She gave him ten minutes to get settled and then crossed the street, the file folders pressed against her hip.
A bell tinkled when she opened the door. She hadn’t noticed it the last time — just another sign of how inattentive she had been. The bell brought Lisa out from the back, a smile on her face that instantaneously disappeared when she saw Ava.
“I don’t think he’ll want to speak to you,” she said, drawing near.
“Not his choice, I’m afraid,” Ava said.
“Ms. Lee, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t permit you to go back there.”
“Lisa, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Lisa, this doesn’t involve you. I need to speak to Mr. Hughes and I’m going to do exactly that. Please don’t interfere.”
“This place is filled with cameras and alarms,” Lisa said in rush. “I can have security here in five minutes.”
“If that’s the case, then let Mr. Hughes call for security if he doesn’t want to talk to me. Same result, yes? I’ll get thrown out. But you can stay out of it.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“Very, and equally determined.”
Lisa looked down at Ava. “Go. He’s in his office in the back.”
The office door was open. Hughes had the same brown wingtips planted on the desk but was turned sideways, talking on the phone. Ava stood quietly until he felt her presence. He kept talking. She walked into the office and sat in the chair across from his desk.
He turned, looked at her, and then did a double take. “I’ll call you back,” he said and hung up the phone. His feet dropped to the ground with a thud. “Now what the hell do you want?” he said.
“We’re going to have a talk, and this time you’re going to listen.”
“We are going to have no such thing. I want you to leave the premises.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Absolutely nothing. I just find you annoying in the extreme. You came here before with frivolous charges concerning my brother and tried to implicate me in the matter. I didn’t like it then, and I’m not about to sit and let you make a repeat.”
Ava shrugged. “All right, then we’ll change the subject. How about we talk about the fake Manet you sold to the Earl of Moncrieff?”
He didn’t move. His eyes never left her, and she watched them morph from confusion to doubt and then detected the first signs of panic. “Or how about the Modigliani you sold to Harold Holmes?” she continued. “Or the one that Jonathan Reiner bought at a Harrington auction. Tell me, what did you do? Pay off the evaluator at Harrington’s?”
“That’s nonsense,” he sputtered.
“You mean about the evaluator?” Ava said.
“That and the rest of your fantasy,” he said. “I’m going to call security. This conversation is over.”
She threw her files onto his desk. “I found Maurice O’Toole’s records,” she said. “He was meticulous. Invoices, photos, dates, shipping slips, cancelled cheques. I have them all. I think you’ll find them neatly arranged.”
He stared at the files with the look of a man who has just been told his wife is having an affair with their teenage son’s best friend, and here were the photos, graphic and unmistakable, to prove it.
“This time I’m not leaving the office,” Ava said.
He reached for the documents, read them once, twice, three times, his face draining of colour. People’s reactions to shock interested Ava. It is easy to keep up a pretence for a short while, but eventually the brain takes over, and as it absorbs the horrible reality it begins to relay messages to a mouth that gapes, to glands that bleed sweat, to skin that sags, and in Hughes’ case, an eyelid that twitched.
He closed the files and looked at her. “Interesting material,” he said coolly.
“I thought so.”
“I am slightly perplexed, though. I thought your interest and your client’s interest lay in some supposed Fauvist art forgeries. Isn’t this a bit of a diversion?”
“They are linked.”
“I fail to see any connection.”
“Your and your brother’s marks are all over these frauds. I need to know if the same is true for the Fauvists.”
“Good God, girl, we’ve been through this. I had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with that crazy Fauvist scheme. That was Glen and Glen alone.”
“The truth?”
“Absolutely,” he said eagerly.
“Is it the reason you and he split?”
“Yes, among others, but it was the primary reason.”
“I want you to tell me everything you know about it.”
“And then what? You’ll make these disappear?” he said, waving at the files. “Or am I going to have to pay you to make that happen?”
“We’ll talk later about what you need to make happen. In the meantime, talk to me about your brother and the Fauvists.”
“Why should I do that?” he persisted.
“These other three paintings don’t have to be an issue unless you choose to make them one,” she said.
His phone rang. “Lisa’s extension,” he said to Ava.
“Talk to her.”
He picked up the phone, listened, and then said quickly, “No, everything is just fine. Ms. Lee will be here for a while longer. If we need anything, I’ll ring through.” He hung up the phone and looked at Ava. “I did hear you correctly before Lisa phoned? You’re prepared to forget about these paintings?”
“If I get your co-operation, we can work something out,” Ava said, pulling her notebook from her bag. “But I need you to start by telling me about your business and how you got into this forgery game.”
“You’re prepared to forget about these paintings?” he said.
Ava admired his stubbornness. “My sole interest is in recovering the funds that my clients lost buying that Fauvist art. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make that happen. If what you tell me helps, then yes, I am prepared to forget about these paintings.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“Start at the beginning.”
He drew a deep breath. “The gallery was started by my grandfather nearly a century ago, and it’s been the family business ever since. Both Glen and I were afforded first-class fine arts educations — there was never any doubt about what we would be doing with our lives. I joined the firm right out of university; Glen apprenticed first at Sotheby’s. My father died suddenly about five years after Glen came on board. That was when we ran into troubles. The inheritance taxes in this country are criminal, and my father had done virtually no estate planning. We were faced with a crippling tax bill. To pay up would have meant liquidating the business. That’s when Glen came up with the idea of having Maurice O’Toole do the Manet. I have to tell you — not that it may matter to you — we agonized over the decision. Glen said we should have Maurice do it and, if we didn’t think it passed muster, we would forget the whole idea.”
“It was good enough to fool the Earl, yes?”
“It’s bloody good enough to fool just about anyone who isn’t trying to determine if it’s a fake. I mean, the colours, the brushstrokes, the canvas, the nails — Maurice was a marvel.”
“And you authenticated it?”
“Yes, we did. Mind you, we did call in several colleagues, who — for a hefty fee — also swore it was genuine. They were mainly taking our word for it, of course, and they gave the painting only what you could call a rough once-over.”
“And it worked so well you repeated the exercise?”
“Twice more, that’s all,” he said, and then quickly added, “I don’t mean to minimize the money involved.”
“Why twice?”
“Those were our retirement funds — about six million each. This business looks attractive enough from the outside, but it’s bloody hard work, and expensive work, because appearances have to be maintained. Then there’s the matter of buying and selling. You know the adage ‘Buy low, sell high’?”