A few days later, Charlie arrived at the gallery a little over an hour before closing. The old school bell above the door rattled as she entered. The older owner could not have been less pleased to see Charlie. Although serving another elderly couple, the woman’s tut seemed to drown out the bell. Charlie took no heed. Instead, she eased through the gallery on a beeline for her Pollock. The crisp lighting cast a sheen across the polished limestone floor. Wandering through, Charlie’s clunky boots made quite the impression. As if disturbed by her arrival, the old couple severed negotiations and shuffled for the door. This was Charlie’s fifth visit. In that time, the elderly couple had been the only other patrons she had noticed. Quality, not quantity.

And there it was, the Pollock. Wire spotlights hung above the painting, mounted against a charcoal felt backboard. At three feet by two feet, the piece was far removed from the massive specimens Pollock had become famous for producing. Trademark multi-colored splashes and sloshes coated a cream canvas that had soured over time. Faded Crimson Flashes did battle with ochre and yellow dashes. In a break from the norm, sporadic strokes from an angled brush had thrown strips of convoluted charcoal around the chaos. Charlie recognized the style prevalent toward the end of Pollock’s short life. In a bid to throw out more pieces, he had downsized and economized. It was the perfect example of his work.

Charlie stalked the piece like a hunting lion. 

The owner lurked in the wings, like a vulture.

The owner’s tall, angular, high-structured façade matched the nearby building sitting at the intersection of 5th Avenue and Broadway. Charlie leaned in close to inspect the signature. Scribbled and barely legible, the frenetic scroll was perfectly placed toward the bottom right but still embedded in the bedlam. Leaning in further, she set her nose close to the piece. Filling her lungs, she categorized the painting’s mystical aromas. 

“So, you’re back.” Condescension coated every syllable.

A tight, garish, multi-patterned dress was pulled in at the waist by an oversized patent leather belt. The woman’s dress code matched her age, late sixties.

“Please step away from the piece.” The old owner had seen enough. Charlie tucked her hands inside the pockets of her oversized combat jacket. “I wasn’t going to touch-“

“That’s from the man himself, Jackson Pollock.”

“Paul.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jackson was his middle name. His name was Paul.” 

“So, you know a little about Mister Pollock. You ought to. What is this, your tenth time in here?”

“Fifth.”

“Hmm. Feels like tenth.” The owner awarded herself with a chuckle. 

Charlie couldn’t be baulked. “It’s quite the piece, though.”

“He’s not always been popular, you know. The New Yorker once derogatively described him as Jack the Dripper.”

“Time.”

“Pardon?”

“It wasn’t the New Yorker, it was Time Magazine.” Charlie enjoyed that one.

“My, you are informed.”

“Informed and interested.”

“Interested in?”

“Buying this. It is for sale, isn’t it?”

The old owner’s face almost straightened. “I’m sorry, but I’d respectfully suggest that-“

“I’m not after respect. I’m after a price.”

“Eight hundred and seventy-five thousand.”

“That’s the asking price?”

“That’s the ticketed price, yes.”

“And that’s negotiable?”

“We don’t horse trade.”

“But it’s negotiable.”

“It’s malleable.”

The old lady refused to buy Charlie’s buying signals. “Well, I will leave you to ruminate.”

“Oh, I’ve done all the rumination I need. It’s my father you need to convince.”

“Your father?”

“You don’t think I could afford this on my own?”

The old owner’s face told Charlie that for once, they were in agreement.

“Hang on, I’ll call him; he’s supposed to be here any minute.” 

The phone rang out.

Suddenly, the gallery door clanged open.

“Pop!”

“Hello, Charlotte.”

“I was just calling you.”

“Sorry, I was a little distracted. There’s a lovely dog park across the street and there’s was this cute little French bulldog just-“

“Oh, we can hear about that later Pop, I’m sure this lady doesn’t want to hear your stories about-“

“Geraldine Plummer. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, is that your name? In the ten times I’ve been coming here, you’ve not said.”

Pop returned the greeting. “Professor Glass of the Smithsonian.”

“The Smithsonian? How interesting.”

Charlie bristled inwardly. Lady, you’re interested, but not in Pop’s position.

“Your daughter, Charlotte, is it? Has a keen eye on our Pollock.”

“Well, she has known what she wanted her entire life.”

“And what she wants, she gets?” enquired the owner.

Pop smiled. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

“Can I introduce you to the piece?”

Pop slithered. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s not really my thing.

The more I look at it, the less likely a sale will be.”

“Come on, Pop, don’t be like that. It’s an investment.”

