False Impressions

False Impressions Laura Caldwell The Art of Murder Chicago attorney Izzy McNeil is ready to take a break from private investigation and focus on her career in criminal law. But as a favor, she agrees to work with Madeline Saga, a beautiful art gallery owner who fears that artwork she has sold is fake. Who in Madeline’s tight circle of artists and gallery owners is guilty of the forgeries? When Madeline's life is threatened, Izzy is suddenly asking a more troublesome question: Who wants the gallery owner dead?As the case spins out of control, there’s only one person who makes Izzy feel safe. Detective Damon Vaughn. But getting close to her former nemesis is full of surprises. Astonishing truths about the glittering Chicago art scene that will introduce Izzy to the deadliest art of deception…."Caldwell combines the best courtroom dramas with the vibe of Sex in the City …Izzy McNeil’s wit and charm compel the reader and the mystery proves intriguing."–RTBook Reviews on Claim of Innocence THE ART OF MURDER Chicago attorney Izzy McNeil is ready to take a break from private investigation and focus on her career in criminal law. But as a favor, she agrees to work with Madeline Saga, a beautiful art gallery owner who fears that artwork she has sold is fake. Who in Madeline’s tight circle of artists and gallery owners is guilty of the forgeries? When Madeline’s life is threatened, Izzy is suddenly asking a more troublesome question: Who wants the gallery owner dead? As the case spins out of control, there’s only one person who makes Izzy feel safe—Detective Damon Vaughn. But getting close to her former nemesis is full of surprises. Astonishing truths about the glittering Chicago art scene will introduce Izzy to the deadliest art of deception.… Praise for the novels of Laura Caldwell “The latest magnificent McNeil legal thriller... With her father back in her life after years of not being there for her, last year’s Sam fiasco (see Red Hot Lies), and now the Theo incident; Izzy wonders whom do you trust when you cannot trust a loved one. This is a terrific twisting tale.” —Mystery Gazette on Question of Trust “Forget John Grisham; Laura Caldwell is the real deal.” —Mystery Scene on Claim of Innocence “Caldwell’s trial scenes, breezy but effective, are key to the unmasking of the real culprit. Izzy’s successful juggling of personal and professional roles should win her more fans.” —Publishers Weekly on Claim of Innocence “Smart dialogue, captivating images, realistic settings and sexy characters... The pieces of the puzzle come together to reveal the secrets between the sheets that lead Izzy to realize who the killer is.” —BookReporter.com on Red Blooded Murder “Red Blooded Murder aims for the sweet spot between tough and tender, between thrills and thought—and hits the bull’s-eye. A terrific novel.” —#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child “Izzy is the whole package: feminine and sexy, but also smart, tough and resourceful. She’s no damsel-in-distress from a tawdry bodice ripper; she’s more than a fitting match for any bad guys foolish enough to take her on.” —Chicago Sun-Times on Red Blooded Murder “Told mainly from the heroine’s first-person point of view, this beautifully crafted and tightly written story is a fabulous read. It’s very difficult to put down—and the ending is terrific.” —RT Book Reviews on Red Hot Lies “Former trial lawyer Caldwell launches a mystery series that weaves the emotional appeal of her chick-lit titles with the blinding speed of her thrillers.” —Publishers Weekly on Red Hot Lies False Impressions Laura Caldwell www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk) This book is dedicated to Katie Caldwell Kuhn, who knows nothing of false impressions, only of real love. Contents Prologue (#ua1e44c7e-af4a-5c5b-9ced-f366ec609c2d) Chapter 1 (#ue41d36b1-95f0-511f-9b44-4bd3a58afb88) Chapter 2 (#u930b5cf4-a46e-5e71-a32d-36b23261eaa8) Chapter 3 (#u6c184bf3-5d6e-5ef1-af42-43d0d0defea9) Chapter 4 (#ub1c2860b-5f59-5722-87e3-e3e1c09413f9) Chapter 5 (#u4ff0c961-7179-503e-ab92-7d91cb00dab1) Chapter 6 (#u493e5694-1f34-54e8-9385-27c4a6a9d876) Chapter 7 (#u4cefc01f-f7a7-5ecc-8520-02f208fd9bf3) Chapter 8 (#u537f1464-5675-56d9-9239-b2aa083fe247) Chapter 9 (#u6f947c3e-6a24-5cc2-a260-0bfb45cb37a7) Chapter 10 (#u97f55886-7184-558d-a6e1-d237ec38c197) Chapter 11 (#ubf2be98d-ef29-591f-af50-b90f8ed7c6bd) Chapter 12 (#ubdda2b3f-499e-5ca4-99b3-b910d9c927af) Chapter 13 (#u6587d972-23a3-5110-8d78-88ccab60f561) Chapter 14 (#u23955bdf-0468-549f-a627-b406db53df25) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue Watching Madeline Saga from outside her gallery had become an obsession. Just like Madeline also had an obsession—art. Madeline was in her gallery all day. Then she would return at night, often wearing different clothes, more casual than her usual fare, her silky black hair pulled back loosely. There was always a breath held for a moment, when Madeline opened the building’s door and disappeared. It only lasted for a minute. Likely Madeline was simply talking with one of the doormen, who were there twenty-four hours. Then, through the gallery’s glass walls, Madeline could be seen switching on lights and walking her gallery. She would pause to stare at the paintings and sculptures as if studying them for the first time. She would disappear again—this time into the back room, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. The torture of waiting could be exquisite. When she finally left, there was always the flattening of mood, the sadness that crept in. But Madeline would be back. Madeline could be watched again. Soon. 1 “I need you on something, Izzy,” Mayburn said, looking serious, his brown eyebrows pushed together. “Can’t,” I answered without asking what the assignment was. I leaned back to give the waiter room to place our plates. Mayburn continued to talk as if he hadn’t heard me, as if the waiter wasn’t between us. “It’s a part-time gig. Just part-time.” I waited until the waiter finished. “That’s nice,” I said to Mayburn. “But since I have a full-time job now…” My friend Maggie Bristol, who was also my boss, was pregnant and due in nearly a month. She needed me to take more responsibility at the criminal defense firm of Bristol & Associates, so I had little or no time for a freelance private investigation gig. “You have to do it.” Mayburn bit into a lobster roll, then looked around the restaurant on North Sheffield. “When did all these damn fish places open in Chicago?” “You don’t like your lobster roll?” I tasted my crab cake, which was delicious. “It’s not that I don’t like the food.” He gestured around with his sandwich. “But when did every second bar start looking like a boathouse from northern Michigan?” I glanced around. Kayaks, rowboats and oars hung from the ceiling, accented by netting and fishing poles. “Anyway,” Mayburn said, putting his lobster roll on his plate. “This is an assignment only you can do.” “Put Christopher on it,” I said. My dad worked occasionally for Mayburn, as well. Somehow the part-time private detective work that I did with them had become a family affair. “I did get Christopher on it. Sort of. Research. But I need you at the front of the house.” “What house? Does this have to do with Lucy?” The love of Mayburn’s life, Lucy DeSanto, was a lovely woman, someone I admired for her kindness and her devotion to her family. “It’s not Lucy,” he said. “Then who’s the client?” Mayburn pushed aside a bottle of hot sauce. There were two more still on the table. He lifted one—Mojo Hojo Caliente—then another—Crazy Billy’s Brain Damage. He pushed them away. He looked at me. “It’s the Saga.” “Madeline Saga?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. “From what you told me about her, I guess it’s good that you’re pushing away the hot sauce. Stay away from the heat.” “Ha. Yeah.” According to Mayburn, he and Madeline had engaged in a very sexy and tumultuous relationship. Mayburn was the first to admit that the tumult was his own. He’d always feared she didn’t love him as much as he did her, that her true love was art and her gallery. “Does she still have her own gallery?” I asked. He nodded. “She moved it from Bucktown to Michigan Ave. But now she might lose it.” “Why?” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “She found out that some of the paintings she’s sold were forged. But they were not fakes when the gallery acquired them.” I returned a bite of crab cake to my plate and sat back. “Whoa.” I didn’t know much about art, but that didn’t sound good. “What did the cops say?” “She hasn’t contacted the cops.” “Why? Something was stolen from her, right? The paintings would have to be stolen before they were replaced with fakes.” “Right, but the CPD doesn’t have an art crime division. Almost no local police departments do. And it can take decades for a stolen piece to show up on the market again. Plus, Saga doesn’t want anyone to know this is happening. Reputation, for an art gallery owner, is everything.” “What about security cameras? Did she have them?” “Yes and no. She didn’t at the Bucktown gallery, but when she built out the new space, they were installed. I’ve analyzed the video for her. Nothing strange. Just Madeline in and out all the time, people she had working with her, customers.” I continued eating my crab cake. Mayburn looked deeply troubled. “The worst part,” he said, “is that whoever is stealing the paintings is trying to hurt her.” “What do you mean? Was she attacked?” “Not yet. But things have been weird—finding doors open at her house that she swore she’d closed and locked. Things that seem moved around in her office, although she can’t be sure. And then there’s the fact that anyone who knows Madeline knows that taking her paintings away would cause her great pain.” I noticed he referred to the paintings as if they were her children. “Sounds complicated.” “It is.” I thought about it. “You know what’s interesting? A lot of jobs you’ve had me on have dealt with your love life.” “What do you mean?” “A lot of these cases have had to do, in one way or another, with Lucy or Madeline.” “Look who’s talking!” He was clearly annoyed. “You came to me last year because of Sam, when he up and disappeared. And then last year? You had me on Theo’s case. Both involved were your boyfriends. One was your fianc?, if I remember correctly.” Zing. That hurt. The relationship with the fianc?—Sam—was done, fault of no one. And the boyfriend—Theo—had taken off to Thailand. Mayburn saw my look. