Chapter 36

On Monday, Emily returned to the police station house.

She and Priscilla had spent a wonderful weekend together, interrupted only on Saturday, when she had spent some time alone at her condo, thinking about things.

If she had interpreted what Priscilla had told her on Friday night in the Bentley correctly—and why wouldn't she have?—then somehow Priscilla was planning on returning The Young Shepherdess to the San Diego Museum of Art. How that was going to be accomplished, Emily had no idea. Nor, she had realized that day, did she care.

The main thing was that despite the…unconventional circumstances of their meeting, they wanted to remain together. They had something which worked. It was early days yet, but it was something worth exploring. Would it last twenty days or twenty years? Who knew? And why should that matter? There were moments when she could swear that she had blinked and went from being 22 to 42 just like that! And as much as she disliked this idea, she knew that one day she would swear that she had blinked and gone from 42 to 62!

Life was short. It was a trite and unoriginal concept, but then again, most truths were. Therefore, if she could get twenty days with Priscilla, and that was all, then she should be happy to have had them, and move on.

But…

Twenty days or twenty years…Emily needed Priscilla to return The Young Shepherdess. She wouldn't be able to last twenty days knowing the painting was still in Priscilla's possession. She would have felt a bit like the girl in The Princess and the Pea, whereby she would have been unable to ever feel comfortable in a relationship with the redhead because of that small, unseen thing preventing her from completely relaxing.

But if the painting was returned, she felt she would be able to overlook the fact that she was involved with the woman who had stolen it.

Besides, as much as she hated herself for it, she had always felt that Priscilla having stolen The Young Shepherdess was kind of hot. She was certain that had helped fuel the intensity of the orgasms Priscilla was able to give her.

In any case, she was now walking into the detective's squad room, with her over-caffeinated coffee. Tom immediately stood from his desk and approached her.

"Celia Bruce," he said in lieu of hello. "Or should I say, Her Royal Highness Celia Bruce?"

"You don't refer to a countess as royal highness," Emily informed him.

"You don't?" Tom asked.

"You don't." Emily confirmed.

"Well, whatever…" Tom said dismissively. "Anyway, Celia Bruce. Did you know she's an artist?"

Emily blinked. No, she did not know that.

Tom handed her the manila folder he was carrying. In it was a report about everything the San Diego Police Department could dig up on a foreign national named Celia Bruce.

Emily, who in her line of work was used to reading police reports, scanned the first page of the document quickly. She shook her head.

"There's nothing here," she stated. "She's clean."

"Well, yeah, she is," Tom said. "But go to page two."

Emily lifted the first sheet of paper off the one it was covering.

This was not a report on Celia Bruce.

"Cillian Bruce," she said, reading the name.

Her brow furrowed. There was something familiar about that name. Fortunately, Tom kept quiet and didn't interrupt her as she tried to come up with why the name sounded familiar.

It took a few moments, but she finally got it.

"The forger," she muttered.

She quickly checked the date of birth. Cillian was definitely old enough…

Which meant…

Celia Bruce's father was Cillian Bruce…the master forger?

Emily remembered learning about the case a long time ago.

It was an interesting escapade in the annals of art history…

Cillian Bruce, a man who had everything—a man who was an actual titled member of Irish nobility—had put it all at risk. He had taken his prodigious talent at painting—which had been identified back when he was a boy—and used it to create expertly done fakes in the style of some of history's best known artists. He then sold those fakes to art galleries and collectors around the world. He even managed to sell some to museums.

So expertly done were the fakes that it had taken years before his scam was uncovered.

In the meantime, "newly discovered" Monets, Basquiats, Rothkos, Van Goghs, and Rembrandts—all with provenances connected to his own family's art holdings—were lauded as incredible finds in the art world.

Had he been bored? A perfect example of too much money and too much time? Bruce never offered a satisfactory explanation, which only added to the legend. A legend which had been the subject of an HBO documentary and a best-selling non-fiction book.

And it turned out that Celia was his daughter?

"The royal countess has painted some official portraits of other royals," Tom said. "She's also painted some celebrities here in California."

"For the last time, she's not royal," Emily said distractedly, while her mind worked on the intelligence that the countess was the offspring of an amazing art forger.

And she was close friends with Priscilla…

What did that mean?

She hadn't planned on seeing Priscilla today. She felt the need for some alone time. Besides, she was a bit worn out. It turned out she did have a limit, sexually.

