Page 45 of Enduring Caine
When I joined the FBI, my first—and only—posting was Boston, with the Art Crime Team. First day on the job, I had a stack of assignments waiting for me, in addition to my primary case, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist. The top in that stack was a stolen Correggio, taken from a wealthy woman’s home in 2012. Correggio had done several small works of Mary Magdalen in the early sixteenth century, and that case was for one of them.
Giovanni continued, “I fell in love with how focused she was on the book and first asked to buy it three years ago.”
“She’s stunning,” said Antonio. “Don’t you think, bella?”
She was worth five million dollars and did not belong to Giovanni Ferraro. Bought it two months ago, he’d said? That answered the question: He was not telling the truth about switching to the straight and narrow path. If he was really working on turning his business around for two years, he wouldn’t have a stolen painting here.
Cesca said, “I’m doing a copy of her. Just sketches so far. I’m not sure how to get that look on her face right.”
Then again, I could have been mistaken. Maybe the original was stolen, copied, or this was a forgery. Stranger things had happened. I’d fallen in love with Antonio over a fraudulent copy of a Chagall, so why not? “Brazil, really? Do you go there often?”
“Not often enough. The last time was Carnival two years ago.” He turned to Cristian. “We should go again.”
The original was a framed panel, although this frame was different. If I could take it off the wall, I could check the back. The real one had inscriptions and a gallery tag on it, but anyone shipping it across the Atlantic illegally would have removed or concealed those. Infrared would show the change in direction Correggio took when he was painting the water, which originally included an abbey in the distance.
Leo muttered, “A lot’s changed in two years.”
Giovanni’s easy manner melted away. Without looking at him, he said, “Leonardo, go get Johann. There’s more artwork to show them on the second floor and you have an early morning.”
I turned to see Leonardo behind me, crimson flushing his neck. His eyes narrowed when they met mine, and he walked out.
Two years. Antonio said that was when Gio had his brush with death and started changing things. Which matched the timing Johann mentioned about the reduction in staff.
“What’s his problem?” asked Antonio, watching the door. “He was never particularly pleasant, but—”
Cesca spoke at the same time. “He’s not usually like—”
Giovanni raised a hand, cutting them both off. His posture and voice relaxed. “Samantha, I apologize for Leonardo’s behavior. He gets overly confident in his role sometimes and forgets his place.”
“Papa…” Cristian touched Gio’s arm and gestured to the door. “We have business to take care of.”
“Of course.” Gio turned his watch over. “Cesca, you said you wanted to show your cousin Antonio your art studio?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, Papa.”
Giovanni inclined his head toward me. “I’d intended to show Samantha the artwork on the second floor, so take them there first, once Johann arrives.”
“Thank you,” she said.
I returned my gaze to the painting in front of us. If we had limited time, I had to make the most of it. “What’s she called?”
“Saint Mary Magdalen Reading by the River. But I prefer to call her simplyThe Magdalen.”
I nodded, stepping closer to take in every detail. The name was right. The figure, the book, the blue clothes. All of it. When I saw Elliot, I’d tell him about this piece and had to be sure I could answer any question. I could use his cell phone to look up details on the painting and compare to the original.
No, wait. Cesca had a cell phone I could use for that. Even if they monitored hers like they did Vin’s, searching for close-ups of a painting she was copying would be reasonable. Expected, even.
Giovanni placed his hand on my back again, and I startled. “You love her as much as I do, don’t you? She’s so lovely the world disappears around her.”
I stood straighter, scanning the pieces on the shelves. Fragments from frescoes and mosaics. Ancient leather-bound books. A set of dog-faced canopic jars to house the Egyptian dead’s organs. How many of these things genuinely belonged to him? And how many had been taken from their homes, whether from an actual owner or dug up and secreted out in the middle of the night?
Giovanni’s gaze followed mine. “I used to help people navigate red tape so they could take ownership of the beauties they purchased.”
“Papa,” said Cristian, forcefully. Were his words about where they were supposed to be or the direction of Gio’s speech?
Cesca drifted away from our conversation, pulling Antonio with her.
“But then I see a piece likeThe Magdalenand realize she belongs at home, not in some collection in South America. She’s Italian. Too many of our treasures have been pilfered for the enjoyment of other cultures.”