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He picked up his sandwich and began eating again. “It’s okay,” I said. I put my fork down. “So this thing with Madeline Saga, you really need me?” “I do. I need you to work as her assistant in the gallery.” “I know absolutely nothing about the art world. You sure you want to throw me into this?” “I need someone on the inside. We need to figure out who would have access to the paintings and any pertinent info on those paintings, plus we need ideas of anyone who might want to hurt Madeline.” I thought about Maggie. I could talk to her. “How long would you want me?” “Shit, I don’t know. Two weeks. Max.” He looked across the restaurant, past the net curtain festooned with shells. “God, it would just kill me if something happened to Madeline or her business.” “Kill you?” He shot me an irritated glance. “Hey, I might not be in love with the Saga anymore, but…” He took another bite of his lobster roll. He chewed, shrugged. “I just want her to be happy, okay? It’s like…I don’t know. This is hard to explain. But Madeline draws energy from everyone around her. Really. Everyone. And even though I don’t see her much, she’ll sense if I’m gone. She’s like that. And I want her to be content, settled, before I can totally move on to Lucy.” “It still sounds complicated.” “It is.” A pause. “Which is why I need you. For two weeks at the gallery. Cool?” Because he was a friend now, because he had helped me out of more than one bind, I nodded. 2 If I was going to take a temporary gig with Mayburn, I had to talk to Maggie. The next day, in a cab after visiting a new client (a prominent doctor accused of writing prescriptions for cash), I called Q. “Where is she?” “Trial,” he said. “The Cortadero case.” Q had been my assistant at Baltimore & Brown, the big civil firm where I’d formerly worked. We had long ago dropped the pleasantries and adapted the skill of being able to talk in shorthand. Now Q and I worked together at Bristol & Associates. “Nice! Good for Maggie,” I said, smiling. Then I paused and frowned. How had I come to a point in my life and my law practice where I was praising my boss for trying a case on behalf of a Mexican drug cartel? Alleged cartel, I corrected myself. “Closings today,” Q said. “Nice!” I said again. Now, that was truly something to get excited about—a closing argument by one of the best lawyers I knew, who also happened to be my best friend. I leaned forward and asked the taxi to change directions and take me to 26th and Cal. The epicenter of Chicago’s criminal/legal world was at 26th Street and California Avenue. It housed, in addition to a dozen jails, the busiest criminal courthouse in the country. The cab driver, who was talking on his headset in a language I did not understand, said nothing in response to my request. Instead, he calmly swung the cab around in the middle of LaSalle Street, crossing three lanes of traffic. The move drew a few perfunctory honks from other drivers, but mostly everyone went on talking in their own earpieces or singing to the radio. Chicagoans didn’t get particularly aggrieved by poor or even aggressive driving. Everyone seemed to realize we were all just trying to get somewhere, that was all. The driver headed west. Outside, the January sky was moody and heavy, but with teasing glimpses of a distant sun-lit blue sky. But as we approached 26th and Cal, the weather made up its mind—distinctly cold and smothered with gray. I hurried up the steps when we reached the courthouse. Inside, I flashed my ID, calling, “Hey, Tommy!” to a sheriff I knew well by now. I hurried up to the fifth floor and found the grand courtroom where Q said Maggie would be. Inside, it was quiet and still. The only inhabitants were Maggie, standing at the counsel’s table, and two guys who looked like state’s attorneys. (You could tell—it was something to do with the inherent cockiness they exuded, mixed with friendliness. And why shouldn’t they have such an attitude? The state won the vast percentage of criminal cases in Cook County.) Maggie was eight months pregnant, but as I walked toward her, I noticed that she barely looked as if she was nearing childbirth. She had a round bump, but she was still tiny everywhere else. “Great cross,” I heard Maggie say to one of the guys. “Really. And that shit you pulled with Officer Cooper? Hysterical.” Maggie was complimenting the state’s attorneys, which could only mean one thing—the jury was out. I took a breath, waved and walked toward her. Ah, the sweet, sweet—sweet—time between when a jury is sent to deliberate and when they return with a verdict. The law, which has names for nearly everything—voir dire, res ipsa loquitur and so forth—has no name for this odd bit of time. It’s not exactly purgatory. It’s not limbo, either. It’s something much more…hopeful. When a jury is out to consider the verdict—to mentally duke it out in an airless back room when the attorneys’ jobs are over—anything is possible. Which meant it was a good time to ask my boss for time to work a new job. I couldn’t really explain too much. Mayburn had a strict policy that I not talk to anyone about my private investigative jobs with him. I’d been forced to tell Maggie once before. But now, I planned to simply mention I had a gig with Mayburn, say little else and hope for the best. If I thought Maggie would have an issue with my time out of the office, I was wrong. “Oh, thank God.” She clapped. We were seated at her counsel’s table now, the state’s attorneys having gone to their lair in the other part of the building. “I’d love for you to work outside the firm for a bit.” “Really? You told me I needed to take more responsibility, and I know we don’t have a lot of time to spare....” “No, we do!” Maggie said. “What I meant when we talked was that eventually—like, when I go into labor—you’ll need to take more responsibility, but in the meantime, have at it. Enjoy yourself.” “Really?” This was the second time in the last year that one of my lawyer friends had suggested enjoying my professional life. Not everyone in the law enjoyed it, not even close, so I liked the reminder. “Absolutely,” Maggie said. “I need you to take time off and do whatever you want because when I have this baby—” she gestured toward her belly “—I need you to essentially manage the firm. Marty is going to come in for a while.” Marty was Martin Bristol, Maggie’s partner and grandfather. “But he’s pretty much retired, and you know more about our cases now than he does.” I nodded fast and swallowed hard now that she was getting specific about my upcoming responsibilities. A mood passed over me, almost a sense of dread. “You’re nervous,” Maggie said. “I guess I’m overwhelmed by the thought of managing a firm. One that I didn’t even work at a year ago. Not to mention the fact that I haven’t been practicing criminal law even a year.” I heard the anxious tone in my voice. “But I want to help, too. In any way. So I’m in.” Maggie and I had been there for each other since we met in law school. “You have been contributing,” Maggie said. “You’ve been great.” “But since I’m not a mom myself, there’s no advice I can give you.” Truth was, I still didn’t know if having kids would ever be for me. Maggie rolled her eyes again. “Thank God. Because I am so sick of mommy advice. It’s overwhelming.” She put her hand on her pregnant belly, draped in an empire-waist black dress. “But it’s reassuring to know you’re going to be at the office when I’m not.” “Are you just trying to make me feel better?” “Hell, no. I would be a nut job if it weren’t for you.” She paused, her eyes looked directly into mine. “So take the time you need. Now.” “Okay, good,” I said. “Thanks.” I nodded at the bench. “How was your judge for the case?” “Good. But if we lose we are so screwed. You know what they call him?” “What?” “Father Time.” “Long sentences if there’s a guilty verdict?” “Yep. Looonnnng.” She sighed. “So, since you’re not going to be at the firm much in the meantime, where are you going to be?” “Michigan Avenue. That’s about all I can tell you.” “When do you start?” “Tonight, if it’s cool with you.” “Go get ’em, Iz.” 3 Much had been made of typography, but Madeline Saga had always viewed such art from a bit of a distance, never able to get too attached to an image comprised of letters or words. She usually felt that either the words selected or the final images were weak. She recalled a piece she’d seen in a Chelsea gallery, where one word appeared across the top of the canvas—FIRE. Throughout the rest of the canvas, the same word was turned over and over, sometimes right side up, other times facing backward. The repeated word formed a bloodred rose. Madeline supposed she understood the juxtaposition between the vaguely alarming word and the sweet flower. A rose was sometimes a sign of love, and love could be very electric and volatile—like fire. Madeline knew that well enough. But still, the result was too feeble for her. She’d often thought that maybe she wasn’t a literary person, maybe words just weren’t her thing. But now, sitting in her office behind the gallery, it was different. She looked at her computer screen, at her own gallery’s website and an image she had placed there—a photo of Dudlin’s Eight Days, a sketch she’d sold after she moved to this new gallery space. Eight Days was displayed on the gallery’s Past Works page. She liked to visit all the works she’d once owned, liked to see the comments below them, to behold what the world was saying about the pieces she’d sold or collected. But not now. She’d read these particular comments too many times. The words blurred until she forced herself to slow the panicked movement of her eyes and read one word at a time—each word, in black, appearing in a separate horizontal row. They were just words, just comments, but they struck her as a kind of typographic art. Perhaps she finally understood the power of that type of work. Madeline dialed up the brightness on her computer, alternately gazing at the image of Eight Days and the comments under it, the white spaces littered with terrifying insinuations. Some targeted the artist, and those angered her. But what scared her were the ones pointed toward her. The computer screen seemed to pulse as she stared at it. The screen seemed to gain heat. Finally, she hit the print button and waited for the two pages to come out of the printer—one showing the Dudlin piece that she’d sold, the other the comments beneath it. She stared cautiously, suspiciously, at the printer. Recently, she’d come into her office in the morning and found pages waiting in the printer tray. Always they were pages she’d viewed before—art from some of the artists she’d worked with, pieces sold by other galleries—and yet she didn’t recall printing them. Startled. Haunted. That was how she felt when