Sex hadn't been their entire weekend, of course. In fact, they'd had a fabulous time together shopping in San Diego, watching movies at home with popcorn and candy—like they were teenagers—and even going sailing on Sunday morning. It had been a weekend wherein they had both learned more about one another, and wherein Emily had begun to feel as though Priscilla was now a familiar and comfortable part of her life—which was still a little alarming and surprising.

But the sex over the weekend had been…otherworldly. As per usual. And by the time she had gone to bed last night, Emily had felt she was drained of every sexual urge she could possibly have. Especially since yesterday, Priscilla had played a devilish game of orgasm denial with Emily, keeping her charged-up and on the cusp of losing control for most of the day until, finally, she had allowed her to climax last night.

By then, Emily's pussy had been so primed for release, that she had kept coming undone in a series of orgasms which Priscilla had expertly caused using her mouth, fingers, and a vibrator. The orgasms had literally hit back-to-back-to-back-to-back, and each one had been more potent than the last—gut-punches of pleasure that had made Emily feel as though she was skating on the verge of blacking out.

And so, yes, the need to give her core a day off today was another reason she hadn't planned on seeing Priscilla later. As it was, each time she bent at the waist, she felt how sore her ab muscles still were.

But this new piece of intelligence that Tom and his team had uncovered was making Emily rethink her plans. It would be interesting to gauge Priscilla's reaction across a dinner table, for example, when asked if all that time spent with the Countess of Ailesbury had anything to do with the countess being an accomplished artist.

However, before she was able to seriously contemplate sending Priscilla a text inviting her out to dinner, things got very interesting in the squad room…

***

One of the desk phones rang. It was Andie who answered it.

"Central Division, Detective Squad," she said. "Fuller speaking."

For lack of anything better to look at, Emily's eyes had landed on Andie when the detective had answered the phone. Thus, she saw the change that came over Andie's face after several moments as she listened to whoever was on the other end of the call.

"Address?" Andie said urgently, picking up a pencil with which she immediately started writing on a Post-It. She then nodded. "Got it," she told the caller. "Don't touch it! We'll be right there!"

She hung up the phone and looked at her comrades.

"Man called," she said. "Irving Watkins. He says he thinks he found the painting of the girl!"

"What?" Emily and Tom exclaimed at the same time.

"Where?" Tom demanded.

"G Street and Fourteenth," Andie said, already standing and putting her suit jacket on. "In the lobby of an apartment building."

Instantly, all of the detectives were hurrying out of the squad room, with Emily right on their heels.

"Tell me exactly what he said!" Emily urged Andie.

"He works at the building," Andie answered as they walked through the station house towards the nearest exit. "He's the super. Says he found a cardboard tube waiting just inside the lobby door, with a label addressed to the superintendent. So he opened it. Says he found what looks like a really old canvas rolled up, and when he unrolled it he recognized the painting from Google News."

"Doesn't anyone read newspapers anymore?" Bernie quipped dryly.

"Newspaper?" Andie—the youngest of the group—said. "What's that?"

Tom, who had listened to Andie's report, said to Emily, "This could be one of your buddy Priscilla Kroyn's tricks, so…Emily, you'll take care of authenticating the painting. If it's the real deal, we'll contact the museum."

Emily nodded.

Tom had a good point—this could be another of Priscilla's jokes.

"You understand I'll only be able to sort of authenticate the painting, right?" she asked him. "Authenticating a work of art isn't done the same way a cashier authenticates a twenty-dollar bill."

Tom sighed.

"Knock it off, Emily, huh?" he shot back. "Just do what you can while we're there."

Based on the conversation she'd had with Priscilla on Friday night, Emily was excited that this might actually be the real deal. However, she decided not to mention that discussion to the detectives with her. And she knew why.

It would implicate Priscilla. Sure it might not hold up in a court of law. After all, no one else had heard what Priscilla had said, and it was circumstantial at best. Besides, Priscilla could always deny having said it. And in the United States of America, a billionaire's word was worth far more than that of an average citizen like Emily. Nonetheless, Emily didn't want to take the chance of getting Priscilla into trouble. All that mattered was getting The Young Shepherdess back.

And Priscilla remaining free.

Fuck my life…I have really gone off the deep end, haven't I?

