The Double

Three

Grace Kinkaid lived on the 2300 block of Champlain Street, in Adams Morgan, in a newish condo building set on the slope between Columbia Road and Florida Avenue. Her place was orderly, gender neutral at first glance, and minimally furnished. The walls were painted in pale shades of green and gold.

Lucas and Grace sat on her balcony in fold-out chairs, a small black table between them. Below them, in the light of a streetlamp, a father and son kicked a soccer ball back and forth.

On the table lay a manila folder. Grace was drinking Chardonnay from a large glass meant for red wine. Lucas had gone with ice water. From inside her living room, music played through her open sliding glass doors. Her stereo dial was set to 89.3, WPFW, the jazz station broadcasting from a building on Champlain, a half block north of where they sat.

“The painting,” said Lucas. “Can you describe it?”

“Take a look at it,” said Grace, opening the folder and pushing it across the table. The top sheet, one of many papers in the file, was a photograph of a framed oil painting mounted on a wall painted light green. Lucas supposed it had been taken while it hung in her condo.

“It’s nice,” said Lucas, to move the conversation along.

The painting was of two men, one middle-aged, one young, shown from the bare shoulders up, both of them looking directly into the eyes of the viewer. The middle-aged man had a gaunt face, a receding hairline, and a beard. The young man was clean shaven with a full head of black hair. The artist had painted a black backdrop for the older man and a brown backdrop for the younger one, giving the effect of separation within the frame. The portions of their chest and arms that showed were creamy white, while their necks and faces were burnished from the sun. Workers, thought Lucas. That, and the vaguely east-of-Europe features of the men, brought to mind one of those Russian proletariat posters... or something. He liked the painting, but he had no idea what he was looking at. Lucas didn’t “know” art.

“It’s called The Double,” said Grace. “The artist is Loretta Browning. Born in nineteenth-century America, studied in New York and Chicago, moved to Paris after the First World War. Known for her portraitures, landscapes, and still-life paintings. Died in California, mid-twentieth century.”

“You say she was known.”

“Not well known. Up until recently, that is. Some scholarly reassessments and a few key gallery showings have elevated her reputation to the general public in the past ten years.”

“And elevated the worth of her paintings.”

“Considerably. I got the painting fifteen years ago.”

“So you bought it relatively cheaply.”

“I didn’t buy it at all,” said Grace. “It was a gift from my uncle Ron before he died. He said, ‘Take good care of this, honey. It’s going to be worth a lot of money someday.’ He was right.”

“How much is it worth?” said Lucas.

“I had it assessed before it was stolen. The man who came here and looked at it said it was worth somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s a pretty exclusive neighborhood.”

“I know.”

“And your uncle just gave you the painting? Why?”

“After my parents passed, my uncle became the father figure for me and my brothers. Then he came out as a gay man, officially, and my brothers, who weren’t the most enlightened guys at the time, sort of rejected him. My uncle was a fair guy and he offered the painting to all of us. But my brothers looked at it, connected the images to Uncle Ron, and saw a picture of two gay guys. They felt that it promoted a lifestyle, and they didn’t want it in their homes, what with their babies and all. Like a painting could corrupt their kids. Me, I just liked the way it looked, so I took it. Of course my brothers’ feelings on the issue have evolved, just like our president’s, but it’s too late.”

“It’s too late for them to cash in because you own it.”

“I used to own it.”

“What happened?”

“I believe it was stolen by a man I was in a relationship with. A guy named Billy Hunter.”

“Like it sounds, I assume,” said Lucas, scribbling the name in his Moleskine notebook.

“Yes,” said Grace. “I’m gonna have another glass of wine. Would you like something besides water?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Not when I’m working.”

“Please don’t let me drink alone. I have some things to tell you that are somewhat difficult for me to talk about.”

“Okay. I’ll take a beer if you have it.”

“I have a variety.”

“Anything that’s not light.”

He watched her get out of her chair and, because he was that kind of man, watched her behind as she walked, somewhat unsteadily, into her apartment. She was a woman nearing her forties, or already there. Black hair undone, olive green slacks, a short-sleeve tangerine peasant shirt, simple sandals. Grace was attractive, with green eyes and an aquiline nose, but the eyes were needy, and her arms were too thin for her frame. Grace was untoned, with the spent look of a woman whose weight loss had come from stress.

She returned with a bottle of Dogfish Head and her own glass, refilled to the rim. Lucas guessed that Grace, on her third wine since he’d arrived, had a drinking problem. He’d seen the pattern in his mother, who had developed a dependency on alcohol after his father died.

Grace retook her seat and crossed one leg over the other.

