The Da Vinci Deception Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Praise

  BOOKS BY THOMAS SWAN

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part Two

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Three

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  NEW YORK ART DEALER

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Praise for the acclaimed art crime mysteries by Tom Swan featuring Inspector Jack Oxby

  The Da Vinci Deception

  “Fans of Iain Pears’s art mysteries will enjoy the lavish detail Swan provides on the minutiae of forgery. The captivating premise of The Da Vinci Deception will win over those who like their thrillers well decorated with objets d’art.”

  —Booklist

  “A grand old caper yarn of classic design, filled with tantalizing details of forging techniques and facts about da Vinci’s work….The Da Vinci Deception isn’t just good, it’s terrific.”

  —Book-of-the-Month Club News

  “A series of cat-and-mouse chases that range from New York to Lake Como…provides a rousing…denouement.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A full cast of sharply etched characters, both villains and good guys, trace a twisting adventure.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Cézanne Chase

  “A surprisingly sexy and dirty world where nothing is sacred—least of all, art….The beauty of The Cézanne Chase is in the technical details about fine art—great tips on conserving it, packing and shipping it, buying and selling it, and destroying it forever.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  The Final Fabergé

  “Swan continues his art-crime series featuring Scotland Yard’s Detective Inspector Jack Oxby… now hot on the trail of the last Fabergé egg created before the Russian Revolution…The pacing is quick and the action plentiful…Swan’s series strikes a comfortable balance between the more hard-boiled Lovejoy antique mysteries and Iain Pears’ more literary art-historical crime novels.”

  —Booklist

  BOOKS BY THOMAS SWAN

  The Da Vinci Deception

  The Cézanne Chase

  The Final Fabergé

  Dedication

  To my wife Barbara and to my children Sally and Greg. And to the cherished memory of my son Steve, who would approve and be proud.

  Part One

  The bee may be likened to deceit, for it has honey in its mouth and poison behind.

  —Leonardo da Vinci

  Chapter 1

  He pulled a thin blanket over his head to blot out the noises. He wanted to sleep. To get past the last of more than fourteen hundred nights in the state prison at Rahway. He tossed away the blanket and sat cross-legged on the narrow bed; hugging a pillow against his chest, he began rocking and humming. Then, abruptly, he rolled over onto his feet and switched on a fluorescent light that hovered over an artist’s table. Taped to it was a letter he had read so many times he could recite it from memory. He stared at the words and they all rushed into his head at once:Dear Curtis,

  In ten days you will leave prison. I can only imagine your joyous anticipation. Though we have not met, I feel we have been friends for many years.

  You possess an incredible talent, which you badly abused. You have paid a great price for that indiscretion, and have a clean slate on which to write new successes.

  You have immense skill with the pen, a unique gift that if put to proper use shall bring rewards greater than any you have ever imagined.

  I believe we are striving toward common objectives, and for that reason invite you to meet with me in order to discuss these matters of mutual interest.

  Arrangements have been made at the Intercontinental Hotel in New York on the evening of your release. Upon arrival at the hotel you will receive another communication which will advise you of a meeting place and time.

  Enclosed you will find five hundred dollars for expenses.

  Stiehl’s fingers explored the worn folds of the letter. He looked at his watch. It was 4:35. The incessant snoring of the other inmates had grown obscene. He fell back into bed and recalled his visit to the warden’s office three days earlier.

  Warden Connolly had pointed to a thin box wrapped in blue paper on his desk. “For you, Curtis. It was delivered this morning by messenger.”

  Stiehl picked up the box. “It hasn’t been opened.” He looked quizzically at the warden. “Isn’t someone going to check it out first?”

  “We’ll do that together,” he smiled. “I have a strong suspicion there aren’t any hacksaw blades in that little box.”

  Stiehl noted the box carried a mid-Manhattan postmark and had been dated January 3, 1994. He opened it and found a letter and an envelope that was sealed with a daub of red wax. He began reading the letter aloud, then to himself. After reading it he folded the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  Connolly had watched this closely. “Good news?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Someone thinks we’ve got mutual interests to talk over.”

  Stiehl examined the envelope. The paper was heavy, expensive, and in the wax had been impressed the initials “JK” in intaglio. Each letter was voluptuously formed with serifs appended to serifs. He carefully separated the upper flap of the envelope. Inside were five one-hundred-dollar bills. He held them out and fanned the money as if he were holding a winning poker hand.

  “You have something in your hand worth talking about.”

  Stiehl did not reply. He picked out two of the bills and rubbed a thumb and forefinger over each. Then he took hold of the corner of one and carefully tore it. In the light from the large windows behind him he could see the tiny fibers. A very slight smile crossed his lips. Then he replaced the money in the envelope.