***

Irving Watkins was a young Black man. Upon meeting him at the entrance to the building, one of the detectives remarked on how he looked too young to be a superintendent in an apartment tower. Watkins responded by telling the detectives that the job was part-time, something he was doing while in medical school, and that he shared it with another guy.

His office was just past the elevator bank in the lobby. It was quite large, with room for an enormous desk that was cluttered with papers, binders, and an assortment of tools and spare parts.

There was a smaller table on the opposite side of the room, and it was on this table that a rolled-up canvas was lying, next to a cardboard shipping tube.

"Once I saw what it was," Watkins said, "I left it alone, I swear! I mean, I know I got my fingerprints on the mailing tube, but how was I to know what was inside it? But I haven't touched it since."

"Yeah, alright, don't worry about it," Tom told him, approaching the table. "But leave it to us now."

He and the other detectives were removing rubber gloves from their pockets, and putting them on. Tom nudged Emily and handed her a pair, which she donned immediately.

While Bernie began asking Watkins some questions, Emily licked her lips and approached the canvas. Her preliminary visual examination, without touching it, was encouraging…

The canvas was rolled, with the painting on the inside. The unpainted backs of old canvases tend to get brown with age, and they can also display various stains from handling, past conservation efforts, and even from the environments and vessels in which they were stored. Many canvases also had hand-written notations on their backs. These notes could be as simple as the "CR" topped by a crown that King Charles I added to all of the works in his royal collection, or something more detailed, such as a lengthy description of the painting—often written by the artist.

Emily had a photograph of the back of The Young Shepherdess's canvas stored on her phone. It hadn't been provided to her by the museum, but by Geneva Excess. Every insurer of valuable paintings will take photographs of the sides and the backs of each work of art they indemnify. This is done because museumgoers never get to see those portions of a painting, and insurance companies can use those images to help authenticate a painting should it become damaged and a claim filed, or…should it be stolen and then recovered.

Emily hadn't memorized what the back of The Young Shepherdess looked like, but even with this canvas still rolled, she could already see a measurement notation on the back of itthat she recalled should be there, written in faded pencil by a previous owner.

This might be it!

Gingerly, she used her gloved hands to unroll the canvas. The young woman in the painting was slowly revealed, and Emily's expert eyes were telling her that this was an oil painting that appeared to be of the correct age. Nonetheless, she grit her teeth as more of the artwork was revealed. She was going to scream if, this time, the shepherdess was wearing Doc Martens.

She looked up and saw Andie watching her.

"Andie, help me out here, will you?" she asked. "Unroll that end and hold it. Carefully!"

The young detective took hold of what remained of the bottom end of the roll and unfurled it slowly.

Next to her, Emily heard Tom's cellphone ring.

Emily laughed when Andie revealed that the peasant girl was barefoot. She also let out a relieved breath.

"So is it the real deal?" Andie asked.

Emily chuckled nervously.

"I mean, I need to examine it more closely," she answered. "And we'll want to get a second evaluation done as well by someone else, but from what I can see, it certainly seems as if—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tom suddenly exclaimed, interrupting Emily.

Emily looked up at him. He was still on his phone.

"Where?" he demanded into the device. He listened and then added, "We're on our way!"

He ended the call. Just by looking at him, Emily could tell his blood pressure was up, and she started to get a bad feeling about what he was going to say.

He looked at her.

"That was Dispatch," he said. "Someone found another fucking painting!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Emily barked.

"At San Diego City College," Tom told her. "Same deal. Lady shows up for work, and there it is." He pointed to the canvas on the table. "Pack this up, we're bringing it with us!"

Emily swore under her breath, wondering what was going on. The news that another painting had been found was…disappointing. But the fact remained that this painting looked authentic—at least at a cursory level. Because of that, despite Tom's urgency, she slowly and carefully re-rolled the canvas before inserting it into the cardboard tube, which Andie helpfully held ready for her.

As they were exiting the building, with Tom telling Bernie to get some uniformed cops down here to retrieve the CCTV footage from the building's cameras, his phone rang again.

"Sadowski," he answered, just as they stepped outside.

He stopped walking, causing Emily and the others to stop as well.

Emily watched as he listened to the caller. She couldn't help but think that if William-Adolphe Bouguereau were to paint Tom's face as it was now, he would entitle the painting, I Don't Fucking Believe This.

"Got it," Tom eventually told the caller. He then looked at the others. "I don't fucking believe this."

Emily swallowed.

"Guess what they found at Seaport Village," Tom muttered.