“You think he made up the story?”
“It did seem to get better every time you gave him money.”
Gabriel admired the view of the Grand Canal from his loggia. “He needs it more than we do.”
“You’re beginning to sound like your daughter.”
“Is she an immigrant-rights activist as well?”
“She’s troubled by the way many Venetians refer to African street vendors, as is her mother. I see them every day in San Marco with their blankets and their handbags, the wretched of the earth. The way the police chase them away is disgraceful.”
“And what about the retailers or the makers of real luxury goods? Do they not have rights?”
“I agree that the piles of counterfeit bags on our streets are unsightly and that the vendors are engaging in criminal activity and undercutting the profits of fabulously wealthy corporations. But it is not a life to which anyone would aspire. People like Amadou Kamara sell fake handbags because they are desperately poor.”
“Which makes his story no less credible. He saw what he saw.”
“A murder made to look like an accident?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Who do you suppose hired the killers?”
“Someone with a great deal to lose if that Picasso were ever to be discovered inside the Geneva Freeport.”
“How much is it worth?”
“A hundred million, give or take.”
Chiara considered this. “A hundred million isn’t enough to justify two professional hits. There has to be more to this than just a single painting.”
“All the more reason to go to the police.”
“A dreadful idea.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Finish the restoration of the Pordenone.”
“And then?”
“Find the Picasso, of course.”
“In the Geneva Freeport?” asked Gabriel. “One of the world’s most heavily guarded storage facilities for art and other valuable objects? Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I’m not suggesting that you break into the Freeport and go vault to vault. You have no choice but to go into business with this Ricard fellow. Not you personally, of course. You’re far too famous for that now. You’ll need a cutout.”
“A collector?”
Chiara nodded. “But you can’t invent one out of whole cloth. Ricard is far too crafty. You’ll need a real person. Someone with a considerable fortune and, preferably, a whiff of scandal in her past.”
“Her?”
Chiara allowed a moment to pass before answering. “Don’t make me say that woman’s name aloud. I’ve had enough unpleasantness for one evening.”
“What makes you think she’ll do it?”
“Because she’s still madly in love with you.”
She was perfect, of course. She was enormously rich, she was an international celebrity, and she was the keeper of a substantial collection of paintings that had belonged to her disgraced father. Still, Gabriel could not shake himself of the nagging fear that his wife was trying to get rid of him for a few days.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with—”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
He decided a change of subject was in order. “Is she buying or selling?”
“Your girlfriend? Selling, I imagine.”
“I thought so, too. But that means she’s going to need paintings.”
“Dirty paintings,” said Chiara. “The dirtier the better.”
“How many?”
“Enough to move the needle.”
Gabriel made a show of thought. “Six feels about right.”
