Page 52 of Burning Caine

“Then, I saw this.” He held up the sponge from his table. He pointed to a small speck of black, one out of dozens.

“Saw what?”

He placed it on the table again, got out the magnifying loupe, and held it in place for me over a different speck. “Look closely. What do you see?”

I leaned down to look through the loupe and focused for a moment. “It looks like a fragment of charred wood. I found the painting under a piano; the legs had burned out from underneath it. Is that what this is?”

“Sì, now look here.” He moved the loupe to the first bit of black he had shown me on the sponge.

I leaned back down to look closer. This one was different. It was smooth, not like wood at all; it looked like a tiny sweep of paint. “Some of the paint is coming off?”

“Sì!” He looked from me to the Chagall and back again, as though I should have made the same connection he obviously already had.

“Antonio, I’m sure some paint will crack off after this much damage.”

“No, no, no! Hold this and look.” He handed me the loupe and pointed to the spot on the canvas where the signature was barely revealed from his initial cleaning efforts.

As I watched, he took a scalpel and lifted a part of the signature. I still didn’t get it. Then he ran the blade along other sections of paint in the same area. Nothing came up.

I stood and stared at him in a mix of fascination and panic. “The signature was added after the varnish?” Varnish always came last and it sealed everything in. The signature should be under the varnish, like the rest of the paint, but it was on top instead.

“Sì!”

I put one hand up slowly to my mouth, covering my gaping jaw. I looked at him and then back to it.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered. “It’s a fake.”

Chapter 21

Antonio

“No,no,no,no.”She shook her head, staring at the painting. I had given her the first piece of evidence and had to wait for her to draw the conclusions. “This painting was confirmed by the Chagall Committee in 2015. It can’t be a fake. Maybe the varnish burned off in the fire?”

“The other paints are still sealed.”

“Maybe he signed it after he finished it. Some artists did that, especially if they didn’t like the painting.”

“Sì,possibile.”

She turned to me suddenly. “Computer? Do you have a computer I can use?”

I led her to my office, my daytime sanctuary. It sat in the front corner of the studio, furthest away from reception. The wall opposite the door had a row of glass windows which would have looked onto Via Calabria, were they not frosted over for privacy, and long flat drawers underneath. The walls were painted a cool blue with green undertone, a tint of manganese reflecting a foggy morning sky. Along the wall to the right, a black leather couch held decorative pillows Sofia had insisted on, and my diplomas hung above. The other wall was covered in bookshelves. Conservation manuals, art history books, historic auction guides, and a few pieces of sculpture.

But more importantly for Samantha, a desk at the center with the computer, my office chair, and two visitor chairs. I unlocked the computer as she sat. She removed her jacket and threw it on one of the spare chairs, revealing a tank top under the leather motorcycle outfit. While she frantically typed, I stood behind her, admiring.

“This is the Foster claims system. I can access everything from here.” She whipped through screen after screen until she landed on a page where the photos and documentation were available for the claim. She pulled up a high-resolution photo of the painting and zoomed in as close as she could to the area of the signature. “This was taken when they sent it off to the Chagall Committee. We’ve got all the supporting data, which will be a huge help.”

I leaned over her shoulder to get a better look, resting a hand on her back, where the tank top didn’t shield her skin from me. She rolled the chair to give me a better view of the monitor, but I held steady, feeling her breath pick up.

“I don’t see anything here, do you?”

Placing my hand on top of hers, I used the mouse to move the image around. Her hand was warm and surprisingly stable for how often it shook. She was getting used to me. She held her breath, staring at the screen while I leaned over her shoulder.

“Niente.” There was nothing helpful on this image.

As I took my hand away from hers, she closed the image and we were left looking at a file list of attached documents. I spotted what I needed. “Open the ultraviolet photo?”

The picture I had asked for was of the painting, but the colors were all different. It had been taken under an ultraviolet light, which revealed things hidden from the naked eye.