A surrealist affair, p.20
A Surrealist Affair, page 20
“And then I had to be the idiot and go off on that terrorist angle. I wasted a day on that. I wouldn’t listen to you or my boss.” He shook his head and stroked his hair back. “But we got her. And Babette.”
They both looked toward the window and the night sky, drinking their tea. The silence was loaded with expectation. “I should leave,” Ryan said. “We’d better catch a few hours of sleep, huh? There’s going to be lots more interviews and statements tomorrow.”
“And the day after that, my flight is booked.” She cradled the warm mug in her hands.
“I’m sure the FBI could get it changed.”
“That’s okay.” She smiled. “I want to spend Christmas with my family. If I leave on time, I’ll get there Christmas Eve.”
“Sure. No problem.” He drank from his mug.
“I was so embarrassed that you knew my father had gone to prison and that he’d died basically from his alcoholism.”
He stroked her hair back and gazed into her eyes. “No need at all to feel embarrassed. The fact that you’ve made it this far without your parents contributing is a testament to how smart you are. I don’t see you as less for this, in other words. I think even more of you.”
“I’ll stay as long as you like.”
He leaned over. His lips were soft against her mouth.
She felt lightheaded, and it wasn’t from her wounds or the painkillers.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. He touched the side of her neck, alluding to her wound. “You’ve gone through enough.”
“You’re not going to hurt me.”
He smiled and put gentle fingers under her chin and kissed her harder, pressing her head against the cushion of the couch.
…
When Ryan returned to the States, a news conference was underway. The director of the FBI gave a brief statement about the recovery of Expectation of Time and then fielded questions from the press. Kevin and his higher-ups stood next to, or behind, the podium as cameras clicked and flashed while he remained in the periphery of the audience. He might have to go undercover again and wanted to avoid any photo ops.
The director referred to the “agent in France” who worked undercover to unearth the fraud of the sketches and the theft of Expectation of Time. Elle was not mentioned but had received ten thousand dollars in reward money. Ryan would never have solved the case without her.
“Where will Expectation of Time go, now that James Egart and his accomplice have been arrested?” asked a broadcaster from a major news affiliate.
The sounds of the camera shutters and flashes accelerated at the director’s announcement. “The records in the Rothenbergs’ possession, as well as a case built by”—the FBI director referred to his notes—“the Spoliation Victims’ Compensation Commission in France indicates that it rightfully belongs to the Rothenbergs, and we are taking this opportunity to return it to them. The Rothenbergs are donating it as a national treasure to the Pompidou.”
After the press conference, Ryan walked with Kevin to their office.
“Well, all’s well that ends well.” Kevin punched the button to the elevator. “You ended up doing good on this one, and we got the kind of attention we needed. Maybe we can get the budget for another position next fiscal year.”
Kevin gestured Ryan should enter the elevator.
As Ryan pressed the button for the tenth floor, Kevin said, “I made a promise, and I’m going to keep it.” When Ryan didn’t respond, Kevin went on, “You recovered a painting worth millions of dollars. I guess that will do it. You can report to Counterterrorism unit the first of the month.” Ryan started to speak, but Kevin interrupted him. “Why the start of next month? You should know the budget process by now. That’s the soonest we can transfer the funds and use that line item.”
When Kevin had finished his bureaucratic explanation, Ryan said, “I want to stay.”
A look of confusion crossed Kevin’s face then annoyance. “Why do you make things so hard, man? I’m trying to give you what you want, and you make a big joke of it.”
“No, really. I want to stay in Art Crime. I’m just getting the hang of it.”
“You do?” Kevin studied Ryan’s expression and a slow smile crossed his face. “I suppose this has to do with Elle Dakin?”
Stepping off the elevator, Ryan said, “That story about Winston Churchill finally makes sense.”
Kevin nodded. “The one where someone asks if they should use arts funding to pay for the war?”
“And he says,” Ryan said, taking up the story, “‘Then what are we fighting for?’”
“That Churchill—genius.” Kevin switched his briefcase to the other arm. “Well, whatever it takes. I’m glad she got through your thick skull.”
