The Da Vinci Deception

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

“Fans of Iain Pears's art mysteries will enjoy the lavish detail Swan provides on the minutiae of forgery. The captivating premise of
The Da Vinci Deception
will win over those who like their thrillers well decorated with objets d'art.”

—
Booklist

 

“A grand old caper yarn of classic design, filled with tantalizing details of forging techniques and facts about da Vinci's work….
The Da Vinci Deception
isn't just good, it's terrific.”

—
Book-of-the-Month Club News

 

“A series of cat-and-mouse chases that range from New York to Lake Como…provides a rousing…denouement.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

“A full cast of sharply etched characters, both villains and good guys, trace a twisting adventure.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

 

“A surprisingly sexy and dirty world where nothing is sacred—least of all, art….The beauty of
The Cézanne Chase
is in the technical details about fine art—great tips on conserving it, packing and shipping it, buying and selling it, and destroying it forever.”

—
The New York Times Book Review

 

 

“Swan continues his art-crime series featuring Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector Jack Oxby… now hot on the trail of the last Fabergé egg created before the Russian Revolution…The pacing is quick and the action plentiful…Swan's series strikes a comfortable balance between the more hard-boiled Lovejoy antique mysteries and Iain Pears' more literary art-historical crime novels.”

—
Booklist

The bee may be likened to deceit, for it has honey in its mouth and poison behind.

—Leonardo da Vinci

H
e pulled a thin blanket over his head to blot out the noises. He wanted to sleep. To get past the last of more than fourteen hundred nights in the state prison at Rahway. He tossed away the blanket and sat cross-legged on the narrow bed; hugging a pillow against his chest, he began rocking and humming. Then, abruptly, he rolled over onto his feet and switched on a fluorescent light that hovered over an artist's table. Taped to it was a letter he had read so many times he could recite it from memory. He stared at the words and they all rushed into his head at once:

Stiehl's fingers explored the worn folds of the letter. He looked at his
watch. It was 4:35. The incessant snoring of the other inmates had grown obscene. He fell back into bed and recalled his visit to the warden's office three days earlier.

Warden Connolly had pointed to a thin box wrapped in blue paper on his desk. “For you, Curtis. It was delivered this morning by messenger.”

Stiehl picked up the box. “It hasn't been opened.” He looked quizzically at the warden. “Isn't someone going to check it out first?”

“We'll do that together,” he smiled. “I have a strong suspicion there aren't any hacksaw blades in that little box.”

Stiehl noted the box carried a mid-Manhattan postmark and had been dated January 3, 1994. He opened it and found a letter and an envelope that was sealed with a daub of red wax. He began reading the letter aloud, then to himself. After reading it he folded the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Connolly had watched this closely. “Good news?” he asked.

“I'm not sure. Someone thinks we've got mutual interests to talk over.”

Stiehl examined the envelope. The paper was heavy, expensive, and in the wax had been impressed the initials “JK” in intaglio. Each letter was voluptuously formed with serifs appended to serifs. He carefully separated the upper flap of the envelope. Inside were five one-hundred-dollar bills. He held them out and fanned the money as if he were holding a winning poker hand.

“You have something in your hand worth talking about.”

Stiehl did not reply. He picked out two of the bills and rubbed a thumb and forefinger over each. Then he took hold of the corner of one and carefully tore it. In the light from the large windows behind him he could see the tiny fibers. A very slight smile crossed his lips. Then he replaced the money in the envelope.

“Maybe we will have a talk.” He closed the envelope. “Maybe we will.”

Connolly held out a hand. “We'll keep the money until you leave. It will be safe.”

“I'm sure,” Stiehl answered, and turned to the door.

“Stay and we'll have a chat, Curtis. You'll be leaving in a few days and I make it a practice to talk with each man before he moves on. Though I usually end up having a monologue.”

In front of the windows two chairs faced a low table on which was a
tray and a pot of coffee. “Let's be comfortable.” The coffee was hot and Stiehl noted it actually smelled like coffee.

“It's just a few more days. Got any plans?”

Stiehl held the cup with both hands and gently blew on the rising wisp of steam. His prison garb was faded nearly white by the strong detergent used in the prison laundry. Yet it fit him perfectly. His hair had grayed slightly, enough to contrast with skin tanned even now at winter's end. He had a good face with a small cleft in his chin and blue eyes that had an inquiring brightness. He was nearly six feet tall but his hands belonged to an even larger man. His fingers were long and slender.

Stiehl searched for an answer that would not invite further questions. “No sir. I've some ideas but no plan.”

“When I talk to the men before they leave, each one wants to dump their anger, but they don't know how. So I do the talking. Is that going to happen with you?”

Stiehl avoided eye contact, “I didn't ask for a meeting, Warden. Sure I'm angry. Damned good and angry, but I'll handle that.” He stood and walked to the window. “Four years in a place like this and you don't know who to believe or who to trust.”

“You can trust me. They say you're a hell of an artist. Is that so?”

“I can't claim to be an artist, Warden. That file on your lap probably says something about my ability to copy things.”

Connolly patted the file that Stiehl correctly guessed contained his dossier. “The file tells us many things, but not everything. You are an artist, and a good one. Why not admit to that?”

Stiehl shrugged. “All right, I'm an artist. A good one, some people say. But there are a ton of very good artists to compete against and I haven't decided if that's what I want to do.”

The warden leafed through the papers in Stiehl's file. “I can't find anything about the schools you attended. Do you mind sharing that information?”

Stiehl resisted the invitation to talk about himself.

“There wasn't much. The usual schools.” He rummaged through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. “Okay to smoke?”

Connolly nodded. “Did you study art or sketching?”

Stiehl lit a cigarette, then grabbed an ashtray from the warden's desk. “I took some courses.”

“I understand your reluctance to talk about yourself ”—he motioned toward the window—“but that's a real world out there and people are
going to ask questions that you'll have to answer. And consider the handicap you'll have. A prison record is not easily put aside no matter what special talent you can offer.”

Stiehl drew heavily on the cigarette then slowly exhaled the smoke. He looked out to the long stretch of wall and the exercise yard where he had spent so many boring hours. But all of prison life is boring. And all too often, very frightening. Just to be in the warden's office was a reminder of the early days. He had been here once before. It was on his thirty-fourth day in prison. There had been an attempted break. A guard and an inmate were killed. He was questioned from one in the morning until after sunrise and was accused of being an organizer. He had known of the escape attempt but played no part in it. But it had gone on his record and destroyed any chance for early parole.

“When did you first show an interest in becoming an artist?”

Stiehl's back was to the warden now. He stared down to a patch of ground where he and another inmate had raised a few anemic-looking flowers and tomatoes that would never ripen on the vine. In prison you trust no one, he thought. He wanted someone to believe in him. He turned and faced Warden Connolly.

“My dad died when I was nine and I was raised by my mother and her sister. My aunt was crippled with polio. She never married and never seemed to resent that she wasn't. She would read all the time and read to me when I asked. My mother . . .” His voice trailed off to barely a whisper. “She was sick a lot, too. She was a teacher. She taught art at the high school, and turned the dining room into her studio. By a window she had a big easel and she would sit there for hours on the weekends trying to paint something she had seen or wanted to see. There was always paint and paper.