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Counterfeit

By Lee Carver

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Chapter 1

Richard eased his cell phone from his pocket and snapped a photo of the young woman from the back, recording little more than her clothing and height. And her slender frame. She had stood in front of the Vermeer for a good twenty minutes, sometimes taking a step left or right, backward or forward. At times she slipped a small camera out of her jeans to snap a specific area of the canvas, which the Rijks Museum allowed without flash, her attention focused on each element of The Milkmaid.
Sure, the painting was beautiful. Exquisite even. But for detail and complexity, it didn’t compare with Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, which covered most of the wall at the end of the gallery. A shifting swarm of museum visitors gaped and photographed that canvas, his personal favorite. Such intricate detail. Such masterful use of shades and focusing.
Maybe he’d finally stumbled upon a lead to the counterfeit art. He could be back on the plane in a few weeks with a feather in his professorial cap. The element of danger in this assignment had intrigued him at first, but he was way out of his element.
The woman sighed and checked her watch.
Richard smoothly moved to a painting on a different wall, turning his back to her and bending his face down to the information plaque at the right. Her steps sounded toward the double glass door. He looked up as she waltzed through the great hall as if she owned the place and was scanning it for decorating ideas about the ball she would give that weekend. Her expression, glimpsed from the side, radiated a calm pleasure. Not what he would expect from a fraud artist.
Effecting a casual but quick walk, he followed just in time to see her descend the stairs rather than take one of the two crowded, slow elevators. He did the same.
Crossing the marble exhibition hall toward the museum’s in-house restaurant, she paused before the menu on a stand at the top of a short, open flight of stairs. Instead of presenting herself for seating, she turned, descended, and headed for the exit.
Outside, she flipped her chestnut brown hair in the sun, glided down the front steps to the street, and made for one of the food trailers set up along the park. Sizzling wursts slathered in mustard riding on fresh buns enticed him, but he kept his distance.
Aware that he had no spy craft lessons in how to follow a suspect, Richard hung back and found a bench with a view of his quarry. Maarten had given him a few tips on police investigation as they worked the case together, but that and watching crime shows left him insecure about how to effectively trail a criminal.
The suspect wore the clothes of a youthful tourist—old jeans, the ubiquitous Aeropostale T-shirt, and tennis shoes—which helped her blend into the crowd. She could easily be one of his art history students, but maybe a few years older. He brushed his hands along the pleat of his khaki slacks, thinking that he had dressed a level above the average traveler.
His phone buzzed with a message, Maarten asking if he was on to something. He tapped in a reply: See the woman getting a wurst at the first stand right now? I’m following her.
Want me to take a turn? Maarten answered.
Yes. I’ll stay out of sight for a while.
Maarten ambled up to the food stand next to the one where she waited in line, bought a paper plate of hot French fries, and found a bench. He proceeded to dip the end of each one in turn into mayonnaise before eating it. How English of him, though a lot of the Dutch had picked up the custom.
Forcing himself to leave the area, Richard walked a block away to a stand-up pizza restaurant. While the slice didn’t come up to the flavor of a loaded combination American pizza, it provided stomach fodder and kept him occupied when all he wanted to do was follow the woman.
Distracted, wishing Maarten would message him again, Richard chomped his lunch and washed it down with a cup of iced Coke. After a week of talking to museums and art gallery owners, his only progress had been adjusting to the time difference between Atlanta and Amsterdam.
He checked the photo he’d taken of her and decided on a new course of action, based on the good reception he’d gotten from the museum management.
He returned to the Rijks Museum and waved his pass at the guards, who recognized him by now and gave him a nod to enter. Noting the watchful cameras in every room and passageway, he went behind the busy ticket counter and tapped on the door leading to the security offices.
A bleary-eyed guard, who looked as if he walked a beat at night and stared at monitors all day, opened up. “Ja?”
Richard showed him the director’s letter of permission to all areas of the museum and received admission. He held up his cell phone photo of the woman. “Recognize her?”
Most of these guys spoke a good bit of English. Certainly more than his budding attempts to speak Dutch. No language should have that many consonants. Richard swept across his phone’s screen to another view with just a sliver of her face from the side.
The guard nodded. “She comes here every day. Every day. Alone, not like bus tourists.”
“She has a monthly or annual pass?” If she bought a pass, he could get a name. Maybe not her real name and address, but it was a start.
Shrugging, the guard turned to his monitors. “This week, she likes Vermeer. Last week, Rembrandt. Not like other tourists. She waits a long time at paintings.”
“Yeah, like nearly a half hour. Do you have any tape that shows her face? I need a good picture. She was staring at The Milkmaid this morning.” The guard would know the painting by its Dutch name, though. “She left the Seventeenth Century Gallery about forty-five minutes ago.”
The man knew his equipment. Before his pizza had settled, Richard was looking at a video of himself watching her. When she turned to leave for lunch, the corner camera caught her full face in a great shot. Richard left with a copy of that sequence, so happy that he tipped the guard and slapped him on the back.
The man’s face cracked with a smile as he unlocked the door for Richard’s departure. “Glad to help. Anytime.”
Richard took the tram from its stop near the museum’s front door to the main Amsterdam police station. After being admitted to the building, he climbed the stairs to the desk of his police contact on the next floor.
Jakob got off the phone and greeted him with a warm handshake. “What have you found, my friend? You have good luck already?”
“You’re good at reading a person, aren’t you?”
“It’s convenient in my profession. So tell me.”
Richard handed over the jump drive with the woman’s face. “I need identification of a woman. Or even who she claims to be. She may have a monthly or annual membership at the Rijks.”
“We’ll do our best. Does she have a record?”
“What you’ll see is all I know. She looks American, dresses like a tourist. I haven’t heard her voice. Maarten Alders is following her now, so we may soon know where she’s staying.”
The director moved around his desk and called to a young female officer. He spoke to her in Dutch, which Richard more or less understood only because he spoke German and knew what was being said.
“Oh, by the way,” Richard added with a wave of his hand, “can you put a single photo from that tape segment back on the jump drive when you return it?”
“Sure. I’ll ask Andries to do that.”
Having called all these resources into play, Richard realized they may be chasing a red herring.

