* * *
THAT AFTERNOON,LANDON WASin his car en route to an appraiser of Native American art and artifacts in downtown Columbia, seeking to determine the authenticity of a painting that an art gallery owned by Ivan Pimentel sold online. It was one of many ways that Pimentel did business trying to legitimize art criminality.
But just how far had he gone to protect his interests? And at what cost?
Landon’s thoughts turned to Raquelle. He regretted having to question her about Eddie. Worse was any notion she might have that he was accusing her of being a party to her brother’s involvement in the art world.
The last thing Landon wanted was to put any further walls between them. Just the opposite. He wanted more than anything to break down the barriers that had torn them apart. But there was still the matter of Eddie’s whereabouts—dead or alive. And Landon’s own role in recruiting his former brother-in-law as a CHS. He was obligated to get to the bottom of Eddie’s disappearance and continue to work on the case, wherever it led.
Surely Raquelle, as the former wife of an FBI special agent gets that—right?Landon told himself as he pulled into the parking lot slot on Taylor Street. How could she not? But he completely understood that, at the moment, her loyalty was to her brother—and having the best-case scenario emerge as to his disposition, current and future.
Exiting the car, Landon took a quick look at his cell phone, where there was a text from Shannon Whitfield. The special agent in charge was simply updating him onfunds being approved and allocated for Katie and Zach’s undercover assignment, if needed, in further exposing Ivan Pimentel as an art thief.
After texting her back with his satisfaction, Landon headed into the studio of Brenda Hatcher, an FBI consultant on art and artifacts criminality.
Brenda was Native American and in her fifties. Short and slender, with brunette hair in a pixie cut, she greeted him with a handshake and said evenly, “Agent Briscoe.”
Landon smiled softly. “So, what have you learned?” he asked eagerly, glancing about the studio that had various works of art on the floor against the wall and on wooden tables. There was also a workstation standing desk. He homed in on an oil painting on a table. It was of early Native Americans settled on the banks of the Wateree River. The name derived from the Wateree tribe of Native Americans that originated in the Carolinas in the sixteenth century. It was purportedly an original painting by the early nineteenth-century artist Eva Helen Würdemann that Pimentel sold unknowingly to the FBI for a pretty penny.
Brenda looked Landon right in the eye and said succinctly, “It’s a fake!”
“Really?” He acted surprised but wasn’t really, having suspected as much. “Tell me more.”
“All right.” They walked over to the painting, where she donned a pair of impermeable nitrile gloves from the table. She lifted up the painting and, pointing at the signature, said, “For one, the signature is not consistent with Ms. Würdemann’s, either in placement or the particulars, in accordance with other paintings by the artist. A forensic handwriting expert I employ, Geoff Crisologo, confirmed that the signature on this painting was bogus.”
“Hmm, okay,” Landon said, regarding the fraudulent work of art. “What else?”
“Chemical testing of the painting showed that there were titanium pigments included, which didn’t come till years after the Eva Würdemann painting was completed.” Brenda held it at an angle. “Beyond that, subtle—but significant nonetheless to a trained eye—differences in layering, coloring, and texture illustrate that this so-called original work of art has been copied, and poorly at that.”
“I see.” He fixed her face. “And the real painting by Eva Helen Würdemann?” he asked probingly.
Brenda licked her lips. “It’s safely and legitimately on display at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of the American Indian on the National Mall in Washington, DC.”
“Good.” Landon grinned, satisfied. Another nail in Ivan Pimentel’s proverbial coffin. “I’ll be taking the phony painting with me.”
She smiled. “It’s all yours.”
Landon took the painting to the field office and logged it in the evidence room. He conferred briefly with Shannon and Katie. Both agreed that the counterfeit painting was another important step in the investigation with more tightening of the screws against Pimentel, minus Eddie’s absence in the scheme of things.
On the way home, Landon stopped at Lee’s Cuisine, a Chinese restaurant in Lexington on Quallford Lane, for takeout of fried shrimp and beef egg rolls.
He sat in the built-in kitchen booth, downing the food with water. Another day in time where loneliness ate away at him like a cancer. Yes, he was used to the routine and didn’t always have reason to complain. But spending timewith Raquelle again had reminded him what he was missing, and would love to have back in his life again: a relationship with substance.
After eating and pouring himself a glass of wine, Landon gave Raquelle a call. He wasn’t sure what he would say. Only that he wanted to hear the sound of her voice, one that had enticed him from the first time it reached his ears.
When she picked up, he said casually, “Hey.”
“Hey.” She had that nice ring to her inflection. “What’s up?” she asked, clearly anticipating that he had something to report on Eddie’s disappearance, good or bad.
I have neither to report, Landon thought with regret. “Just wanted to check on you,” he said in what amounted to a half truth.
“I’m fine,” Raquelle stated. “My back feels a little stiff, which happens every now and then for whatever reason.”
“I remember,” he told her, along with his being there to give her a nice back rub. It often seemed to do the trick.
“It’ll pass,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Anything on Eddie?”
“Still searching for him.” Landon knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “No news is good news, right?” he told her as a way to not give up on the possibility that Eddie could still be alive—somewhere.
