Chapter 29
We crouch in William’s parked car outside Edmund’s apartment building, waiting for Edmund to leave. Tony said that Edmund went to the gym every day around 9:00 a.m. when he followed him. I called the cleaning service to confirm they were coming and their time of arrival. Based on my past experience with this cleaning service, the women often arrive separately, not even always at the same time, depending on when they finish their previous job. Anyway, they’re supposed to arrive around 10:00 a.m., which doesn’t give us much time, depending on when he leaves.
I’m dressed in sweats, a blonde wig with a ponytail, a baseball cap, and a mask shielding my face. Since the pandemic, it’s common to see people wearing masks in New York City.
Edmund leaves the building, and William trails him on foot to make sure he doesn’t suddenly return.
Takashi is also dressed in a black cap and mask. He delivered a package earlier to check out the security cameras in the lobby. We want to keep to their blind spots, just in case Edmund suspects something.
Go time.
Takashi and I get out of the car and walk into the lobby, both carrying backpacks, along with an umbrella, a mop, and a bucket. You never know what supplies you will find.
“Hi, we’re here to clean Edmund Smith’s apartment, 5C,” I say to the doorman. “Another woman is coming later. I’m the first. And this is my supervisor. It’s my first day.” Having hired this cleaning service myself before, I know that this happens periodically.
The doorman barely gives us a glance and lets us in, motioning for us to go up.
No one else is in the elevator. So far, so good. We get off on the fifth floor, scanning the hallway for cameras. We know Edmund has one inside his apartment. That’s why Takashi is here—to jam the Wi-Fi signal.
Takashi tilts his head to the corner, indicating the presence of CCTV.
I open up my huge, doorman umbrella in front of Takashi, blocking the camera’s view of him. It did rain earlier today. I change from my sneakers into slippers to divert attention. Takashi, meanwhile, opens up his laptop, finds the signal frequency in the apartment, and jams it.
“Good job on remembering to change your shoes before entering,” Takashi says. That’s our code for me to unlock the door.
I open the door to the apartment with his key. We slip inside, and Takashi sits down in the foyer with his laptop to make sure the cameras are still jammed. Here’s hoping Edmund doesn’t obsessively monitor the feed.
There may not be that much time.
Luckily, Edmund’s one-bedroom apartment is not that big. The living room is painted in a dark-red color, the walls covered with figurative paintings.
We put on our gloves. I take the bedroom while Takashi searches the closets in the hallway.
The Versal has the prime spot on the wall facing the bed. I shudder. I check behind it. Nothing. Edmund has a walk-in closet filled with three-piece suits and dry-cleaned shirts still in their plastic wrap. Nothing there. No false panels either. I go through the drawers of watches, ties, and socks. Lena has a drawer of underwear at the bottom. At least I hope it is hers—for her sake.
Takashi texts that he’s in the living room now. Nothing was in the closets.
Under the bed is a flat box. No paintings are in there. Next up is the kitchen, although that seems like an unlikely place to hide them. The few cabinets big enough to hold the paintings do not have them.
“We need to leave,” I say.
“I think we covered it, unless he hid it behind these tiny paintings, but I don’t see how either would fit.” Takashi gestures to the larger paintings. “I checked those four. And all the frames are dusty—as if they have not been moved.”
We hurriedly exit and hide in the garbage chute room. We wait for about ten minutes, hopefully enough time for the young woman to pass by and enter Edmund’s apartment.
As we exit, the doorman says, “The other cleaner just arrived.”
“Yes, we know,” Takashi says. “We were called to another job, so she’ll complete this one. It’s good. There’s a lot of work.”
We meet up with William by the car.
“The paintings weren’t there.”
“I was really hoping they’d be there,” Takashi says. “Do you think he destroyed them?”
“He could keep them in his office,” William says.
“Officer Johnson reviewed the footage from Edmund’s office lobby and didn’t see him carry in any painting-size packages,” I say. “They have to be somewhere. Edmund wants Annabelle. I don’t think Annabelle will forgive him if he destroys them.” Now I have to hope that Annabelle hasn’t rejected him. “Let’s trail him. We have some time before I have to meet Annabelle for lunch.”
Annabelle is working from home and invited me over for lunch. Her apartment is not far from Edmund’s.
Takashi leaves to return to his office. We add more money to the parking meter and loiter on the other side of the street from Edmund’s gym behind a truck that is double-parked.
“He could have left already,” William says.
“There he is,” I say excitedly.
Edmund walks down the block, his duffel bag on his shoulder.
He stops to talk to an artist who has set up his paintings using the scaffolding structure as an outdoor gallery. They are all abstract paintings. Not Edmund’s style at all. He waves his hands as he’s talking to the guy but then moves on, turning the corner.
William says, “Let’s follow.”