***

Kendra closed her eyes against the early afternoon sun and savored the salty wurst and fresh, crunchy bread. She’d been so hungry. When she opened them again, the man who followed her out of the museum had risen from the park bench and left the area. Good. Moving about the city alone, day and night, she made it a practice to observe her surroundings and be cautious.
He looked okay—attractive, in fact—but he’d been sticking pretty close to her in the gallery. So maybe they had the same taste in fine art. That would be refreshing, especially if he were straight. She’d met some real dorks in this business. She hadn’t looked right at this guy, but his sandy hair was clean and well cut, tousled with curls, and he was lean and tall. Not as lean as the typical runner build. He apparently exercised in some way that developed his chest. She liked that.
She snuffed a chuckle to herself and took another bite. Pathetic to be fantasizing about a stranger in a museum. Should she return to study handiwork of the masters or go back to her room in the old residence and try to duplicate what she’d observed? She could practically smell the oil paints calling to her. Yes, go while daylight still shined. The light in her room was totally inadequate after dark.
Reaching for the water bottle in her denim shoulder pack, she scanned the crowd strolling the food area. She felt uncomfortable somehow. The good-looking guy hadn’t returned, yet she still sensed she was being watched.
Not delaying after her last bite, she marched quickly toward the tram and hopped aboard as it clambered to a stop, swiping her transportation pass through the reader. A lot of people crammed in behind her, but she didn’t see anyone looking directly at her. Tourists, locals, a couple of women with young children.
Taking line five to the Central Station, she went inside the subway building, downstairs on the escalator, and immediately up again. She found nothing to be worried about in the milling crowd, but her skin crawled with suspicion.
Leaving the subway building, she grabbed line thirteen of the tram to the less expensive area of Amsterdam where she’d found a room. She swung on the hand strap to the stop over two miles inland from the canals and art district. As she descended from the tram, a Dutch-looking man helped a lady get off first with her stroller. No one followed her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Graham.” She greeted her landlady, who swept around the front door with a sturdy broom. “Your flowers look nice.” A bit of fragrant mint and a couple of basil plants had sprung up among them.
“Ah, yes, they’re enjoying these summer days. They know this sunny warmth won’t last long.”
Kendra paused, enjoying a moment with the sturdy woman whose peppered-silver hair glistened in the direct sun. In her simple print dress and leather shoes, she would be taken for Dutch. “Do you ever think of moving back to the US?”
“Not as long as my daughter and grandchildren live here, dear. You’ll understand someday.”
Kendra thought of how little family she had that she would travel to see, but Mrs. Graham didn’t know about that. “Oh, I understand. You have to be near those you love.”
After giving the street a final scoping, Kendra headed up the flight of stairs, ready to inspect her canvas with fresh eyes. She unlocked her room, trembling with excitement to return to her work. She dropped her shoulder bag on the single bed and circled the easel to view the canvas, which was still turned toward the window. Her view darted from the milkmaid’s shoulder to her face, from the soft light coming in the painting’s window to the shadowed background. Not bad. Really. But not Johannes Vermeer. Would she ever find that perfect combination of oil paints and brush strokes?
She shrugged into a painting smock, uncovered her oil palette, and calmed her frustration with a deep breath. Deciding to work on the subject’s frock while she had good light, she carefully adjusted the color of the oils for just the right shade of royal blue in the folds of her skirt.
