to the date of the marriage and brought up more records. There was the usual identification for both. He tried another search and came up empty.
The screen went blank.
“What the fuck!”