“No, let’s go check out those paintings and talk to that artist. Edmund is not the type to talk to street artists, nefarious connections aside, so it’s weird he talked to that one.”
We wait for a taxi to pass, then cross the street. I get a good look at the paintings—and nearly stop breathing.
I grip William’s hand hard.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Come.” I tug him away, down the block from the painter. I pull him into the street to stand behind a parked van where we can’t be spotted by the artist.
“Those three paintings near us.” I tilt my head back toward the exhibit. “That’s the same brushwork as the forged painting.”
“Can you tell that?” William asks.
“Yes.”
“Right on your sister’s block.”
“Edmund would pass by this same vendor, too, on the way to my sister,” I say. Our glances meet.
“Could she be in on it?” William asks.
“No,” I say.
“No,” he says. But his no is cautious, considering. “But does Edmund want you to think she is? Why? Especially when he likes her?”
“To divide us,” I say. “And then he can be the loyal supporter on her side.”
“It’s still an odd way to treat the one you love.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Or does he want revenge against her because she rejected him?” he asks.
“We need to ask that guy if he is the artist,” I say. “And whether he ever makes copies of paintings.”
“Isn’t that a little too on the nose?” William asks.
“Probably. We should ask him if he does studio visits.”
We step out from behind the van and walk back to the artist’s stand.
“These paintings are great. Are you the artist?” William asks.
“Yes, yes,” the man says.
“Of all these paintings?” I point to the three with the same brushstroke and style as the one at the art exhibit last night. “These three seem different.”
“No, you’re right,” he says. “Those are by Matt.”
“Who’s Matt?” I ask.
“A friend. He gives me a commission if I sell any.”
I peer closely. It is definitely the same brushwork.
“How long have you been painting?” William asks.
Showing a little independence there, William, but I like it. That’s a good question.
“Many, many years.”
“Do you mind if I take a picture of Matt’s painting?” I ask. “I think it’s perfect for my mom, but I want to ask my dad what he thinks.”
“Sure,” he says.
I take a picture.
“Do you ever get asked for commissions?” William asks.
“Oh yeah, all the time,” he says. “But they’re tricky, you know. People describe one thing, you give them that, they change their mind. I don’t like doing them.”
“It’s probably better if they give you a picture to copy,” William says.
“Oh yeah, definitely better,” he says. “But I’m not your guy for copying paintings for money. It gives me a queasy feeling. Matt’s your guy for that.”
“Do you think we can meet Matt? Does he have a studio?” I ask. “I’d love to arrange a studio visit for my mom as part of her gift.”
“Yes, it’s out in Brooklyn. Here’s his card.” The artist pulls out his wallet and hands me a dog-eared card.
I sigh as we walk away from the artist. “It’s a bit depressing that it was so easily copied.”
“It doesn’t have the vitality of yours,” he says.
I look up at William, surprised. “Do you see that?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s call Officer Johnson.” I dial the number, and he picks up immediately. “I think we’ve found the artist who made the forgery. We were out on Eighty-Fifth Street and Lexington Avenue, and there’s a guy selling paintings with the same brushstrokes as the copy last night. The one selling them isn’t the artist, but he gave us the artist’s name and address.”
“You can tell just by brushstrokes?” Officer Johnson asks.
“In this case, yes.” I email Officer Johnson a photo of the painting.
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to get a warrant based on the similarity between the brushstrokes,” he says. “Hmm … it does look similar. I’m about to interview Lena again. If she admits she removed the paintings at Edmund’s suggestion, we’ve got more of a lead. Since Miju didn’t see anything, it’s not enough.”
“I understand,” I say, disappointed. I text him the name of the artist so they can run a search, then hang up and turn to William. “He said he doesn’t think it’s enough to get a warrant.”
“We should pay our own visit to the studio then.”
“Let’s text Takashi and Uncle Tony.”
William texts Takashi while I text Uncle Tony. They’ll do some research and planning while we meet with Annabelle.
“Are you sure I should come to this lunch with your stepsister?” William asks.
“It’s better if both of us decipher the situation. I’m not exactly unbiased.”
We pass a graduate in a bright-blue gown, her black, tasseled cap at a jaunty angle on her head. She walks arm in arm with her friend, also in a gown, their heads close together, their faces wreathed in huge grins, as a set of parents trails proudly behind, like the inverse of a mother duck with her ducklings. It must be an early graduation ceremony.
I say, “Congratulations,” a bit choked, and immediately tear up.
William darts a look at me. “Are you crying?”
“I always cry when I see graduates. You probably think it’s silly.”
“No.” He hands me a handkerchief, the one I had returned previously.
“It’s such a huge milestone for them. And they just radiate joy, don’t they? But I can’t even congratulate them because I immediately start to cry.”
He takes my hand, holding it warmly.
We enter the lobby of Annabelle’s building, nod hello to the doorman, and take the elevator up to my sister’s floor.