she saw the pages waiting for her. She’d mentioned this to a few people, who’d suggested perhaps she’d had a glass of wine too many or smoked too much pot. But although Madeline did drink and sometimes smoked, she never did so to excess. Spirits and drugs didn’t ignite her like they did other people. Now, not wanting to think about the mystery of finding those pages, needing to get away from her office, she took the pages she’d printed and walked into the main space of the gallery. On a far wall hung a massive canvas, depicting a woman at two different times of the day and in two different eras. The first was a morning image harkening back to the early 1900s. The background was painted the pink-grapefruit color of morning and showed the woman in a cream-colored nightgown, thick and comforting. The second image was of a blue-black contemporary evening, the woman now wearing a white negligee, her skin golden against the sheer white fabric, her nipples black beneath it. In front of the painting, far back enough to gain perspective, Madeline had placed a navy-colored chaise lounge, made to resemble the one in the evening part of the painting. She sat on the chaise now and glanced at the print-out depicting Eight Days, which was a charcoal sketch of four street images. The sketch had been glazed with resin, giving it a vivid, sparkling finish that seemed to awaken the street images, seemed to call them to life. Madeline flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and switched the sheets of paper in her hands so she could read the page with the comments. Since some art aficionados thought Sir Arthur Dudlin had been lazy in using simple charcoal and then “tossing” glaze on it, Madeline hadn’t been surprised when she’d read the first comment months before. Dudlin, it said, gentleman though he was, faced the greatest challenge to an artist—age. And he did not fare well. “Poor Dudlin,” she had said when she first saw that note, then scoffed. She had known the artist well at the end of his life, had an immense respect for him. She’d even been the muse for another one of his sparkling charcoals. She had been irritated at how discourteous that comment had been. But it was the more recent comment that plagued her. As she read it, she felt something roil through her stomach—something hot, something angry. One hand held the pages, the other was on the navy chaise longue as if to brace herself for another reading, hoping she had been too hasty and judgmental the first few times around. The comment was from someone else, who posted anonymously under the name ArtManners. Dudlin, it read, not only aged at the end of his life, he went into a different profession—that of manager. He didn’t create art any longer. He issued directives to his assistants, who replicated his glazed charcoal pieces, then allowed the master to pass them off as his own. She braced herself for the next few lines. Check your Dudlin if you have one. Especially if you bought it from this gallery. There were two more lines, but she couldn’t bring herself to read them again. Madeline put the pages at the foot of the chaise and scooted back until she was reclining, far away from the comments. Thankfully, no one was in the gallery. Thankfully, John Mayburn was sending Isabel McNeil. 4 “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking the hand of Madeline Saga. She was, as Mayburn had described her to me, a tiny, luminous Japanese woman with skin that seemed almost pearly. Her intent brown eyes were strangely bright, almost as if they could actually feel, as if they had senses other than sight. “Lovely to meet you, too,” she said in a quiet yet strong voice. I looked around the gallery. It was almost triangular in shape, housed in a corner of the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue. Inside, the space had blond wood floors, white walls and white columns. “This is wonderful,” I said. “Thank you. Very much.” She looked around the room as if appreciating it herself. “Let me show you around.” With every step, the gallery was a surprise. First, she showed me a miniature stamp, decorated in an Indian sort of pattern, surrounded by a matte a thousand times bigger than it was, taking up half of a wall. Next, she pointed out a sculpture that looked like ice cubes with silvery insides, next to an ice bucket with real ice inside. “An installation,” Madeline said. “Interesting,” I said, looking at it. “What strikes you?” she asked. “I’m not sure. I guess it’s the combination of the real and the not real.” “But do we ever know?” Madeline asked in a musing voice. Then she added, “Nearly anything can be art. Most art simply shows different ways of looking at life, or a part of it.” Next was something more traditional and I adored it on sight. It showed a woman in side-by-side panels. It was clearly the same person, but the woman was portrayed in two different time periods. She was living two lives. I had felt very much the same over the last year and a half. “And then that piece of furniture?” I asked Madeline. I pointed again. “Ah, the chaise?” Madeline asked, her voice sounding lighter. “What do you think of it?” Her questions made me feel unsure. Aside from an art history class in college and visiting the Chicago museums every once in a while, I knew nothing about art or technique. And now here I was with a woman who had two master’s degrees, one in studio art, the other in art management, both from prestigious New York schools. She owned an art gallery, and according Mayburn, “lived for art and sex.” And yet Madeline looked at my face expectantly, with an eager expression. “The chaise looks exactly like the one in the painting with the woman in the negligee.” I pointed at it. “Yes.” Madeline wore a small smile. “I had the chaise made just as soon as the artist and I reached a deal for him to sell. He loved the idea. It’s an honor for me to be able to contribute.” “I know very little about art,” I said, “but I was thinking that your gallery is full of wonderful surprises—the matte that’s so much bigger than the stamp, the real ice cubes that you must have to refresh, the exact piece of furniture from the painting.” “Isabel,” she said, gently interrupting me. Although I’d told her to called me Izzy, she hadn’t taken to the name. And Isabel sounded wonderful coming from her lush mouth, ripe with a purplish gloss. “Isabel, you say you do not know art. But you know love. I can tell that.” I paused, about to ask her what she meant. But then I let the answer float up. “Yes,” I said. “I know love.” “Well, then.” She softly grasped my upper arm. “You know art.” I didn’t know precisely what to say. Or to think. I could only notice that even through my suit coat, I felt something electric. Or was it just what Mayburn had said about the Saga drawing energy? We walked around the gallery some more, often in silence as Madeline gave me time to look at each piece. Sometimes, she asked my opinion (“or just your feeling”). Once, when we reached a sculpture, she said, “An Italian designer. What do you think of it?” The piece was about two feet tall by two feet wide, a delicate iron tree painted in a shiny black, its leaves green jewels. “I think it’s stunning.” She smiled, gave a single nod. Madeline kept showing me around the gallery, and I watched as she talked about the art. As she spoke, her face seemed to acquire a peach glow and her eyes brightened. She was, I thought, an incredibly sexy woman. I could see why Mayburn had been mad for her. But then suddenly she stopped. “May I show you something?” There was a different tone to her voice now. “Of course.” I looked around the gallery, wondering what surprise was in store next. But Madeline turned and began walking toward the back. She wore high, nude-colored patent heels that made only the lightest tap, tap, tap on the floor. I followed her, noticing that my own heels seemed to clump, clump, clump compared to hers. The space behind the gallery, like that in front, had high ceilings and white walls. But where the front had been spacious, back here it was tidily packed. Slotted shelves held framed paintings and stretched canvases. Undisplayed, the artworks seemed diminished, whereas out front the art was allowed to breathe, to be surrounded by space and light, letting it shine, letting its viewer see it in many different ways. In front, the sculptures might sit atop a pedestal, as the jeweled tree had done, lit perfectly. Here, a small sculpture made of bronze bricks sat on a file cabinet. Another sculpture was on top of the refrigerator. Off to the side was a small office. On a table in the center of the room was a white laptop. We sat and Madeline pulled her chair close to mine, her laptop in front of us. She pulled up a website. “It’s your gallery site,” I said. “Yes,” Madeline said. “I have photos of nearly all our artwork on the site. I like to make it as interactive as possible. One of the features is the ability to comment freely on any piece of art.” She clicked to a page of tiny images, all showing various artwork. She clicked on one—gray on a white canvas, depicting four sketches of some urban landscape, the whole thing glossed to a high sheen. “It’s a very interesting piece by Sir Arthur Dudlin,” Madeline said. “I can tell you more about it later. But this is what I want to show you. The comments I received.” I read the first one—something about the artist getting older but not better. I stopped reading and looked at Madeline. “Do you have approval on the comments, so you can authorize them before they appear?’ She shook her head. “I despise censorship. I feel with deep conviction that response to art is as important as the art itself.” Madeline showed me the next comment. Dudlin not only aged at the end of his life…. Check your Dudlin if you have one. Especially if you bought it from this gallery. I stopped reading and pointed at the sentence about checking a Dudlin artwork. “Is this the first indication you had that something might have been forged?” “The first public one,” Madeline said, her voice thin. “But it’s the last few lines that disturb me most.” I looked at the last two lines. Madeline Saga makes everything she touches rotten. She obliterates. “Obliterates,” Madeline said. “Obliterates. I don’t understand that. I try to bring things to life. I bring art to the world.” “Do you have any idea what they mean in context with you?” “No.” She sounded bereft. I wanted to comfort her, but I had no idea how one would do that with Madeline Saga. I looked at the comment again, then at Madeline. “I think it’s time to enable your approval settings on these comments.” Madeline’s face was distressed. “Let me run it by Mayburn.” I texted him what I wanted to do, and he agreed. But Madeline didn’t move when I told her that. “Do you want me to handle it?” I asked. Finally, Madeline nodded, gave me her passwords and watched in silence as I adjusted the controls of her website comment section and deleted those about the Dudlin. I was just about done when the sound of a bell startled me. “That’s the front door,” Madeline said softly. But she still gazed at the space on the screen where the comments had been; she was staring into it as if it were a long tunnel, one where she could somehow see many things. And those things—whatever they were—were deeply disturbing to her. “Let me go see who it is,” I said, since Madeline wasn’t moving. I was glad to have something official to do for my new job. She looked at me. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, as if someone hadn’t helped her with anything for a long time. “But no, I’ll come with you. And Isabel, I don’t mean to be difficult but…Mayburn has suggested that you’ve had a lively few years.” I looked at her, unsure where she was going with this. “I was wondering if we could give you an alias. Perhaps we call you Isabel or Izzy Smith. I wouldn’t want anyone to search you on the internet and find out you’re really a lawyer and not an art dealer. It might raise more questions than I can answer right now.” “Of course. I should have already thought of that.” I stood and began to follow her out the door. But, one more time, she looked back to the computer screen, and somehow I could tell that she was pondering that one word—obliterates. 5 As I reached the front of the gallery, I felt the Chicago wind curling inside. I wrapped my arms around myself instinctively but I noticed that Madeline did the opposite. She faced the door, arms at her sides, her body somehow moving outward, stretching to its limits as if opening itself to whatever those winds brought. A woman had stepped inside. “Lina!” she called. The woman wore a peach-orange coat that looked like soft cashmere and an ivory scarf that surrounded her face. She was one of those women, like my mom’s friend Cassandra, whose age was impossible to tell—forty-five? Or a well-preserved sixty? She was lovely and elegant, her face smooth, so either seemed possible. Madeline introduced her to me. “Jacqueline Stoddard,” Madeline said. “This is my new gallery assistant, Isabel.” “Oh, a new assistant. Welcome.” She shook my hand. “Lovely to meet you.” She looked at Madeline. “Speaking of assistants, how is Syd?” “Syd is doing well, thank you. I’ll tell him you asked after him.” “Please do,” Jacqueline said. “Listen, I stopped in because I wanted to see if you have any of Roberto’s work. I’ve got a client who is looking.” “Wait here and I’ll see.” Madeline gestured to me to follow her to the back room of the gallery again. In the manner of a professor, Madeline walked to a high cabinet made with long, thin drawers and began to lecture. “These hold some of the canvases from our artists that haven’t been framed,” she said. “Jacqueline is looking for a Roberto Politico. Her gallery is on the other side of Michigan Avenue. Much more traditional, but occasionally we represent the same artists. She knows Roberto favors me, since I’m his Chicago gallery. She thinks that it will upset me that she might sell one of his.” “But it doesn’t?” I asked, watching her slip on a pair of thin, white gloves and flip through some of the canvases. “No, no of course not. Jacqueline is competitive with me, as many gallery owners are, because they think differently.” “What do you mean?” “This is my passion, to show the world these beautiful things, to make people shift how they view the world. So it makes no difference to me who gets them out there. I simply hope for distribution.” We said nothing for a second. I watched her remove two canvases, one predominantly orange and one mustard-colored. They both bore tiny slashes in the paint to form a profile of a woman. “Jacqueline called you Lina,” I said. “Did I hear correctly?” “Yes, she did.” She put the canvases on a tall table. “I’m not sure where that came from. She started calling me Madelina, and then she just sort of shortened it to Lina.” Madeline gave a casual shrug. A moment later, we were back in the gallery’s main space and Madeline placed the canvases on a glass table. She and Jacqueline discussed the merits of each painting, the subtleties, while I tried to absorb the conversation. There was clearly a dialogue, they said, between the two paintings, but Jacqueline’s client was only interested in one, for a spot in a hallway that had certain measurements. Also, Jacqueline said, the artwork had to complement an eighteenth-century yellow Chinese vase. They launched into a discussion of prices. Seventy-eight thousand dollars, Madeline said. That was as low as she could go. I blinked at the two women. A seventy-eight thousand dollar painting, that’s not even framed, that’s going to be in a hallway next to a yellow vase? I had a lot to learn about the art world. “Well, let me know about the paintings,” Madeline was saying to Jacqueline. Then she turned to me. “And I am taking you out for a welcome drink tonight.” There was no question there, just a statement. Luckily, I had lots of time on my hands lately since I was sans boyfriend. “Love to,” I said. I expected her to invite Jacqueline, and from the vaguely anticipatory expression on Jacqueline’s face, she might have been looking for the same. But Madeline only repeated, “Let me know about the paintings,” then walked Jacqueline to the door. 6 “I love this place we’re going to,” Madeline said when we were in the cab. Now, as we walked in, I could see why. The interior was like the pearly pink inside of a shell, the walls curved, the lights trailing around and up and down in ways I’ve never seen light displayed before. I could see a bar at the back of the place. Like Madeline’s gallery table, it looked as if it was made of clear glass. In front of the bar were acrylic stools with gray cushions. It was like a cave—but instead of being dark and foreboding, this cave was softly light-filled and soothing. I looked at Madeline. “Where did you find this place?” The small club was called Toi, which was a New Zealand Maori word, Madeline said, that referred to art, as well as the source of art. It was on a strange street, west of Halsted and one or two blocks north of Chicago Avenue. A few blocks away was Fulton Market, once the meatpacking district of the city. Now, Fulton Market contained fine restaurants and bars, shops, galleries and hip office buildings. But here, around Toi, the streets were dead, an odd collection of vacant lots, a random house or two and a few monolithic brick buildings that looked as if they contained storage units. Apparently, even no-man’s land in Chicago could still offer up a little treasure like Toi. A happy energy seeming to swirl around the building, despite the lackluster architecture. Ahead of us, an invisible cloud of laughter billowing out into the air. Madeline stopped short. “Amaya?” She sounded surprised. “Hello, Madeline,” the woman said, in a low but trilling voice. She was Asian, her dark hair in a severe cut—bangs straight across, the ends also bluntly cut at her shoulders. Her black eyes bore a wary quality, as if they were set farther back in her face in order to watch the world closely, suspiciously. Madeline pulled her fur collar tighter around her neck. “I didn’t think I’d see you until Friday.” Madeline looked at me. “Amaya and I take a weaving class together on Friday.” “Yes.” Amaya sighed. “If I can get myself together to get there. My little boy is sick right now, and I don’t know if he’ll be better by then.” Amaya was tinier than Madeline, and she had a very slinky quality. “What were you doing here?” Madeline asked. “Jasper brought me. You know I bought another one of his sculptures.” She paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t purchase it from you. When he switched galleries…” “No, of course.” Madeline shook her head. “I know you must be devastated.” “Not at all,” Madeline said. “Jasper remains a dear friend of mine.” “Well, as dear as someone can be when they’ve left you,” Amaya said. “I’ve got to relieve my sitter.” She swished past us, a small sea of black clothes and hair. “Goodbye, Madeline.” Again that low, rolling voice. A young blonde woman came to Madeline and greeted her warmly, hugging her. Madeline introduced us, and she shook hands with me. “Muriel,” she said, and I had the brief thought that it was an old name for such a youthful and very beautiful woman. “I’m the manager here,” she said. “As a friend of Madeline’s, we welcome you. Anything we can bring you—anything at all—let me know.” She spoke with a grace that belied her years. I thanked her, and she walked Madeline and me farther into the club to a table near the back. When she reached it, Muriel whisked a reserved sign off with a flourish and gave a sort of head bow toward Madeline. I noticed how everyone in Madeline’s life liked to contribute to the art of being her. “Madeline,” Muriel said, as we slipped into the satiny booth. “A number of people are here hoping you would come in tonight.” Madeline looked around, waved and smiled in a few directions. “Everyone is going to want to say hello,” Muriel said. “If you’ll have them?” “Please say hello to Jasper for me, but otherwise not just yet,” Madeline said. “Isabel is my new assistant, and we have much to talk about.” “Of course, of course,” Muriel said. “I’ll send over some of your signature cocktails. Don’t worry about anything.” Off she walked. “So that woman, Amaya,” I said. “You’re friends?” “I wouldn’t call it that. We met in the weaving class I mentioned. She bought a few pieces from me. But she seems to resent me for some reason.” Madeline loosed her fur scarf and tossed her black shiny hair over her shoulder. “Or perhaps I resent her....” Madeline appeared open to both possibilities. “Is she someone to think about regarding your—” I glanced around, knowing we were in the midst of Madeline’s community “—your situation?” She shook her head. “No, I can’t imagine.” “What about Jasper, whom she mentioned?” Madeline tossed the other side of her hair. She nodded across the room toward a group of men. “Jasper is a wonderful artist. In many ways, we had a somewhat typical artist/gallery relationship. I discovered him. Eventually, he felt he needed to grow farther than my wing span and I let him go. It’s perfectly natural.” “And Jasper feels good about it?” “Yes.” “Did Jasper or Amaya ever have any access to your gallery or house?” “Never.” “Madeline, I have to ask. If someone stole the paintings from your gallery, it would take time to forge them and replace them. Wouldn’t you notice that something was missing?” “Well, I don’t often purchase oil paintings—those take forever to truly dry. Also, I often have many works that are not yet stretched or framed stored in the back room of my gallery. If someone was able to remove them from my gallery, I would not necessarily notice right away. I have others in my house.” “Anyone have keys to your house?” Madeline shook her head. “There’s a doorman, so I’ve never given anyone extra keys.” “Mayburn mentioned that you’ve noticed doors open at your home.” “Yes. Sometimes it’s my home studio, which I always close because of the chemicals. Sometimes it’s a closet door that’s open, one I rarely go into.” “Could it be the doormen?” “I’ve asked and they said, ‘Of course not.’ I’ve asked my cleaning person, and she denies opening those doors, as well.” She shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.” I hoped so. But something made me doubt it. The waitress delivered our drinks. It turned out that Madeline’s signature cocktail was a lychee martini—a glass with a cloudy, whitish liquid and a cocktail stick speared with two round, gelatinous-looking fruit—the lychee. I took a sip and moaned, “Shut the front door!” Madeline looked confused, so I explained. “It’s my way of saying ‘shut the fuck up.’ I’m trying desperately not to swear, but like my friend Maggie is fond of pointing out, I almost always end up saying the swearwords anyway.” Madeline laughed. “Have you ever tasted anything like this drink?” I took another sip. “No! It’s delicious.” I put it on the table to stop myself from guzzling it. Madeline and I started talking then, and the conversation flowed easily even though the topics we broached weren’t always so easy. We talked about what a shock it had all been for her—finding out about the thefts, the forgeries, how she thought she might still be a bit in shock. She spoke about seeing the comments on her website. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, Madeline didn’t seem to view it as something to fill. In fact, I’m not sure she knew what a “lull” was. Instead, she glanced around the club, serene, a small smile on her face, the sight clearly bringing her enjoyment. I made a few stabs at conversation during these times, but unless we stumbled onto something that made her eyes light up, Madeline had little taste for trivial conversation. Unlike most Chicagoans, she couldn’t even be drawn into a discussion about the weather. “It is cold,” she acknowledged when I tried, then said nothing further. In her serenity, I found calm, too; it made me look around and just…notice. The next time I spoke, I chose my words carefully. “I’m really glad to have met you, Madeline.” She looked at me, her face breaking from enjoyment to joy. “You, too, Isabel. You, too.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “It’s funny,” I said. “Because I’ve heard about you from Mayburn.” Madeline looked at me in sort of a curious way. “You call him by his last name.” “Yeah. Always have.” She gave a little laugh. “Mayburn. It seems such a tough name for him.” “Well,” I said, shrugging, “Mayburn is a tough guy. As far as I know.” But Madeline didn’t seem to share my assessment. “John is a sweetheart,” was all she said. I blinked a few times. “Sweetheart sounds like a brother/sister relationship.” She nodded. “That’s what it became.” I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows. I knew that Mayburn viewed Madeline as a great love of his life, second only to Lucy. She seemed to read my look. “That’s what it became…for me,” she said, clarifying. “Why is that?” “In part because I’m an only child. I was adopted.” “When you were a baby?” “Yes. My parents are blonds from Wisconsin.” She smiled as she thought of them. “But my dad did a lot of work in Japan. That’s where they adopted me from.” “Do you know your birth family?” She shook her head. “They did give me a gift once.” She smiled. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.” “How long did you and Mayburn date?” I asked. “Years?” “Six months,” Madeline said. “Is that it?” Mayburn had made it seem longer, or maybe it was the way he remembered it, the way he gave it import. Suddenly it dawned on me that the people I considered of great importance in my life—Theo, Sam—might not think of me the same way. Sam, for example, I hadn’t seen or spoken to in months. For all I knew, he was once again with Alyssa, his ex-high school girlfriend. Maybe Sam felt, now, that I was a swerve, something he’d veered around before getting back to his first love. And Theo—we’d dated about the same amount of time as Mayburn and Madeline. Right now, he’d told me, he simply couldn’t be in a relationship. Theo, an only child, had been close with his parents. But recently, some disturbing events had Theo questioning not only himself but everyone around him. I understood such issues well. I understood that Theo needed to hide to lick his wounds. Who knew what—or who—was important to him at this moment. “How did you and Mayburn decide he would work on your case?” I asked to pull my thoughts away. “I told John what was happening—he’s one of a handful of people I’ll talk to when I’m deeply upset.” I wondered who the others were. “And then John insisted he look into the matter,” she said. “Because he knows how important the gallery is to you.” She nodded. “Talking about how he feels like a brother now, when I know he didn’t feel the same, makes me sound so cavalier with my relationship with him.” “He was pretty hurt,” I said, then immediately regretted it. Mayburn would kill me if he’d heard me say that. “Actually he was just sorta hurt,” I said, reducing Mayburn’s pain factor. “Of course,” she said, shaking her head back and forth. “He had bought a house he wanted us to live in.” “The one in Lincoln Square.” “Yes. And that’s when I knew we had different ideas about what our lives would be. I’m not a Lincoln Square kind of person.” “I can see that.” Historically, Lincoln Square was a predominantly German neighborhood. Much of that heritage was preserved in bars like the Chicago Brauhaus and Huettenbar. The streets surrounding Lincoln Avenue, the main thoroughfare, were populated mostly with wood-frame, single family houses. Wonderful cafes from other regions, as well as cute boutiques and bookshops, now flourished there, too. Still, the hood was more “livable city” than “urban city.” Madeline Saga wasn’t the type to live there. “I was so shocked that he didn’t understand the life he was planning would never be me,” Madeline said. “That fact surprised me so much, hurt me so much, I just broke up with him. Just like that. And now I’m shamed by my cruelty.” I reached over the table. Now it was my turn to pat her hand. “Don’t worry about it. He’s wonderful. He’s got a girlfriend, the kids, and obviously he still thinks well of you since he wanted to do this job for you.” She looked up at me, a considering expression on her face. “John had children?” she said, the words disclosing shock. “No, no. He’s dating someone who has kids. She’s great. So don’t worry about him.” “No,” she said. “I suppose not.” She waved at a passing waiter who soon returned with another round of lychee martinis. “Tell me about you, Isabel,” Madeline said. “How do you know John?” I told her my fianc? had experienced “some problems.” The topic of Sam’s disappearance more than a year ago seemed a little much for our first night out, so I only disclosed that I’d met Mayburn through that situation. “Now we’re friends.” “He is an excellent friend.” I nodded. “And where do you live, Isabel?” “Old Town.” I told her about the three-flat condo building I lived in. I was on the top floor, which was a drag because of the stairs but also a joy because of the private roof deck. “And this…” She gestured around the bar. “Is this the type of place you would go to with friends?” “I grew up in Chicago. In the city. So I have an affinity for dive bars.” “Dive bars!” she said, sounding delighted. We talked about the city then, about how Chicago had changed so very much, had become, in some ways much more metropolitan, and yet it was still the same hard-working Midwest town it had always been. Another round of lychee cocktails appeared. Madeline beamed and thanked the waiter. “To Chicago.” She lifted her glass in a toast. I did the same. “To Chicago,” I said, clinking her glass lightly, trying not to slosh the drink. The truth was, I was getting a little sloshed. We both took a sip, then Madeline excused herself and left the table, heading toward the restroom. I sat and let myself just notice, as I’d watched Madeline do over the last hour or so. I thought about Madeline. I was impressed with the way she was handling the forgery. I could tell it deeply distressed her, and yet despite that, she still allowed herself to enjoy her life when she could. About five minutes passed, during which I contentedly sat. Then I began to look around the crowd. Madeline had said that many people from the art world—artists, managers, gallery owners, collectors, print makers, art writers—could be found there. Another five minutes passed. When the waitress came, I asked for a glass of water. I wanted to stay a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to stop basking in the light that was Madeline’s attention when she shined it on you. The water was delivered. More time passed. No Madeline. I looked at my phone—no texts or calls from her. I got up and went to the restroom, but she wasn’t there, either. I walked around the club, scanning the crowd. It was small and quickly evident that she wasn’t to be found. When I returned to our table, Muriel came up. “How was your night?” “Delightful,” I answered. “I love your place. I wouldn’t have known about it if it wasn’t for Madeline.” “Madeline,” Muriel repeated with a smile. “Isn’t she incredible?” I nodded quickly. “She is.” “She paid the bill,” Muriel said, “so stay and enjoy yourself as long as you want. Let us know if we can get anything for you.” She smiled beatifically. It was only then I realized Madeline was gone. 7 As I left the club, two doormen stood there, both huge, dressed in shearling coats and hats. “Hi guys,” I said. “Did you see a woman leave here recently?” “Uh, yeah,” one said, and I could tell he wanted to add, duh. Muriel had said she didn’t know why Madeline left, but that nothing had seemed odd. Madeline had told them to put everything on her tab, and that was that. “She’s a Japanese woman,” I said to the bouncers. Neither responded. “She’s really beautiful,” I said. “Lotta pretty women here,” the other bouncer said. I thanked them and left, stepping onto the sidewalk. Like a dark painting, the canvas outside was mostly black. Steel charcoal-gray beams slashed back and forth overhead, carrying lit boxes—the El train carting people east and west. Aside from the train, the neighborhood was desolate, very few cars. Suddenly I wondered if Madeline was sick. Could that be why she had left so quickly? I walked up the block, looking in alleys. No sign of her. I walked back, past the club and down a few blocks, doing the same thing. I was thankful I didn’t find her throwing up in an alley, but I was still worried. I pulled my phone out of my purse. I texted, Hi, it’s Izzy. You okay? I paced the sidewalk again, hoping for a reply. An occasional car passed. It had snowed a little since we were inside, and the tires from each car shot a little spray of slush onto the street. I tried calling her. Nothing. I tried again. This time I left a message. Hi Madeline. Sounds like you left. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Can you call me? I couldn’t shake what she had described—feeling like someone had been in her place. One more round of pacing the sidewalk, then I decided it was time to go. I started searching for a cab but saw none. I was making my way back to the club, to ask the doormen for help, when a sudden flurry of white and blue pulled to the curb. A Chicago police car. The front door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a big gray jacket, bulky, not because he was fat but because he was wearing a bulletproof vest. You got used to the look in Chicago. He turned to me. And I got a flash of a memory. I opened my mouth. I could find only one word. “Vaughn.” 8 Neither of them noticed anyone but each other that night, not Madeline or the redhead. For nearly two hours they talked, a friendship seeming to grow on the spot. How easy it was for Madeline to connect with people when she wanted. It was always about what she wanted. They drank the martinis Madeline loved, their camaraderie, their growing interest in each other obvious. Then the redhead was alone. She was looking around, apparently for Madeline, who had been gone from the table for quite a while. It was almost laughable. At least someone else was being treated badly by Madeline Saga, being ignored and made to feel as if they were nothing. So, really, it wasn’t surprising that neither of the women had noticed someone watching them. But the cop who had shown up? That had been a surprise. The redhead was walking up and down the street when the police car had arrived. She and the cop talked, then the redhead got into the car. What had the woman done? And yet, the redhead hadn’t been handcuffed. Was she being taken in for some kind of questioning? Could this be about what was going on with Madeline’s art? What was going on here? A short time ago, just inside the club, there had been amusement that someone else was being treated poorly by Madeline Saga. And yet now there was only fear, a sense of being out of control. There was a measure of relief when the police car pulled away. 9 “This is my first time in the back of a cop car,” I said. Vaughn had offered me a ride home. Since there was a dearth of cabs, I agreed. But I had to ride in the back. “Protocol,” he’d said. From the front, I heard Vaughn scoff. “Seems like you would have seen a lot of that real estate back there.” “Excuse me?” “Yeah,” he said, “for all the trouble you find yourself in.” “Excuse me?” I repeated. “I do not find trouble.” That was untrue, but I wasn’t about to admit anything to Detective Damon Vaughn. Detective Vaughn had made my life hell a couple of times—first when Sam had disappeared and second when he’d suspected me of killing one of my friends. In a stroke of brilliant luck (or maybe just the gods in my universe doling out some karma) I’d gotten the chance to cross-examine him at a trial recently. And let’s just say it was the best cross of my career. We’d mended fences after that, even shared a couple of cocktails. But the fact remained that no one could irk me like Vaughn. “Why do you always have to be so nasty?” I asked. “I’m not. I’m just stating the truth. You get in a lot of trouble.” “Oh, fork you, I do not!” Again, I was shading the truth. Trouble did find me, but I didn’t usually bring it upon myself. At least, to my mind. “You could have gotten into some trouble at that bar,” Vaughn pointed out. “That’s why I showed up there.” “What do you mean?” I asked the back of Vaughn’s head as he turned the car on Franklin Street. His hair was shot through with gray, but he was one of those guys who had a lot of hair, probably always would. “The owner is a buddy of mine,” Vaughn said. “He calls me when he’s got issues but doesn’t want to involve 911. He had an issue tonight.” “What kind of issue?” “Suspected prostitution.” “Really? Yeah, I guess that’s a good way for a bar owner to get closed down—having girls making money that way.” Vaughn stopped at a light, turned around. He had a rugged face and brown eyes. Those eyes were squinting at me. He shook his head. “You’re the girl he thought was trying to make money that way.” “What?” “He said that they had this girl walking up and down the street over and over, as if she was looking for someone. In general, that’s pretty indicative. That’s why they call it ‘street-walking.’” “My friend was gone,” I said. “I was looking for her! She just disappeared without saying anything. She paid the bill, but I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have let me know she was leaving. I was afraid she was sick or something.” The light turned green and Vaughn shrugged, turned around and drove through it. We remained quiet for a few blocks. “Tell me what happened with your friend,” I heard Vaughn say. I felt a shiver of relief for the help. I told him about the night. As I spoke, I took out my phone. Still no texts or calls from Madeline. “So what do you think?” I asked, when I’d finished. Another shrug from Vaughn. “What’s she like?” “Unique.” I told him what I knew of Madeline Saga, what I’d learned and noticed about her since I met her. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said. “Really?” “She probably got boozed up and took a header.” “What’s a header?” “When you realize you’re wasted and have to put yourself to bed, and you just leave because you don’t want people talking you out of it, and you’re in no shape to say goodbyes. It’s usually a guy thing.” “She wasn’t wasted.” “When are you supposed to see her next?” “Tomorrow.” “Call me if she’s doesn’t show.” Eventually Vaughn turned up North Avenue, heading east, then turned left on Sedgwick and another left at my street, Eugenie. He pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. “Well,” I said, “you certainly seem to know exactly where my house is.” I noticed immediately that a fair amount of sarcasm had come out with my words. What was it about Damon Vaughn that got under my skin? He turned around, his face a snarl of irritability. “Listen, McNeil, I was at your house recently for a couple of break-ins. Remember? And, wait, oh yeah, a murder.” He had a good point. My neighbor had been killed last year in my apartment, and Vaughn had soon been on the scene, taking care of it. “So yeah, I remember where your place is,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.” He sounded not so much irritable now as he did hurt. “I’m not saying you’re an idiot. I’m sorry if it sounded like that.” Nothing from Vaughn. I opened the door. “Hey, I’m grateful for the ride. Thanks.” He picked up his hand as if to wave goodbye, but he didn’t turn around. “Really,” I said. “Thanks.” A pause, then, “No problem, McNeil.” And that, I supposed, was the best relationship Detective Damon Vaughn and I were going to have. 10 I woke up the next morning to the sound of my cellphone. I hadn’t turned it off in the hope that Madeline would call. The display read, Charlie. Cell. My brother. In days of yore, the sight of a call from my brother first thing in the morning would have induced fear. For years and years, he lived off a worker’s comp settlement and nursed a back injury. He regularly slept until two in the afternoon, giving himself a solid three hours before he would open a bottle of red wine. But in the last year, he’d landed a job in radio and then branched into other sound-production projects. “How are you?” I answered. “I’m fine.” That wasn’t a surprise. Charlie was always fine. He was one of those people—admittedly the only one I knew—who was always, generally, content. “But it’s Dad,” Charlie said then. Another little shock. Our father had returned to our lives, and to Chicago, only six months ago. So the word dad was a bit jarring. That word had been used when Charlie and I were kids, but once our dad disappeared, with no one else. We had grown up believing he had died, but in truth he had gone undercover to protect us. We’d always called our eventual stepfather, Spence, by his first name. Another little recognition settled in. This was the first time, strangely, that my brother and I had talked, just the two of us, about my father directly. It was as if we were both feeling our way in the world of having a father again, neither wanting to disturb the other’s development, both of us knowing, somewhere deep within, that we both had our own journeys. “He’s thinking about leaving,” Charlie said. “Leaving?” “Moving. Out of Chicago.” “When did you hear this?” “Last night. Met him for dinner.” Both Charlie and I had been trying to have regular visits with our father, trying to help incorporate his new life in Chicago into ours. Even our mom and Spence had done the same. But the fact was, Christopher McNeil was not a social animal. If anything, he was a loner. He’d left Chicago long ago to save his family and spent most of his life abroad. “What did he say?” I asked. “Not much. You know how he is.” “Yeah.” “I asked him a few more questions, but I didn’t get too far.” I tried to let Charlie’s news travel from my ears to my mind and from there to my heart and gut to see what I felt. But there were all sorts of blockages, too many feelings and wrong-way turns. For so long, I had kept my father compartmentalized. I didn’t know what to feel about this news. In the meantime, I needed to get to the gallery. I needed to find out where Madeline had disappeared to. “I don’t know what to think, Charlie. I’ll have to call ya later.” When I walked in the gallery I was relieved to see that Madeline was there. She stood at the back, talking to a man about a series of photographic prints hanging on the wall. Each showcased a mocked-up magazine cover, the model in each representing different ways women are viewed—from mother to whore and so many other things in between. I didn’t think I understood the photographs, but I had been intrigued when Madeline showed them to me the day before. I went into the back room and was slipping my arms out of my coat when I heard the ding of the door opening—probably the client leaving—and then the sound of high heels clicking gently toward me. Madeline. When I turned to greet her, I expected an apology for her disappearing act. “Last night…” she said. I nodded, interested in her explanation. “Didn’t you say you wanted to meet someone?” “Someone…?” “A man. Someone to date.” I thought about it. “Yeah. I guess at some point in our discussion I did. I also said I thought I was fine being on my own, though.” “Well, anyway, I’ve got someone coming in for you,” Madeline said, sounding pleased. “What?” “Don’t worry about it.” She gave me a sly wink. I wasn’t sure I was ready to meet a possible new date, but I was still too distracted by the previous night to dwell on it with her. “Okay, but Madeline,” I said, hanging my coat on a rack, “what happened to you last night?” She stood by the file cabinet, her hand on the drawer. She turned. “What do you mean?” “You disappeared.” “What do you mean?” she repeated. “You got up, I assumed just to go the bathroom since you didn’t say goodbye, but instead—bam!