27. Galahad #2
Morganna hummed aloud. “This is where things start getting interesting. His credentials as an authenticator are impeccable: Christie’s, peer-reviewed publications, industry endorsements, some work for the Hermitage, and our sources who’ve vouched for him professionally—Samantha Ferraro, Jean Dupont, and I suppose Henri Dubois.
I didn’t find anything to dispute his qualifications. ”
“But?” I said. There had to be a but.
“But the downstream pattern doesn’t match.
Items Caulfield personally authenticates end up in private collections more often than I would have expected.
Not always, but over half of the ones I could track went to private sales rather than auction.
At his level, industry average is closer to fifteen to twenty percent. ”
“What does that mean?” asked Grace.
“He owns a four-bedroom flat in Chelsea, but his stated income doesn’t account for it. It’s not a dramatic gap, but I couldn’t find any other evidence of how he afforded the flat, so it stood out.”
“You think he’s front-running,” Grace said as more of a statement than a question.
Front-running? I stared at Grace as she settled back in her seat, the surprise over Henri Dubois’ reward already gone.
“In securities,” Grace said, looking at the phone, “if you know ahead of time that your firm is going to recommend a stock, you buy it for favored clients before the recommendation moves the price. It’s a federal crime.”
“Not in the art market, though,” said Arthur, with all the familiarity of the art world as the son of a billionaire. “Not enough regulation.”
“Yeah.” Grace had mentioned going to school for finance.
Some of her past was leaking through in her words, almost taking over her bearing.
She sat a little stiffer than normal. “If Caulfield knows what pieces are coming to an auction market, he tips a collector who’s paying him for the lead.
The collector approaches the seller directly with a guaranteed offer, usually lower than what an auction would bring.
The seller takes it because there’s no auction risk, no commission, no waiting for months.
Caulfield collects a tip from the collector, and he can skim from the seller’s end as well if he’s also brokering the deal.
Pretty much the same mechanism, just a different asset class. ”
I’d known something was off about Caulfield. He’d been too keen when we met him at the pub. And the phone call right after he left? He must have been tipping off?—
“Kessler,” I said. “He’s front-running for Kessler, isn’t he?”
Morganna chuckled. “Told you that was the interesting part.”
“You mean…” Grace rubbed her hands over her face and took a few deep breaths. “It wasn’t the jeweler who tipped off Richter and Kessler?”
My arms started itching again. They wanted to wrap around her and show her this would be all right, instead of sitting across the table and letting her spiral.
She’d gone through such an emotional roller coaster today.
But it wouldn’t break her. Not Grace Laurent.
“Caulfield told Kessler, who sent his fixer to get the egg. And when he couldn’t?—”
“He went to the man whose family has five million dollars waiting in escrow for the egg to show up.” Grace’s hands dropped from her face, and her big, beautiful green eyes met mine. “To find out if I’d been in touch with Henri yet.”
“That all makes sense to me,” said Merlin. “What do you think, Marj?”
“It all fits,” Morganna said. “My read is that Caulfield wants this sale to close cleanly so he can get as much as he can from it. If, on the other hand, he’s been feeding intel to Kessler specifically, it’s because Kessler’s been paying more than the brokering earns.
Kessler has that kind of money, so it’s possible. ”
“Then we can’t let Caulfield do the authentication tomorrow,” I said.
“Why does it matter?” asked Grace. “If he’s front-running, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not taking it to auction. I’m giving it directly to Henri. Caulfield can tip off whoever he wants. There’s no competing bid.”
Why did it matter? Because Caulfield was a slimeball. Because he pretended to be excited for her when he was actually excited for himself. Because she didn’t deserve to be manipulated.
“What do you think I should do?” Grace asked me, as if I had the answers.
If it were up to me, I’d toss the egg into the Vltava River and fly her home that night.
Five million was a lot of money, but it wasn’t worth anything if Morganna’s read was wrong, or if Caulfield was more dangerous than someone who was selling intel.
I looked at Arthur, the man whose judgment wouldn’t be clouded by his emotions.
But he shook his head at me. “You’re running point on this, Galahad, so it’s your call.”
Fuck. That was also part of the pitch—no red tape, he’d said, and no one calling our shots for us.
If I were working for White Spring Security, I’d have someone to report to who’d make this decision.
Be smart. Be strategic. Don’t just try and protect her—try to make the right choice.
“Grace needs the egg authenticated and Henri Dubois has already called in Dr. Caulfield for it. Morganna confirmed his credentials, and there will be five of us on the property. And as Grace said, even if he tips Kessler off about the authentication, Kessler is Dubois’s problem after we’re gone. ”
“Okay.” Grace slid off the couch and stood. “I should make some calls.”
“Use my room,” Arthur said, gesturing toward the bedroom door on the left of the TV room. “Better light and plenty of privacy.”
She was on her way to her suitcase. “No, I’ll check into my room and?—”
I got up, and she cut off.
“Using Arthur’s room wasn’t really optional, was it?” she asked.
I lowered my voice to talk to her, while the others finished their conversation with Morganna, giving Grace and me a moment of privacy in the full room. “We’d all feel better if you were here with us.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I should have known that was coming.”
My hand moved, heading for her arm, but my brain caught up and overrode the movement. I redirected and clasped the back of my neck. “Calling home?”
“I should call my parents. And probably Izzy. They’ve been texting me for updates.”
“Are you going to tell them what’s going on?”
She let out an exhausted laugh. “Where would I even start?”
“With the truth?”
She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I don’t want them to worry.”
Of course she didn’t. She was protecting them the way she knew how, and I understood that impulse far too well. Pushing her to admit the truth and get their emotional support would just make her dig in.
So I nodded.
At least she didn’t argue about staying in the suite. She headed straight to Arthur’s room, and the television came on a moment later. Background noise with a laugh track, likely so her friends and family wouldn’t worry.
“If we’d had Morganna’s analysis before we left the States,” said Arthur, “we would have been in much better shape.”
Merlin was watching the door Grace had gone through. “So hire her.”
“I’m trying. She’s being weird about it.”
I sat next to Radek, who was reviewing a satellite image on one of the laptops.
Merlin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your girl pulled the front-running comparison fast.”
No one spoke. He meant me. My girl. “She’s my client. And she’s a woman, not a girl.”
Merlin didn’t react, just kept talking. “Morganna’s background check had her in international finance up until two and a half years ago.”
“That tracks. Why’d she leave?” Arthur asked.
“Morganna didn’t find a reason, but our guess was it had to do with her family.” Merlin shrugged. “That’s usually the kind of thing that takes someone from a promising career to opening a little coffee shop in a small town.”
It wasn’t just a little coffee shop, though. The older man and his crossword, the people who smiled when they came through her door, the way she delivered my coffee with a flourish. She hadn’t left anything behind. She’d found the thing that mattered.
“It makes her happy,” I said, as though it explained everything.
Arthur and Merlin both cocked their eyebrows at me. The questions in their eyes had nothing to do with Grace’s resume, but everything to do with the weight settling in my chest. The one that got heavier when I imagined Grace in a cold boardroom or sitting alone in a room staring at a spreadsheet.
I pulled the laptop toward me. “We should get back to planning.”