A Dangerous Talent (An Alix London Mystery) by Aaron Elkins, Charlotte Elkins Page A

inasmuch as he had some considerable knowledge of art. His father had established Ellesworth Fine Art and Antiques on Boston’s Newbury Street in 1962 and had owned it until 2004. Ted had worked there for three years while attending Boston University. These qualifications had been more than enough for the art squad, and they had snapped him up for a temporary undercover assignment. He’d had a relatively minor role in the London affair, but he’d loved the fascinating world it opened to him. When he’d learned of a vacancy on the squad two years later, he’d applied. And there he’d been ever since. Married to the job, as his mother sometimes grumbled about her handsome son’s failure to find a permanent mate (or to look very hard for one).
    “Okay, well, did you know he’s been out of prison for a while now?”
    “Nope.”
    “And that he has a daughter?”
    “Nope.”
    “And that the daughter has been away studying ‘restoration’ in Europe with some of the best?”
    “Ah, following in Daddy’s footsteps, you think? Preparing for a life of crime?”
    “The thought has crossed my mind,” Jamie said. “And did you know that said daughter is on her way—by private jet, I might add—to Santa Fe?”
    “Jamie,” he said patiently, “if I didn’t know there was a daughter in the first place, how could I know where she’s heading?”
    “What an old grouch you are. I’m just trying to enhance the narrative tension here, add a little spice to your life.”
    “Well, you’ve succeeded. I’m very tense.”
    “Excellent. Now, would you like to know the reason she is speeding to Santa Fe at this very moment?”
    “I would, but could you kind of speed it up a little? I need to be getting back.”
    “Oh, all right. The reason she is speeding to Santa Fe at this very moment is that she is now an ‘art consultant’—don’t ask me what that means—and she is headed there to, quote-unquote, ‘authenticate’ a supposed Georgia O’Keeffe painting that has seemingly materialized out of nowhere—no provenance, no record, no—”
    “Well, that’s interesting, I guess, but I don’t think—”
    “Not as interesting as which gallery is involved with this. Care to hazard a guess?”
    “Ah-ha. The Blue Coyote?”
    “Bingo.”
    “Now you have g otten my interest,” he said. “Who will she be working for? Liz Coane herself? Or is it a potential buyer that’s brought her on?”
    “That I don’t know. There is a potential buyer, but I don’t know who it is.”
    “You don’t know ? Jamie, I’m shocked.”
    “What can I say? I’m not perfect—yet. Don’t worry about it, I’ll find out, but at this point I would assume it’s the buyer she’s working for. Why would Ms. Coane want to pay to bring somebody out from Seattle, let alone in a private jet? Santa Fe has got to be crawling with art experts.”
    “Yes, but is it crawling with bent art experts?” Ted mused. “Is it possible that Liz has got a little something prearranged with her? You have to wonder: aside from the cost of bringing someone from Seattle, why would anyone in their right mind—dealer or buyer—go out of their way to hire Geoffrey London’s daughter, of all people, unless there was something fishy going on?”
    “Good question. Beats me. This is getting pretty deep.”
    “What’s the daughter’s name, Jamie? I assume she doesn’t use London anymore.”
    “But she does. Her name’s Alix London.”
    “Alix London,” Ted echoed. “I’ll make a note. And you see what else you can dig up.”

CHAPTER 4
    The day couldn’t have started off better. Chris had her driver swing by Alix’s condo so that the two of them could ride out to Boeing Field together, where Chris’s gleaming, white private jet—well, her one-sixteenth fractional share Gulfstream 200—was waiting for them. For whatever reason, the two of them were feeling lighthearted and chatty, and the result was an uproarious, hilarious drive to the airport.