—you were gone.” “Bam?” Madeline said, in a funny, slightly mocking tone. “Well, that’s how it felt, like suddenly you’d just disappeared.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Thanks for the drinks and everything, by the way. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I was worried.” “Of course,” she said. She opened a drawer, flipped through some files. “Isabel, I’m sorry. I do that sometimes.” “Do what?” “I find I’m done with the night, and I leave. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s a bad habit of mine. And I apologize.” Something struck me as slightly false about her words, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. Madeline sighed. “I find goodbyes to be pedestrian. They don’t add anything to life.” I wanted to ask her where she’d gone after she’d left the club—home?—but Madeline pulled out a file, then brought it to a table in the center of the room and opened it. Inside were photos of a sculpture of sorts, tall and oblong and made of white glass swirled with silver. The photos made me remember something. “My friend Maggie bought a sculpture last summer that was a little bit like this. At the Old Town Art Fair. Do you show there?” I looked at Madeline and saw her lips, encased today in a pale pink gloss, suddenly purse. “No,” she said. “I don’t.” The implication was clear—there was no chance she would show art at the Old Town Art Fair. I thought about the fair, which happened in Chicago every June. The nucleus was at the intersection of North and Wells. The fair spread from there spanning blocks and blocks in every direction, holding stands showing art work, sculpture, sketches, prints and furniture. “Those are local artists,” Madeline said. “You don’t represent anyone from Chicago?” “No, I do, it’s just that, in general, those artists are amateurs. I represent a different level of art.” She didn’t sound haughty about it, just matter of fact. “I didn’t always,” Madeline continued. “I began my career working with what’s called outsider art.” “Outsider art,” to my unknowledgeable ears sounded like art that was sold outside—like, say, at Old Town Art Fair. But Madeline clarified the concept for me. An outside artist, she said, was one who had no classical education in traditional channels. Instead, what was prized about great outsider art was its naivet?, which led, somehow, to pure aesthetic genius. She seemed in a reflective mood, so I stayed silent. “I liked the discovery and the thrill of finding outsider art,” she said, as she arranged the photos of the sculpture on the table. “I liked finding something no one else had realized was so wonderful. I opened a gallery in Bucktown showing original works. But eventually my tastes evolved and I got into secondary market work.” “What’s that?” “Put simply, it’s buying dead artists’ works from around the country and Europe.” The reason for getting into secondary art, she said, was not because she had some highbrow vision of what art should be. Rather, she became mesmerized by technique, by artists who had either studied their particular techniques for years or occasionally by current artists who had shown mastery of technique in a short time. From there, her tastes and her gallery had grown eclectically in all directions. “I like to just wait and see what happens,” she said. I could see again what Mayburn meant when he told me Madeline lived for her gallery. Madeline Saga lit up when she talked about art. Her eyes were wide with wonder, her words faster than their usual calm cadence. “Some of the brilliance of these artists,” she continued, “the professional brilliance—combined with their creativity…well, that, for me, is dazzling. I don’t often see that in street art.” I thought I understood what she meant. I told Madeline about the sculpture that Maggie bought at the art fair. It was round and made with white plaster, on which the artist had placed broken white tiles, forming a mosaic pattern. It was a perfect accent for Maggie’s sleek, light and modern South Loop apartment. Although maybe that would change, since Maggie was now living with Bernard, a Filipino professional musician, whose tastes tended toward a black-and-red Asian style. “This sculpture my friend bought cost around a hundred and fifty dollars,” I told Madeline. “So I suppose that’s different than—” I looked down at the pictures “—a sculpture such as this one.” “Yes. But of course, there are so many facets of art appreciation.” She lifted one of the photos to her face. “It isn’t simply about price. The price is based on the techniques employed, as I mentioned, but also on the complexity the art carries in its message. Then there’s also the question of whether it’s derivative of another artist.” “Like art that was recently painted but looks like an Andy Warhol,” I said, remembering something else I’d seen at an art fair. “Exactly,” Madeline said. “Thank you for teaching me about this.” “It is my distinct pleasure.” She paused and put a hand over mine that was on the table. Her hand felt so light, as if most of Madeline Saga was filled with air. We heard the trill of a bell then, indicating someone had come in the front door. “He’s here,” she said. “Who’s here?” Madeline clapped. “Let’s go.” 11 Madeline led me into the gallery. I stalled for a second, standing next to the jeweled tree sculpture, taking in the man who’d just entered. He was gorgeous. You could see that, even from the side. He appeared like any normal guy, wearing jeans and a brown velvety jacket and standing near the painting of the woman in two different times. But like Madeline, something was different in the air because of him. Something felt fun, electric. Or maybe it was Madeline’s reaction to him. “Isabel Smith,” she said, “this is Jeremy Breslin.” Jeremy Breslin turned, took some steps toward me and shook my hand. I looked up at him, and into bright, navy blue eyes. Mesmerizing. I started to pull my hand away, afraid that if I kept gazing into those eyes, I might say something silly. But he held on to my hand. He looked at me, very curiously. He’s looking at all of me. I don’t know why I thought that, but that’s what it felt like. Again, it reminded me of Madeline, the way she took in the whole of things. Madeline explained that Jeremy operated a hedge fund, that he was originally from Boston and his wife’s family had been clients of hers for years. During this introduction, Jeremy kept holding my hand. When Madeline stopped, he seemed to realize it and let my hand go. It felt cold without his touch. “My apologies for staring at you,” he said. Then, as if for explanation, “My first girlfriend was a redhead.” “Ah,” I said. “Well, you know the redhead rules.” He smiled. “What are the rules?” “Let me ask you this, that first girlfriend of yours—would you say she was your first love?” He nodded. “Yes.” “One of the rules says that if the first person you fell in love with was a redhead, or the first person you had…ah…you know, adult relations with was a redhead, then—” I shrugged “—you’ll always have a thing for redheads.” He laughed. “You’re right. I have a thing for redheads.” “Sounds like you’re doomed.” “Happily,” he said. “So, Isabel,” she said, “Jeremy is the one who—” She glanced around the gallery. No one else was there. “Jeremy,” she said, turning back to us, “is the one who discovered…” She cleared her throat. “Some improprieties with the paintings.” “Oh, the…?” I said. “Yes,” Madeline continued, “Jeremy was the one who discovered the issue of forgery from some work he had bought from my gallery.” “How?” I asked him. “I’m getting divorced, so we had to have our assets valued. My lawyer found an art appraiser to review what we’d collected.” “He determined you had fakes?” “Yes. At first, he told us that something was bothering him about the pigment on the piece, something he didn’t expect to see. He had it tested and found that the pigment hadn’t been available—didn’t even exist—when those pieces were done. It was very new. Therefore, they were forged.” “They? How many paintings were forged?” “Two.” “And you bought both of those from…” He nodded. “Both from me,” Madeline said, taking full responsibility. Madeline turned to Jeremy. “Isabel will be helping me at the gallery, so I wanted her to know everything.” “Of course,” Jeremy said. “Having you work here will be wonderful.” As he spoke, his eyes lighted on me again, and I felt some kind of current travel up my spine. I stopped myself from quivering visibly. I’m not really a quivering kind of girl, so the moment was odd. Jeremy held my eyes a little longer. If he was upset about discovering that some precious artwork had been forged, he didn’t show it. “Izzy.” He paused. “Is it okay if I call you Izzy?” I nodded. “That’s what most people call me.” “Even though ‘Isabel’ is much more beautiful,” Madeline added, smiling. Jeremy nodded. “Well.” He paused. “Izzy, this may seem a little quick, but could I take you out sometime? Just for a drink?” “Oh, I don’t know…” My eyes shot to Madeline. “You should!” Madeline said. “Jeremy has traveled everywhere, done so many things.” She took a few steps and put a friendly hand on his arm. “He’s a charming conversationalist. You can speak with him about anything. Absolutely anything.” It was those last two words, spoken firmly, that made me realize Madeline