The Reincarnationist

Chapter 63

Josh and Rachel went to a coffee shop to plan what to do next. It was two o’clock in the afternoon on Thursday, and in less than twenty-four hours, Gabriella would need to have a lot of answers for the man who was holding her child captive.

After they’d fleshed out the next steps, Rachel used her cell phone to call Harrison and put the scheme into motion, and Josh went out into the street to call Gabriella.

Answering on the first ring with a stressed hello, she sounded both relieved and disappointed at the sound of his voice. Briefly, he explained what had happened and what he was planning to do.

“You can’t do that, Josh. I can’t bear being responsible for you, too.”

As much as he believed her, he knew part of her didn’t mean it. It was what she should say, but no one mattered to her the way Quinn did, and nothing would ever matter to her again if anything happened to Quinn.

“I’ll drive right up to New Haven as soon as I’m finished in the city-and Gabriella…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry for leaving you alone this long.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been online with Rollins most of the day, working on the translations. Be careful, Josh-” Her voice broke on his name.

He winced, and even after he’d clicked his phone shut, he was still hearing her, seeing her in his mind: the way her light brown, almost-gold eyes flashed, and how she pulled her wild, honey-colored hair off her face whenever she thought hard about something.

Should he have told her about the possibility there was a second set of stones? Had it been cruel to have raised her spirits if, in fact, they didn’t exist?

When he returned to Rachel, she was still on the phone. He couldn’t help but hear her strained conversation.

“I don’t understand. Either he’s made an offer on the painting or he hasn’t.” Pause. “Well, then, let my client see it-the worst that will happen is that you’ll have a second offer to use as pressure.” Pause. “Good, we’ll be there in less than an hour.” She smiled, but the smile was twisted with disillusionment.

The doorman of the apartment building on Park Avenue and Seventy-Ninth Street asked Josh for his name so he could be announced.

“Barton Lipper.”

They had planned carefully. Barton Lipper was a client of Rachel’s who lived in Maryland. A recluse, he ordered pieces of jewelry from her every four or five months. An Internet search brought up stories about the man’s billions, but no photographs.

The sunglasses Josh wore, despite the setting sun, hid his eyes, and he was grateful for their opaqueness. A man can see when you are lying-especially if the man was himself a liar. He didn’t know for sure that’s what Harrison was. That he sold paintings that often had questionable provenance did not, in itself, brand him as a criminal. Sotheby’s and Christie’s had, over the years, sold paintings of questionable provenance, too. And in this case, the School of Caravaggio painting had never been stolen. The estate of Titus Blackwell had inherited it and it passed from generation to generation until six weeks before, when it had appeared on the market for the first time.

The question was, had it ever been taken apart?

The elevator man, who also wore white gloves, looked straight ahead while Josh watched the numbers light up on the board. It seemed as if the ride was taking too damn long. Finally, the bronzed doors opened.

“It’s Penthouse A, on your right, sir.”

Inside, Terry, a young woman, greeted Josh, who introduced himself as Barton Lipper. Escorting him to the salon, she told him that Rachel Palmer wasn’t there yet, but that Harrison would be with him in just a moment.

The room had a double-height ceiling and no windows. Three of the walls showcased oil paintings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The fourth was empty except for a carpeted platform that sat like a small stage, waiting for the performance to start.

Terry asked Josh if he’d like anything to drink. He asked for water and she left to fetch it. A few moments passed. Josh didn’t get up to inspect the paintings around him. He didn’t need the distraction; he wanted to concentrate on what he was there to accomplish.

A few minutes after Terry returned with the water, Harrison came in. He was tall and imposing, physically a good match to Rachel’s stunning looks.

“Mr. Lipper. It’s a pleasure,” he said, and offered his hand.

The handshake was quick.

“Rachel called a few minutes ago. Her taxi is stuck in rush-hour traffic. Though, every hour in New York is now rush hour. In the meantime, would you like to wait for her or look at the painting?”

“I’d like to see the painting. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Harrison disappeared, returning a moment later with a framed canvas he held gingerly with its back facing out so that Josh couldn’t yet see the painting. Harrison placed it on top of the uppermost step of the carpeted platform, stood in front of it, shielding it as he adjusted it, and then stepped back.

Rachel was right. This was not a masterpiece. It was a feat. A luminous, absorbing re-creation of reality, so intensely alive and powerful that within seconds of looking at it you forgot it was a flat surface covered with a mix of oil and pigment. This was a world unto itself. That it had been created by a brush and paint, that it was not a living, breathing man somehow frozen in that moment, seemed impossible.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It makes everything else-” Josh searched for something to say “-just a painting.”

Harrison nodded.

Josh rose and walked toward it. He’d planned on using these initial moments to look at and familiarize himself with the frame. He’d spent a half hour earlier taking apart four of the paintings on Rachel’s walls. At best, if everything went right, he was only going to have a few minutes alone with this one, and he needed to be quick. But he couldn’t focus on anything but the sensuous eyes, the voluptuous mouth and the invitation implicit in the Bacchus’s gaze.

“Mr. Shoals?” Terry was at the door.

“Yes?”

“Rachel is downstairs. She’s tripped on the sidewalk getting out of the cab. She’d appreciate it if you would come down.”

“Oh, no, this is my fault. She’s here because of me-let me go,” Josh offered, trying for sincere concern.

“No, that’s not necessary. These things happen. I’ll leave you with Bacchus. I’m sure you’ll be in excellent company.”

Josh’s heart was pounding so loudly he worried Terry might be able to hear it and come running. He took the painting off the stand and turned it around. Some of the energy drained from the room. Now it was just rough canvas and four pieces of wood mitered together.

Rachel had seen the back of the painting when she’d inspected it at the auction house and had explained that removing the painting from its frame would be a simple procedure.

All he had to do was pull out the four clips that secured the canvas to the wood.

He fumbled as he worked out the first clip, but did better with the second, and his speed improved with the third and fourth, so in less than sixty seconds he had the canvas safely put aside and stared at an empty gold baroque frame.

Working more quickly, almost recklessly now, not caring if he chipped the wood or gold leaf, he took the frame apart, remembering how Esme had described this process while Rachel was under hypnosis.

Josh inspected each arm, up and down, prodding, pushing, searching. Nothing on the first arm or second. He was running out of time. Just as he picked up the third, he heard sounds outside. Was that Rachel? Already?

The third arm looked the same as the first two.

Yes, the sound was Rachel, asking for something. Water? It didn’t matter. He picked up the fourth arm and found what he was looking for.

Digging at it with the edge of the smallest of the tools he’d brought with him, he tried to pull it. No. It wouldn’t work like that. He looked closer. Where the grain of the wood ran left to right was a small ridge.

Maybe…

Using the edge of the knife, he unscrewed the threaded wooden pin.

A spring creaked.

A hiding place was revealed.

Josh was afraid to breathe.

The room around him had closed in. There was nothing but the piece of wood and the hollow space inside of it. The glorious painting wasn’t there. There were no people outside. He tipped the wooden arm over and shook it.