“I’m not really here to see the canvas. I’m here to see the paperwork.”

“You want to check the supporting documentation.”

“Province, I think you call it?”

“Provenance.” Charlie rolled her eyes.

“Sorry girlie, we can’t all be graduates of the Sorbonne.”

“The Sorbonne? In Paris?”

“Is there another one?” 

It appeared Pop couldn’t help himself. “Faculty of Arts and Humanities.” 

Geraldine looked a little too impressed by the recent disclosures. “Well, you’ll appreciate the supporting documentation. We’ve never had a piece so well supported and so thoroughly authenticated.”

“Well, who am I to stand in the way of my daughter’s dreams? Lead on.”

“Wow, well OK. Please come this way.”

Geraldine led the pair through a well-appointed back alcove. The choice of still or sparkling waters was offered and courteously declined. The allure of freshly prepared espresso proved too enticing for Charlie.

“May I?” 

“Of course.”

“Anyone else?” After receiving two shakes of the head, Charlie set to work, and Geraldine moved off into a back office. By the time Charlie had prepared her drink, Geraldine was back, fully loaded with the pertinent documentation. 

Inside the elaborate honeycomb ceiling, recessed spotlights hung overhead. Four sets of occasional chairs sat in a perfect square. The luxurious black leather chaises wrapped in walnut casings sat on chrome bases.

“Original Eames Brothers?” enquired Charlie.

“Very good.1956.”

“Just like the painting.” My, you really are good.”

“She really is.” prompted Pop proudly.

“I try.”

Piece by piece, every item was entered into evidence.

“The piece is mentioned in this letter sent by Pollock to Ruby Kingsman.”

“Sorry. Ruby Kingsman?”

“One of the women who was in the car when Pollock died.”

“Pollock died in a car crash?”

“Oh, Pop!”

Geraldine’s eyebrows threatened her hairline. 

“Can the letter be authenticated?”

“As far as any letter from that period can be. It came with the painting.”

“And how did you come by the painting?”

“Like so many of them, an elderly member from our local synagogue, Dr. Leibovich, passed away. Their family is looking to cover death duties.”

“It’s a good price, Pop, no?”

“Well, we’ll see, Charlotte. We’ll see.” 

Geraldine seemed in no mood to quit while she was ahead.

Pollock ran his drip floor paintings from 1947 to 1956. Some of the larger pieces now go for multiple millions of dollars.”

“See Pop. A bargain.”

“So, how did the current seller get his hands on the painting?”

“Her.”

“Sorry?”

“Her hands, Dr Heidi Leibovich.”

Charlie bit her tongue in condemnation of the misstep. Thankfully, Geraldine didn’t make too much of it. She was too busy making a lot out of her next exhibit. After rifling through the papers, she pulled yet more evidence. “Have you seen the abridged bio online?”

Only Charlie nodded.

“Then you’ll have seen this letter?”

Another solitary nod. Another blank look.

“It details the sales transaction between Dr. Leibovich and the Manhattan Masters Art Gallery in early 1957.”

Pop took careful possession of the article with all the grace and care of a museum custodian. Charlie was more pointed. “Could I see the back of it?”

“Well, we don’t normally-“

“If we’re spending the best part of a million dollars, I think-“

“We?” Pop was quick to chide.

“Sorry, if my father is spending-“

This time Geraldine’s raised palm cut Charlie off. “Let me see what I can do.”

Charlie made her excuses. “I hate being a pain. It’s just that there have been more fake Pollocks found than he ever made.”

“I fully understand, but I can assure you of its unimpeachable provenance.”

Pop pulled out the verbal smoothing iron. “Oh, no one is accusing you of any malpractice. Far from it.” 

Geraldine worked on setting up a separate easel nearby. A cloth was then rested on the stand to act as a cushion. With exaggerated care and reverence, she eased the piece from its housing and lifted it across onto the support. As the pair moved in, Geraldine stepped back. “You will see. It’s all there. The gallery labels and security tag are still intact.

Pop pointed like a child. “She’s right, you know.”

Charlie hemmed and hawed. Inch by line, the back of the painting fell under her scrutinous gaze. She smiled.

“Like what you see?”

Charlie’s smile widened. “It’s exactly as I imagined it would be.”

“Happy?” her father enquired.

“Happy.”

“Can we get down to business then, Geraldine? I can call you

Geraldine?”

“Buy this painting and you can call me what you like.”

A painfully forced chuckle threatened the moment. “This is such a great investment. We’re seeing pieces provide annualized rates of return in the double digits.”

“Trust me, I am not doing this for the money.”