very much wanted me to go out with Jeremy. And even more importantly, to discuss the issue of the forged paintings with him. I looked back at Jeremy Breslin. “Tomorrow, perhaps?” he said. “I’d love to.” 12 Madeline Saga’s oddly shaped gallery was well situated for frequent walks past the place, either on Michigan Avenue on one side or on the narrow pedestrian mall on the other. Both provided large windows to see the artwork inside, of course, but also to see Madeline. These frequent, somewhat obsessive walks were an attempt to soothe ever-mounting emotions—toxic, hateful emotions—connected to Madeline Saga. From inside the gallery, the glare of the glass made it hard to see pedestrians outside. And so it was simple to walk by, back and forth, to see what Madeline was doing. Everyone who had dealt with her knew how Madeline got when she was working at the gallery. But of course, Madeline didn’t see the gallery as a job. It was her life. And now Madeline could be seen through the Michigan Avenue windows, through the snow, growing lighter, while the skies grew yellow with sun. And, yes, there she was, introducing her assistant to Jeremy Breslin, of all people, the one who had discovered the fakes. But how brazen, how bold, this introduction, as if Madeline felt no remorse. Madeline didn’t seem to notice people watching her—whether through her windows or in person. She didn’t notice because they didn’t matter to her, whether they were full of awe or hate or anything in between. Art mattered to her, her gallery. But neither would be part of Madeline’s life for long. They might be the end of her altogether. 13 I met my father for lunch. In addition to Charlie’s news about his potential move, I wanted to ask him about the Madeline Saga case. My father had developed this dining game of sorts; in every restaurant, he wanted to try something he’d never had before. I wasn’t sure how he’d struck upon this, but I was happier than usual about it that day, since it gave the impression that he liked Chicago, that he would not be moving, and therefore I wouldn’t have to decide how I felt about that. This time, he’d picked the Bongo Room in Wicker Park. Currently my father was cutting into—I kid you not about this—Pumpkin Spice and Chocolate Chunk Cheesecake Flapjacks. And that wasn’t all that was in the dish—there were graham crackers, too, and vanilla cream and all sorts of stuff. I’d gotten a chicken and avocado salad that had melted provolone on it. I never thought I’d use the word decadent when referring to a salad, but that’s what it tasted like. “How is it?” I asked my dad after watching him take a few bites. “I do not know.” He took another bite, chewing it slowly. “Odd,” he said. Since no other information seemed forthcoming, and I wasn’t quite ready to launch into the topic of his moving, I brought up Madeline Saga. “Mayburn said he had you do some general research,” I said. “What did you find?” “What I found was the defeating fact that art crimes usually aren’t solved,” he said. “So, Izzy, you’re fighting an uphill battle with this one. Only around ten percent of stolen art is ever recovered. And the prosecution rates are even lower.” “You’re kidding,” I said. “Seems like it would be relatively simple to have security cameras these days and see everything that happens to a painting.” “Yes. If the art simply stayed on one wall. But removal is often needed for cleaning, for transporting to other galleries or museums, for an exhibition or relocation in the gallery itself.” “Madeline moved from Bucktown to Michigan Avenue last year.” “Well, then there are many danger points.” “Danger points?” “In the moving process alone, there are many points where criminals can get in. There’s the crating of art, there’s leaving those crates standing until they can be shipped, there’s loading of the crates into a truck, there’s the driving part of the journey, there’s the unloading. And then the art sits wherever it’s been unloaded until it’s unpacked. And then it sits there until it’s installed.” “Wow.” I felt overwhelmed at the realization. “So I should be tracking down and talking to everyone who was involved, even in the slightest, with the move of the gallery.” “You got it. I’d guess there were probably five to ten people involved. At a minimum.” He asked me what I did when I was at Madeline’s gallery. When there were no clients in the store, I told him, I tried to study what I could. Madeline had a binder for each artist she represented, almost like a catalogue, listing their bios, their previous shows and exhibitions, PR pieces and more. These files also contained manifests from each time a piece was shipped. I studied the information from the two forged works, hoping to find some sort of discrepancy or clue. As yet, I’d found nothing. But I had begun to cobble together not only some understanding of art but also of the art world. My father listened closely, taking occasional bites of his flapjacks. “You’re learning,” he said. “But it also sounds as if you’ve begun to nurse a healthy new appreciation.” “Exactly!” I said, thrilled to connect with my dad on something. “I not only know more, I appreciate more.” He nodded. “That’s how your Aunt Elena learned about art, as well. Maybe you do have something from my family in your making.” There was something so sad about the way he’d said those words—as if he was not only defeated but resigned to the fact that his kids were not like him, since he hadn’t been around to raise them. “Of course I have traits from the McNeils. We share the same name, after all.” I smiled to show him I was making light of the situation. He had a hard time reading sarcasm or irony, I’d noticed. He smiled. “That’s good to hear.” I told him more then about the gallery itself—a sparkly and interesting space. The gallery was nearly triangular in shape, and two full walls were glass windows, facing different directions. As such, there were always odd angles of light, even when it was gray out. When it was sunny, the light was filtered by the museum-quality film on the glass, so as not to fade the paintings. Many times, the sun seemed to create an orangey flash outside the gallery. Whenever I stepped closer to the glass, though, tried to look more intently, it had disappeared. He asked me more questions about the gallery. We continued to eat. At some point our conversation lapsed. “I heard from Theo,” I said, apropos of nothing. “A postcard. He’s in Thailand.” My father made a face. “That’s one of the most patience-trying places in the entire world. Why is he there?” “Mostly to escape. I think also to surf.” Another face. “Not much surfing there, except near Phuket.” When, I wondered, had my father spent enough time in Thailand, or reading about it, to know exactly where one could surf? I thought of the postcard. “I think that’s where he is,” I said. “Phuket. He mentioned there was lots of diving and rock climbing. He’s into that, too.” My father nodded. “He asked if I was dating,” I said. Why I was telling my father this, I had no idea. But it felt pretty okay. “And what will you tell him?” “The truth. I haven’t been really ready to date anyone.” I paused to see how this further emotional disclosure felt. And again—pretty okay. I thought of Jeremy. “But I feel like I could be ready to do that again.” My father nodded. Said nothing. So I changed the topic to the one I now felt prepared for. “I hear you might be moving.” He looked at me, from one eye to another, as if he were trying to look inside them, to read my reaction to the concept. When I opened my mouth, I found out how I felt about it. “I don’t want you to leave.” Was that a smile on my father’s face? His facial expressions changed little from one to another, but I thought I saw his eyes crinkle a little under his coppery glasses. “Is it possible you’ll stick around Chicago for a while?” I asked. “It’s possible.” He smiled again. I could tell that time. “I don’t want you to go,” I said. “Thank you, Izzy.” “Hey, maybe you should start dating, too,” I said. He groaned. “No, really. When is the last time you dated?” “Suffice to say, a long time.” It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “A long time, as in years?” “Yes, a long, long while.” “Well, that’s it, then. You don’t need to move. You need to date a little, see if you’re ready. Just like I need to do.” He laughed, gave a small shrug. “Well, then, Izzy, I suppose, for once, we’re in the same place,” my father said. And I really liked the sound of that. 14 When Jeremy texted about the location of our date, he suggested Girl and the Goat, an intriguingly named restaurant that was one of the hottest in town. Isn’t that place hard to get into? I texted back. I know a few people there. I’ll take care of it. Now, in the cab heading to the restaurant, I started experiencing a jittery kind of nervousness, realizing that I was, essentially—since I’d met the guy for all of ten minutes—headed to a blind date. I rearranged the lavender silk scarf under my hairline and tightened the belt on my long, hound’s-tooth-patterned coat. The restaurant was on Randolph, just west of Halsted, and black-framed windows showed happily dining customers. Inside, most of the walls were brick, the floors dark hardwood, the ceilings beamed. A fantastical painting hung on a side wall featuring—interestingly enough—a girl and a goat. It dawned on me that I might not have noticed the painting before I started working in Madeline’s gallery. Or I might have noticed, but that would have been the extent of it. Being in the gallery made me want to look closer at anything having to do with art. I didn’t see Jeremy, so I took a few steps toward the painting—a huge, square canvas painted in bold reds, greens and golds. The primary focus was a little girl with big eyes and a pink dress running after a galloping goat with equally large eyes. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “What do you think of the painting?” I turned, smiled. Jeremy was still gorgeous, dressed now in gray jeans and a black corduroy jacket. I managed to tear my eyes off him to look back at the painting. “I think it’s a little crazy, and I think it’s great.” When I looked back at him again, he was grinning, showing white teeth. “That’s exactly what I think. Bizarre, but excellent.” “So then the question is, which came first, the painting or the name of the restaurant?” I’d noticed that Madeline often spoke about the genesis of a painting, the history behind it. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/laura-caldwell/false-impressions-39775493/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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