Lucas sipped from his bottle. “That’s good. Thanks.”

“So,” she said.

“Tell me about Billy Hunter.”

“Where to start? I met him at the Safeway up on Columbia Road, by the vegetable and fruit bins. He asked me how to buy a ripe avocado, and the secret to a good guacamole. I thought it was a chance encounter. I now think it was a setup.”

“He followed you there?”

“I was a mark.”

“How so?”

“I’ll get to that later. Billy asked me out for coffee or a drink. I accepted. He was funny, he seemed to be a gentleman, he was handsome in a marina rat sort of way: tan, blond, blue-eyed, and fit. He was my body type, too. Strong legs, low center of gravity, powerfully built.” She paused.

Lucas nodded awkwardly. “Go on.”

“The next night, we met down at Cashion’s.”

“Columbia, off Eighteenth. I know the spot.”

“I guess I had one too many glasses of wine. I don’t normally take a man home with me on the first date, but I did. We made love that night and frankly it was wonderful. He was good in bed, with staying power. Tender when it was called for and rough when I wanted it to be.”

She watched Lucas, whose eyes had gone down to the pages of his open notebook.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“What I’m telling you is pertinent to the story. You’ll see where I’m going with this by the time I’m done.”

“Go on.”

“I started seeing him regularly. After that first night at Cashion’s, we never went out. Billy always came to my place and it was always the same thing. We were in the bedroom minutes after he walked through the door. And we stayed in there for hours. Whatever tenderness he’d shown that first time was gone. He knew what he was doing. When he was in bed the light that I had seen in his eyes initially, the playfulness, was gone. He enjoyed wearing me out. There wasn’t any lovemaking involved. He took me like an animal, and I liked it.”

Lucas reached for the bottle of beer and took a pull.

“I’m forty-two years old,” said Grace. “I’ve been with my share of men, but never anyone like him. When I wasn’t with him, I was thinking of him. Obsessing is a better word. Preparing for the next time he’d come over, debating what to wear, how to fix my hair, all of that. I wanted to please him. All my planning and preparation, and he didn’t even notice. He’d walk in, point to my outfit, and say, ‘Take that shit off.’ He’d put me right on my back. He’d put me on all fours, sit me on the bathroom sink, stand me up against a wall. I climaxed repeatedly, and every time I did, he laughed. It was like he’d won. For his part, he could only get there if I put him in my mouth. Then he’d get dressed without so much as a word and leave. You’d think I wouldn’t allow myself to be treated that way, but I found myself desperate for him to come back. And also dreading it. Because I was aware what he was doing to me. I ate very little. I drank more than I ever did before. I began to lose weight. I knew that I was just a receptacle to him. I knew it and I didn’t care.”

“You never went to where he lived?” said Lucas, just to say something.

“No. He said he had a housemate he was trying to get rid of, that the atmosphere wouldn’t be right.”

“So you don’t know his address.”

“I don’t.”

“Or where he worked.”

“All he said was that he was in finance.”

“You communicated by cell?”

“Yes, we texted back and forth and sometimes I called him.”

“You still have that number?”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Give it to me.”

Lucas wrote it down. “Did you see a credit card of his? A driver’s license?”

Grace shook her head. “The one time we went out, he paid the tab in cash.”

“So you don’t know if his name is actually Billy Hunter.”

“I can’t be sure,” said Grace. She picked up her glass and stood abruptly. There was sweat beaded on her face. Lucas’s shirt was also damp. “I’m ready for another glass of wine. Would you like another beer?”

“I would.”

“Meet me inside. It’s cooler in there. Bring the file with you, okay?”

She disappeared into her condo. Lucas sat for a few minutes, digesting their conversation, then followed her inside. The volume on the stereo had been turned down very low. She was on a couch set before a glass table, where she had placed a fresh glass of wine and a new bottle of beer. Lucas dropped the file on the table and sat beside her. He noticed that Grace had run a brush through her hair.

“Are you shocked?” she said.

“Not at all,” said Lucas, telling a lie. “How did this all end?”

“I came home one day to find that I’d been burgled.”

“The painting was gone.”

“Yes.”

“Just the painting?”

“Yes.”

“Was your condo broken into?”

“Nothing was broken. He had a key. I suppose he could have made an imprint of mine in putty, like thieves do. Or had one made off an original, then returned it discreetly. I keep an extra in a bowl by the door. ”

“He, meaning Hunter.”

“Of course.”

“You’re certain?”

Grace shrugged. “I haven’t heard from him since the burglary. Stealing that painting was his way of screwing me again, one last time. It’s in character for him, don’t you think?”

“You tried texting or calling him?”