  “Maybe we will have a talk.” He closed the envelope. “Maybe we will.”

  Connolly held out a hand. “We’ll keep the money until you leave. It will be safe.”

  “I’m sure,” Stiehl answered, and turned to the door.

  “Stay and we’ll have a chat, Curtis. You’ll be leaving in a few days and I make it a practice to talk with each man before he moves on. Though I usually end up having a monologue.”

  In front of the windows two chairs faced a low table on which was a tray and a pot of coffee. “Let’s be comfortable.” The coffee was hot and Stiehl noted it actually smelled like coffee.

  “It’s just a few more days. Got any plans?”

  Stiehl held the cup with both hands and gently blew on the rising wisp of steam. His prison garb was faded nearly white by the strong detergent used in the prison laundry. Yet it fit him perfectly. His hair had grayed slightly, enough to contrast with skin tanned even now at winter’s end. He had a good face with a small cleft in his chin and blue eyes that had an inquiring brightness. He was nearly six feet tall but his hands belonged to an even
larger man. His fingers were long and slender.

  Stiehl searched for an answer that would not invite further questions. “No sir. I’ve some ideas but no plan.”

  “When I talk to the men before they leave, each one wants to dump their anger, but they don’t know how. So I do the talking. Is that going to happen with you?”

  Stiehl avoided eye contact, “I didn’t ask for a meeting, Warden. Sure I’m angry. Damned good and angry, but I’ll handle that.” He stood and walked to the window. “Four years in a place like this and you don’t know who to believe or who to trust.”

  “You can trust me. They say you’re a hell of an artist. Is that so?”

  “I can’t claim to be an artist, Warden. That file on your lap probably says something about my ability to copy things.”

  Connolly patted the file that Stiehl correctly guessed contained his dossier. “The file tells us many things, but not everything. You are an artist, and a good one. Why not admit to that?”

  Stiehl shrugged. “All right, I’m an artist. A good one, some people say. But there are a ton of very good artists to compete against and I haven’t decided if that’s what I want to do.”

  The warden leafed through the papers in Stiehl’s file. “I can’t find anything about the schools you attended. Do you mind sharing that information?”

  Stiehl resisted the invitation to talk about himself.

  “There wasn’t much. The usual schools.” He rummaged through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. “Okay to smoke?”

  Connolly nodded. “Did you study art or sketching?”

  Stiehl lit a cigarette, then grabbed an ashtray from the warden’s desk. “I took some courses.”

  “I understand your reluctance to talk about yourself ”—he motioned toward the window—“but that’s a real world out there and people are going to ask questions that you’ll have to answer. And consider the handicap you’ll have. A prison record is not easily put aside no matter what special talent you can offer.”

  Stiehl drew heavily on the cigarette then slowly exhaled the smoke. He looked out to the long stretch of wall and the exercise yard where he had spent so many boring hours. But all of prison life is boring. And all too often, very frightening. Just to be in the warden’s office was a reminder of the early days. He had been here once before. It was on his thirty-fourth day in prison. There had been an attempted break. A guard and an inmate were killed. He was questioned from one in the morning until after sunrise and was accused of being an organizer. He had known of the escape attempt but played no part in it. But it had gone on his record and destroyed any chance for early parole.

  “When did you first show an interest in becoming an artist?”

  Stiehl’s back was to the warden now. He stared down to a patch of ground where he and another inmate had raised a few anemic-looking flowers and tomatoes that would never ripen on the vine. In prison you trust no one, he thought. He wanted someone to believe in him. He turned and faced Warden Connolly.

  “My dad died when I was nine and I was raised by my mother and her sister. My aunt was crippled with polio. She never married and never seemed to resent that she wasn’t. She would read all the time and read to me when I asked. My mother . . .” His voice trailed off to barely a whisper. “She was sick a lot, too. She was a teacher. She taught art at the high school, and turned the dining room into her studio. By a window she had a big easel and she would sit there for hours on the weekends trying to paint something she had seen or wanted to see. There was always paint and paper.

  “She taught me how to make a brush from a handful of bristles. I began to paint, but all I was able to do was copy her paintings. I remember how she would encourage me, always saying I could be a great artist someday.”

  Stiehl stopped. Dormant memories were stirring.

  “Then what? School? Art lessons?” Connolly asked.

  “Mother died from some damned thing. We never learned what it really was. She came home from school on a Wednesday and went to bed. On Friday they took her to the hospital and on Sunday”—his voice trailed off—“she died.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen. I remember wishing I was a Jew. I had Jewish friends who had bar mitzvahs and I wished I could, too. Then I’d have money for my aunt. Lutherans don’t have bar mitzvahs, so I got a job after school and on weekends. My aunt kept coming up with money from somewhere and with what I made we managed. She encouraged me to take lessons.”