It wasn’t just that Ryan could see through Elle’s eyes now the worth and beauty of the paintings, it was also the fact he’d run off on a terrorist tangent when Elle decided to strike off on her own. She could have been killed by Gerard Luc and his hired thug. Ryan had been trying too hard to recreate working in Counterterrorism. But he was in a new chapter now, one that included slowing down, being still, and appreciating beauty—and that included Elle Dakin. And with her help, he had played a role in three international crimes—the theft of Expectation of Time, the fraud of the sketches, and the murder of Jean-Pierre Luc. This had exceeded Kevin’s expectations and given his unit the star power he’d been searching for.
“And we still have work to do, don’t we? We have to find Gregory,” Ryan added.
“You don’t think he’s dead?” Kevin’s question seemed rhetorical.
“Once he’d finished the copy,” Ryan said. He suspected Gregory had absconded with Expectation of Time. “Gregory must have thought, ‘Hmm, this looks too good. I can’t work in France for another couple of years. I’m beholden to this woman for my living. She’s nice and all, but this sucks. Here’s my chance.”
“They can’t say I didn’t tell them so,” said Kevin with grim satisfaction. Now he understood why Kevin was so maddened by Gregory, and Ryan was on board with the pursuit.
…
Ryan and Elle were in bed in her Ann Arbor Queen Anne apartment after her dissertation defense. It was ironic that she used to have terrible imposter syndrome. She had always feared the exposure of being a fraud. But it was Diane who actually committed the crime of fraud, among many others.
Elle had worked hard the last four months to write her new dissertation topic: the place of Anne-Marie Luc’s work in the context of other women Surrealist artists, their use of color, space, and the unconscious conflicts that were represented in their art in trying to establish themselves in a man’s world. It had involved a total reworking of her sources and analysis, which had meant Ryan made weekend trips to see her in Ann Arbor. But it was also true the Art History department, feeling rightfully chagrined they’d inadvertently harbored a criminal for decades, had not put up roadblocks.
With Diane Roche fired from the university and awaiting trial, Elle’s dissertation defense proceeded without incident. And Ryan had told her, after he’d watched her up at the podium, in her business attire, looking all professional and poised, he’d been dying to rip that suit right off her. The release of the build-up of nerves and tension was sublime.
This chapter of her life was over, with all its self-doubt and fears.
“Are you ready to leave Ann Arbor?” he asked.
“Just as soon as graduation is over.” Elle’s mother, her sister, and the twins were coming down for it. Elle had already paid for their bus tickets.
After that, Elle would join Ryan in D.C., where she’d gotten a position as an assistant professor at Georgetown University. And a literary agent had contacted her about the exclusive story of her discovery that Marc Luc had not done his own work.
Propped up on his elbow, gazing down at her, Ryan said, “You’re going to love D.C. The architecture alone—Tudors, federal buildings, Victorians. Not to mention the Smithsonian and especially the National Gallery of Art.”
Elle grinned. “The best part about it is that you’ll be there.”
During the summer, they planned to visit Paris again. This time, to see the tourist sights together—the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the view from Sacré-Cœur, Notre Dame, the Louvre…
He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it time to celebrate again?”
She smiled and turned to him once more. Elle had found her place with a person who knew her for who she was and where she had come from. And for the person she had become.
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Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Michael Heil for helping with the French phrasing and ensuring that the geography of Paris was correct. Any mistakes made were my own. In this vein, I would also like to acknowledge Frank Eldredge, former FBI agent, who read over the manuscript to catch any glaring errors about law enforcement procedure. An art history PhD who now works as a museum curator prefers to remain anonymous. However, she was instrumental in helping me understand the doctoral graduate degree experience in her field and keeping art history details straight.
To my wonderful critique partners at SavvyAuthors, Ellyn Kestnbaum and Fran Fletcher, who offered incisive and insightful comments and suggestions. They were both tremendously generous in responding to myriad requests.
Priceless: How I Went Undercover to Rescue the World’s Stolen Treasures by Robert Wittman was helpful in the writing of this book for a firsthand account of an FBI Art Crime Team investigator. Indeed, I am taking the liberty of changing the setup of the Art Crime Team, though set in present time, to the period described by Wittman when he was the lone investigator. However, the unit has apparently expanded since then, to include, as of this writing, twenty investigators.
About the Author
Jacqueline Corcoran was born in England, but has lived throughout the U.S., ending up in the D.C. suburbs with her husband and two children. Jacqui is a social worker, psychotherapist, and Ivy League professor, and wanted to be an author from the time she was seven, already enthralled with the effect fiction had on the reader. A Surrealist Affair is her debut romantic suspense, inspired by a birthday trip to Paris.
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