“I did, and I got dead air.”

“He was probably using a burner,” said Lucas.

“What?”

“A disposable cell. Let me ask you something: did you and Hunter ever discuss the value of the painting?”

“We never talked about the painting at all.”

Lucas thought this over. “You said that you now think this was all a setup. That you were a mark. How so?”

“There are additional papers in that file. Take a look.”

Lucas opened the file and withdrew a set of pages paper-clipped together, a series of printed e-mails between Grace and someone named Grant Summers. The earliest dated e-mail, from Summers to Grace, read:

Below the name and battalion designation, the sender had included a replication of the Marine Corps insignia. Lucas felt his eyes narrow.

“I was looking for a Mini Cooper,” said Grace. “My pre-midlife crisis. I could have bought a new one, but I’m a bit of a bargain hunter. I found an ad for one on Craigslist that looked like a great deal. It was the exact color I wanted, too.”

“That’s how they rope you in,” said Lucas. He knew the rest but he allowed her to tell it.

“I e-mailed him back,” said Grace. “I asked if we could speak over the phone, but he returned with a message saying that deploying marines aren’t allowed to use a phone. He suggested we use an authorized third party for the escrow; I think it was Google Checkout.”

“I suppose he took the liberty of opening an account.”

“Right. Said he’d give me a five-day period to inspect and test-drive the car before the escrow account would release my payment to him. In that way, I would be protected... No disappointments, he said. He’d ship it free of charge with the title and two sets of keys. The money would have to be wired via Western Union. I was wary, but it was the car I really wanted at a very good price.”

“Did you do it?”

“I tried. Drove over to my bank, withdrew the cash, and went to the nearest Western Union office. I was all set to wire the money when the lady behind the counter, nice Pakistani woman, talked me out of it. She’d seen this scam worked before. When I came home, I called the FBI and reported the whole thing. The guy on the other end of the line took my name and number but he never called me back. ”

“The Feds don’t have the time or manpower to chase a couple of thousand dollars down a rabbit hole.”

“Is this a common crime?”

“It’s the Nigerian four-one-nine scam,” said Lucas. “So named for that country’s four-one-nine code, after this type of Internet crime. Shame the Nigerians get tarred for the car thing too, but there it is. Why do you think Hunter was connected to this?”

“One night we were talking,” said Grace. “One of those pointless conversations about what we’d do if we hit the lottery. Billy said, ‘You could buy that Mini S you’ve always wanted.’ And then he got a weird look on his face, like he knew he’d messed up. How would he know I had my eyes on a Mini Cooper S? I never told him. But Grant Summers knew, and I had given him my home address for the shipping of the car. Later on it made me think, maybe Billy Hunter and Grant Summers were the same man. That he saw me as an easy mark after the car thing and followed me from here to the Safeway that first night.”

“Did Hunter have a foreign accent?”

“No.”

“Most of the guys who pull these car scams are foreigners. Just by reading this top e-mail, there are several mistakes in the tenses and verbiage. That tells me that English was a second language for Grant Summers.”

“You don’t think the two events are connected?”

“I don’t know. It’s a stretch. But I’ll look into it. That is, if you decide to hire me.”

“Amanda said you get forty percent.”

“I take it in cash. In this case, that equals eighty thousand dollars, based on the assessed value of the painting. It’s a lot of money, Grace.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Frankly, I find it odd that you would spend eighty grand getting back a painting that you got for free.”

“Actually, I don’t have the eighty yet. But I do have a buyer for the painting. Assuming you retrieve it for me.”

“A buyer,” said Lucas, trying to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“A serious collector has given me a pledge, in writing, that he’ll purchase it for two hundred thousand dollars. When I sell The Double, I’ll cut your eighty thousand out of the payment.”

“This is real?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. But you could take that money and buy a fleet of Minis, brand new and loaded, and pay retail this time.”

“It’s got nothing to do with money,” said Grace. “I want to see that painting on my wall again, if only for a little while. In a way, he raped me, and he won. I need to take something back from him. When the painting is hanging on my wall, I can get started with my life again.”

Lucas wasn’t so sure. Grace Kinkaid’s washed-out eyes, her pencil-thin arms, her increasingly slurred speech all told him she had a long way to go before she’d ever be right. “You want me to provide some references?”

“Not necessary. Amanda says you’re competent and straight.”

“So I’m hired?”

“Yes.”

He touched his finger to the file. “Can I have this?”

“It’s for you,” said Grace, and she looked him over. “I hope you’re as advertised. Billy’s all kinds of twisted.”

“Thanks for the work, and your confidence.” Lucas picked up the file and stood. “I’ll be in touch.”