Your reputation for authentication work precedes you. I have a sensitive matter requiring expertise in provenance research, and I believe you may be uniquely qualified to assist. I would prefer to discuss the details in person rather than through correspondence.
I'm prepared to offer three times your standard consultation fee for an initial meeting, with potential for ongoing engagement depending on scope.
I understand this request may seem unusual. You're welcome to research me before responding—I expect nothing less from someone of your thoroughness.
If you're amenable, I suggest the Vasiliev Gallery in Chelsea. Tomorrow at 2pm, if your schedule permits.
With respect,
Maksim Besharov
I read it four times, looking for red flags. The careful phrasing. The acknowledgment that I'd want to verify him. The offer of three times my fee, which was either a sign of desperation or a sign of money so abundant that normal rates seemed insulting.
The Vasiliev Gallery. I knew it vaguely—high-end contemporary, the kind of place where prices weren't listed because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.
Ghost watched me from his bed, his elegant whippet face expressing mild concern. Or maybe I was projecting.
"I need to research him," I told the dog. "Obviously."
Obviously.
Forty-five minutes later, I'd fallen so deep into the research rabbit hole that my tea had gone cold and Ghost had given up watching me in favor of sleep. What I'd found was frustratingly sparse—the kind of minimal digital footprint that could mean either genuine privacy or deliberate concealment.
Maksim Besharov. NYU graduate, double major in computer science and psychology. An unusual combination that suggested someone interested in both systems and the people who built them. Listed as a "consultant" for Besharov Holdings, which appeared to be a legitimate investment firm with offices in Manhattan and—I noted with a flicker of unease that sat heavy in my stomach—Moscow.
The firm's website was professionally designed and nearly content-free. Mission statement about "strategic investments" and "long-term partnerships." No staff photos. No detailed portfolio. The kind of corporate presence that existed primarily to prove existence.
No social media presence whatsoever. No LinkedIn, no Twitter, no Instagram, nothing. In the current age, that required active effort. Most people left digital trails without trying. Maksim Besharov had apparently spent considerable energy leaving none.
I found exactly one photograph, buried in a society page archive from a charity gala five years ago. The image quality was poor—clearly taken by someone's phone from across the room—and he was half-turned from the camera, caught in motion, as if he'd sensed it coming and deliberately avoided it. Dark hair. Sharp profile. The suggestion of height.
It told me nothing except that he existed and attended the kind of events where people raised money for causes while drinking expensive champagne.
I should say no.
The thought arrived with the certainty of all my carefully constructed rules. I didn't take jobs from people I couldn't verify. I didn't meet strangers in unfamiliar places. I didn't deviate from the routines that kept me functional, the protocols that prevented meltdowns, the structures that held my life together.
Maksim Besharov was a deviation. A variable I couldn't control.
But.
Three times my usual fee would cover Ghost's vet bills for the year. His last checkup had revealed early signs of arthritis, common in former racing greyhounds, and the specialist had recommended supplements and possible physical therapy that my current budget couldn't accommodate. I'd been putting it off, hoping, pretending the problem would solve itself.
Three times my usual fee would also cover six months of art supplies. The good paints I kept eyeing in the catalog, the ones that cost more per tube than some people spent on groceries. The canvas I'd been rationing because the kind I needed wasn't cheap.
The money mattered. The money always mattered, no matter how much I pretended it didn't.
I read the email again, slower this time, trying to identify what was nagging at me beyond the obvious concerns.
I understand this request may seem unusual. You're welcome to research me before responding—I expect nothing less from someone of your thoroughness.
There. That was it.
He'd anticipated my reaction before I had it. Given me permission to be cautious without making it feel like a concession. Created space for my process without demanding I justify it.
If you're amenable. Notwhen you're ready.Not pressure, not assumption. Just . . . an offer, held open. It was sweet.
I was being ridiculous. The email was professional, nothing more. Plenty of people were capable of courteous communication.