  “Did you?”

  “I tried. In high school first. Then a year at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. Then my aunt went into a nursing home and I was alone. I didn’t know what to do, so I enlisted in the army. I got into the Signal Corps, where I learned I could copy maps that looked better than the originals.” He said it as if he had wished he had gone on to another subject.

  “From then on it was a course in sketching or learning about watercolor, then oils. I guess I taught myself, too. I liked going to the museums with a pad and pens. I’d go where the art students didn’t go. I liked the Dutch and the Italian painters, and I liked paintings with intricate detail. Strands of hair, stitching in the clothes. It was a challenge and I copied them exactly.”

  He turned and faced the warden. “The rest you must know about.”

  “Pretty much,” Connolly acknowledged. “I’m aware that while you’ve been in prison you have worked very conscientiously on your painting skills.”

  “It passes the time.”

  “And when you are free to take up a new career, you’ll steer clear of municipal securities. The financial community doesn’t need any more of your near-perfect copies.”

  “No more securities,” Stiehl echoed.

  “Or hundred-dollar bills?”

  “No comment.”

  “Too many men go back out to the same thing that brought them here in the first place. I don’t suggest you try that.” The warden joined Stiehl by the window. “The treasury boys have long memories.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Connolly extended his hand. “Good luck, Curtis. I don’t want to see you in this place ever again.” He smiled.

  They shook hands and Stiehl returned to his cell.

  “C’mon, move it! Get your ass in gear!”

  Barking the command was Bull Harvey. None of the guards could win a popularity contest but Harvey, at least, possessed a semblance of humanity.

  “Hold your water!” Stiehl yelled back. “I’m writing farewell notes to the cockroaches.”

  Stiehl emerged from his cell holding a thick package of papers and sketches in one hand and a cardboard suitcase in the other. In it he had packed brushes, pens, and a few personal items.

  Harvey led the way, muttering a stream of obscenities.

  In the administration office Stiehl signed a half-dozen papers including a receipt for $387.37. Among his personal belongings was the wallet his wife Jean had given him for his thirty-eighth birthday. In it he found an expired driver’s license, an out-of-date calendar, scraps of paper with long-forgotten notes, and a photo of Jean and his daughter Stephanie, who was ten when he began passing counterfeit municipal securities. He might be with Jean and Stephanie now if the original certificates he’d copied hadn’t contained an error and been recalled. Unfortunately, he made precise duplicates—error and all. Jean divorced him two years after he was sentenced. She was now remarried, living somewhere near Princeton. At the right time he would locate Stephanie.

  Also in his folder was the envelope with the wax seal. He withdrew the five hundred-dollar bills and carefully placed them in the wallet.

  “Okay, Harvey. This is it!”

  They were a seedy duo. Bull Harvey’s rumpled uniform was pulled tightly over his fat front and his short trousers revealed socks rolled down to the tops of scuffed, thick-soled shoes. Stiehl had been issued a striped, cotton shirt, chinos, and a well-worn raincoat.

  They were waved through the east gate. Harvey extended a limp hand, his eyes unable to meet
Stiehl’s. “No hard feelin’s for all the bullshit I threw at you. All the swearin’ and pushin’. It’s my job. I try to do it decentlike.”

  “No hard feelings. Thanks for bringing me out.”

  Harvey flashed a broad smile. “Look, Stiehl, the weirdos are behind you and all the nuts are right on down that driveway. Walk to the end, turn left, and go about a mile to the first traffic light. That’s Route 1. Most of the buses are marked Port Authority.”

  Stiehl picked up his miserable belongings and strode briskly away from the high walls surrounding the prison that had been his home and private hell for so long. He glanced back and saw the bright sun reflected off the golden dome atop the rotunda of the prison. A strange sight, he mused. A gold dome belonged over a merry-go-round in Atlantic City.

  The sun had curved up to the highest point it would reach on a cloudless, cold March day. He stepped up his pace as he approached the noisy traffic on Route 1. Within minutes a New Jersey Transit bus pulled to the curb. He stepped aboard, took a seat, and rejoined the world.

  On arrival at the Intercontinental Hotel he was handed the letter he had been told would be waiting for him. He did not read it until he was lying on the king-size bed in the pale-blue-and-rose-papered suite reserved in his name.

  The letter was in an envelope with the same bold red wax with the initials “JK” in large, flowing script. He propped himself on the huge pillows and opened the envelope.

  Dear Curtis,

  This has been your first day of freedom in four years. An exciting time!

  Tomorrow you shall begin a new life, with new challenges and opportunities and foreign lands to visit.

  This evening you will be treated to fine food and wine in the dining room, where a special table is reserved in your name.

  And then rest for our meeting in the morning.

  Come to the address shown above. I shall look for you at nine.