Chapter 6 - THE SECOND COPY
The first time I went to Gabriel Bianchi's estate, I was trying to keep one old ledger alive through a storm. The second time, I went with two investigators and a feeling that every person I trusted had been holding a different piece of the same broken picture.
Rosa refused to go home after our call. She waited at her attorney's office until Ellis arranged to interview her. I met them there, not because I was entitled to see Rosa's evidence, but because Rosa had specifically asked for me.
"Ada said you'd understand the work," she explained when we sat down. "She said you could tell the difference between an original and something made to look old."
On the table was a document tube sealed with aging masking tape. Rosa told Ellis when Ada had given it to her, where she'd stored it, and who had handled it since. Only after that did she allow the investigators to open the tube. Inside were enlarged condition photographs, tracing overlays, and a thin notebook containing Ada's observations about The Blue Window.
The most important page was not a confession. It was a diagram of the painting's backing board and the locations of several tiny markings beneath it. In the margin, Ada had written: Original transfer likely recorded on reverse of Isabel's portrait. Check black storage envelope.
"What portrait?" Ellis asked.
Rosa shook her head. "I never saw one. Isabel had dozens of photographs, but one portrait was always kept in a lightproof envelope. She said it was a terrible likeness."
I looked at the writing. The phrase Evelyn had remembered—where the light couldn't hurt it—returned with new weight. Isabel had not hidden everything behind The Blue Window. She had pointed toward another work, perhaps a portrait stored in darkness for conservation.
Rosa removed her glasses and wiped them. "Ada came to me four days before she died. She said somebody had altered the provenance file after she rejected it. She was going to speak publicly if she couldn't get the records corrected. I told her to wait until she had enough copies."
"Why didn't you come forward after the fire?" I asked, regretting the question as soon as it left my mouth.
Rosa flinched. "I tried. I called an attorney. I mailed a packet. Then a man I didn't know waited outside my daughter's school. He didn't threaten me. He just asked whether she liked walking home alone."
I felt shame crawl up my neck. I'd wanted courage to be easy for everyone else because I needed their silence to have a villainous explanation. Instead, the people who had failed to act were often frightened in ways I had no right to measure.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I am too," Rosa replied. "That's why I'm here now."
Ellis's team began verifying the documents. I was not part of every meeting and I stopped expecting to be. They shared enough for me to know their inquiry had widened to possible fraud, obstruction, and violent offenses tied to the two fires. Those were questions for evidence and courts, not for Dominic's private idea of justice.
Meanwhile the press discovered my name. A photograph taken at an old gala appeared beneath a headline calling me the mafia boss's girlfriend who helped uncover the scandal. The article omitted my art degree, my years studying provenance, and Ada's work. It described the dispute as romantic jealousy between two powerful families.
I wanted to throw my phone at the wall.
When I'd been a student, my professor used to ask who had done the research behind an important discovery. Everyone could name the celebrated collector who received the credit; few could name the assistant who spent months in the archives. Ada believed the answer mattered. She made sure I wrote my name on condition reports because, she said, a woman who did the work should not vanish behind the client who paid for it.
Now I'd vanished again, but this time into a romance people found more interesting than the documents. I spent an hour composing a furious response before deleting it. I did not want to risk prejudicing an investigation or turn Ada's death into a public argument about my reputation. Instead I sent a short factual statement to my lawyer and professional association, with copies of the reports I had authored. I began a fresh timeline of my work, noting who could corroborate each step. This was less satisfying than shouting and much more likely to help.
Priya read it and snorted. "Apparently an entire art crime can only happen because men want a woman."
"Apparently."
She made me laugh, then pushed a notebook toward me. "Write down what you actually did. Not what a reporter says."
I listed the disputed certificate, my objection, Ada's research, the concealed sleeve, the identification of the storage invoice, and the transfer of the ledger into evidence. I had contributed. Not alone, and not because I belonged to Dominic. The page steadied me.
The next complication arrived disguised as a legal notice. A lawyer representing North Pier Arts Fund sent the gallery an allegation that I had knowingly authenticated The Blue Window despite evidence of disputed ownership. My signature appeared on an amended certificate dated two weeks after I'd refused to approve the painting. The digital file included my professional license number and a neatly inserted paragraph declaring the object's history complete.
"That's impossible," I said. "I never signed it."
Priya looked at the scan. "Your signature looks right. Too right. That's from the form you signed last spring for the Harrington landscape."
She was correct. The loop of the H matched precisely, including a tiny skipped stroke caused by my pen running dry. We located the original document in the gallery's archive and compared the two. I reported the apparent misuse of my signature to Ellis and to my professional association.
Yet the consequences began before anyone completed an examination. Two clients canceled upcoming appointments. A museum removed my name from a panel. A stranger sent an email saying I belonged in prison with the Russos.
For a terrifying afternoon, I wondered if Vincent had anticipated every way to strip me of credibility. He didn't have to hurt me physically if he could make my work worthless.
Dominic called after the notice became public. "My attorney can get it withdrawn."
"Your attorney is already representing you."
"We can pay for your defense."
"We?" I repeated. "Dominic, there's no we in this legal problem. I have my own lawyer."
"I know. I only meant—"
"I know what you meant. But if your money solves every crisis in my life, no one will believe I can speak freely about yours."
He exhaled. "You're right."
The answer still surprised me. Then he added, "My counsel found an internal email about the amended certificate. Vincent approved the upload. I've directed them to preserve it and provide it through the appropriate channels."
"Thank you. That's useful."
He sounded almost relieved that I'd said so. I hated how much affection could survive between two people who had hurt each other.
Three days later, my lawyer informed me that the fund's claim was being challenged with the original file history and other records. It did not restore the appointments I'd lost, but it made the distinction between an accusation and proof clear. Priya insisted we celebrate by buying two slices of cake from a bakery on Atlantic Avenue. We ate them standing on the sidewalk, laughing when the wind blew powdered sugar onto our coats.
At the very moment I began to believe we might reach the truth without more violence, Gabriel called. His voice shook. A staff member had discovered that an exterior door at the estate had been forced overnight. Nothing seemed missing except a black portfolio from the climate-controlled archive.
"Was it Isabel's portrait?" I asked.
"We think so. I didn't know it was important until your call."
"Did anybody get hurt?"
"No. Everyone was asleep. The camera caught a figure, but the face is covered."
I sat on the edge of Priya's couch and stared at the cake crumbs on my sleeve. The missing portfolio might be innocent, might have been sold years earlier, might contain nothing at all. Yet the timing tightened every nerve.
A message arrived from Ellis soon afterward. Investigators had obtained an authorized search of the Long Island City storage unit. Inside were records and a second, unopened black envelope bearing Isabel's initials. The contents would need careful examination before conclusions could be drawn.
I found myself holding my breath until another message came.
We also recovered a handwritten list of people paid to keep quiet. Your name appears at the bottom.
I read it three times. I had never taken money from Vincent or the fund. I had never agreed to stay silent. But apparently someone had written my name into a history I hadn't lived.
Then a photograph arrived from an unfamiliar sender. It showed the inside of my old Chelsea apartment, long since emptied, with a red circle drawn around the door.
The accompanying message said: You have one day to stop talking, Mia. The next address won't be empty.
May you like
For the first time since leaving Dominic, I understood how quickly protecting my independence could become confused with pretending I was safe. I picked up the phone and called Ellis, then my lawyer. After that, I called the woman whose borrowed apartment had become my refuge.
"Celeste," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "I need to tell you something before you decide whether I can stay."