As she lifted her brush, her cell phone’s melody indicated she had a message. She paused. Having limited her use of the phone while in Europe, it could be important.
She reached in her bag and found the phone’s message from her boss at the Kimbell Museum. Mrs. Odem’s request, so surprising that Kendra’s head jerked back when she read it, was that she make an appointment with a local gallery owner about the purchase of a painting. The museum wanted copies of its provenance as well as her evaluation of its condition. As an art librarian, Kendra felt far out of her pay grade.
After flipping a series of texts back and forth about how valuable and cost-saving her assistance would be, she agreed to make an appointment with Stefan Appelhof, of the Appelhof Gallery. Mrs. Odem sent the number and address.
Kendra took a deep breath to calm her jitters and thought about what she would say. Mr. Applehof’s congenial voice made the call easy, and his Dutch accent proved to be interesting and understandable. “Yes, I received a call from Mrs. Odem that you were in our city and would be contacting me. How very convenient. Could we plan a time at the end of the business day? I could give my full attention to your visit.”
Relieved that she wouldn’t be interrupting a vacation day too much, she readily agreed.
“Then I look forward to receiving you at six tomorrow, Ms. Cooper. It will be a pleasure.” He spoke the words with such warmth that she put away any dread and anticipated the meeting. She went back to her painting with a smile—until she realized what a heavy responsibility she had just accepted.
When the natural light from the window faded, Kendra turned on the weak ceiling bulb and added the small lamp she’d bought second hand. Her stomach growled, long ago unsatisfied by her quick wurst in the park. Still she placed the pigments lightly on the canvas, hoping to achieve some degree of accomplishment before quitting.
A tap at her door jerked her back to the real world and her rented room. “Kendra? It’s Hattie Graham. Would you like to have a bowl of soup with me?”
She rested her brush on the palette and straightened her aching back. After hastily turning her painting around, she opened the door. “Thank you. That’s so kind.”
“I noticed you hadn’t gone out for dinner, and…well, I’ve got plenty to share, if you don’t mind simple food. My mother-in-law will join us.”
Her stomach gave an extra squeeze at the prospect of warm stew again, as Mrs. Graham had shared once last week. She widened the door with a huge smile. “I’d love to eat with you. Give me a minute to wash my hands, and I’ll be right down.” Maybe she had some of that fresh brown bread to go with it like last time.
Mrs. Graham bent around her. “How’s your painting going?”
Kendra remained in the doorway blocking her entrance. “I’m having fun with it. Nothing more. Going to the Rijksmuseum always inspires me. See you in a few minutes.”
Later, sated with vegetable stew, brown bread, cheese, and conversation with the two Mrs. Grahams, Kendra let herself into her cooling room and pulled on a sweater. She clicked through the photos she’d taken at the museum, deleted a few, and moved the rest to the old laptop she kept locked in her suitcase.
Viewing them on the monitor, she compared the colors with what she had painted. At some point, she would have to let the canvas thoroughly dry so she could roll it up and take it home.
Three weeks had seemed like such a long vacation when she planned this trip. She’d hoped to make her hard savings pay over the next couple of years by investing in an art vacation in Amsterdam. That aspiration was based on everything her graduate professor had said about copied fine art and specific comments by her boss at the Kimbell Art Museum. Speculations on the dollar value of her work kept her awake late into the night.
The Dallas/Fort Worth art market was rife with opportunity.

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