I frowned. Gordon could be lying about that too.
“That one as well, and that one, and that one,” Gordon went on in a sentimental tone.
“What about this?” I indicated another of my favorites, an original Alphonse Mucha Art Nouveau theater poster.
“Your father came across it while researching another painting and put me in touch with the previous owner.” Gordon chuckled, but there was a sad note in it. “I always told him to invest in some pieces himself, but he said, ‘My girls are the only investments I care about.’”
A lump formed in my throat. That fit my father to a T. He was an art historian, amateur painter, and World War II buff fascinated by lost masterpieces, but he’d always put us first.
I caught myself before I lost my sense of direction in the fog of nostalgia.
“What was the greatest masterpiece he ever found?” I asked, not daring to look at Gordon.
He hesitated. I was pushing my luck, but playing it safe would get me nowhere.
“Well, there was that Paul Klee he helped recover…” Gordon said.
I nodded. My mother still had the newspaper clippings about that one.
“And that Albrecht Dürer drawing of a lioness…”
My lips curled, and I nearly said,Bene would like that.
“Some consider your father’s greatest discovery to be that Linz album,” Gordon went on.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
That album — a catalogue of looted art intended for a grand museum Hitler never built — was now part of the National Archives in Maryland. It had proven critical in tracking down stolen artworks and returning some to their rightful owners.
But even that wouldn’t account for a vampire and an anonymous bidder duking it out in an auction just shy of six figures.
I went back to the Mucha theater poster. “I wish I could ask my father about his adventures in the art world. Like how exactly he came across that. Did he tell you?”
Gordon stood and loomed beside me, putting me on edge.
“I’m afraid I don’t know more. Perhaps you should ask your mother.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, sidestepping away. Then I gestured, indicating his entire collection. “Were these just investments for you, or did you buy them because you liked them?”
Gordon chuckled. “Most started as investments. I hated that Picasso in the beginning, but I’ve grown fond of it.” He paused momentarily, traipsing down his own private memory lane. Was it littered with tombstones of those who’d stood in his way?
An ugly thought hit me out of nowhere. Could my father’s be among them?
The notion shook me to the core, though I instantly dismissed it. Gordon might be guilty of some crimes, but he would never have done anything that heinous.
“Some, I liked from the outset.” Gordon gestured with his brandy. “But I must admit, the principal idea was to have a nest egg for my retirement.”
His eyes slid to the spot where my father’s painting had hung and stayed there.
I swallowed hard, remembering how my father used to say,Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
And Gordon’s apartment reeked of both — enough for an entire wildfire.
* * *
“Did I go too far?” I asked Roux on the way to Henrik’s apartment.
He scratched his chin. “Close. But you backed off at the right time.”