“I might be.” Strained Pop.

As the trio landed back in the rear office chairs, Charlie took charge. “So how does a twelve percent reduction of the sale price sound.”

“Charlotte.” Pop sounded almost embarrassed.

Geraldine played it cool. “It sounds like you have removed all my commission.”

The elongated silence was broken by Pop. “What would consider to be reasonable?”

“The asking price.” was Geraldine’s reply.

“Let’s split the difference.” Pop’s decisive offer of a handshake seemed to take Geraldine by storm.

“I will need a deposit.”

“He has his chequebook.” announced Charlie.

The handshake followed. “We have a deal, Professor Glass.”

Smiles collided as Geraldine set to work collating the files and preparing the sales docket. Pop pulled out his chequebook and set his fountain pen to work. His neat, concise pen strokes filled out the slip. “When do you want to take delivery? We would need full payment before we could organize that.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.”

Immediately after Geraldine and Pop exchanged paperwork, Pop stood and exhaled. “Well, this is where I leave you.”

“Leave us?” queried Geraldine.

Pop smiled and turned for the door. Geraldine’s face twisted to find Charlie moving in closely, badge in hand. “Geraldine Plummer, I am Special Agent Charlotte Glass from the Art Crimes Division of the

Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“What?” 

As Pop exited, two uniformed officers bundled into the shop. Charlie pulled her handcuffs from behind her back. I am arresting you under suspicion of making false representations under the Fraud and

Forgery Act of 1988.”

Geraldine spun. “This is an outrage.” 

Charlie applied the Cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

“You can’t prove any of this-“

“Geraldine it’s probably best that you don’t say-“

“It’s Mrs. Plummer to you, young lady.”

“Then it’s Special Agent Glass to you, mam.” 

“To hell with you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, if you’re going there, let’s talk about the painting. It’s style.”

“What of it?”

“The painting didn’t match the style of the time. The brush strokes were out of kilter with the periodic norms.”

“Ha. Imbecilic. He used some brush strokes at the end. It just goes to prove-“

“Yes, he used brushes, but not so much on the base layers. Bad move. As were the staple holes in the back of the canvas.”

“Staplers were invented way before 1956.”

“They were, but canvases were tacked together right up to the seventies. Oh, and he died on August 11, 1956.”

“Your point being?” Patience was not the old owner’s forte.

“Pollock took months to process his work. Nothing he did in 1956 would have been close to entering a gallery at the time of his death.”

“I’ll have you know the Manhattan Masters Art Gallery was one of the most connected-“

“It didn’t exist.”

Geraldine baulked. “I beg your pardon.”

“You heard. No business licenses for such an entity have ever existed.”

The owner mounted her defense. “Records don’t go back that far.”

“Ours do. We are the FBI, remember?” Charlie was on a roll. “You know it and I know it. The Manhattan Masters Art Gallery has never existed. Nor was the telephone number listed in any of the correspondence. Oh, and Dr Leibovich.”

“What of her.”

“Vanished without ever having left a trace in the first place. It’s all lies, and you know it.”

As Geraldine stuttered, Charlie rolled on through. “Up close. The painting. Did you smell it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you missed the biggest giveaway of all. The smell of tea.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Tea. A crude but effective way of ageing a canvas is to rub it with old tea bags. Darjeeling, if I am not mistaken.

My god, that’s a crime in itself. What a waste.”

“You think you’re so smart.”

“I think you’re so screwed.”

“Hardly. The letter.”

“What about it?”

“I had it authenticated. You can’t tell me that’s not genuine.”

“Oh, I can. And I will. The font was confirmed by our calligraphy experts as being Avinir.” 

“And that’s significant because?”

“It is a geometric sans serif designed by Frenchmen Adrian Frutiger who named it after the French word for future.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“It wasn’t around in the 1950s. It was released in 1987, to be exact.”

“Well, that’s all news to me. I don’t have your resources. How do you expect me to know all that? I can’t check everything.”

“Eh, there’s such a thing as due diligence.”

Geraldine bit back hard. “I did my due diligence.”

“I bet you did. You checked to make sure you weren’t caught.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

Charlie had been waiting for the pivot. “Syracuse.”

Geraldine’s jaw clamped shut.

She went again. “Syracuse. Ring any bells?”

“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

“You did your due diligence last week up in Syracuse.”

“You followed me?”

“All the way to the home of Tristram Harper. Everyone’s favorite forger. Well, I say home. It’s more of a secret studio.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“Not according to Tristram. When we served him a warrant earlier today, he was only too willing to paint yet another picture for us. And guess who was in the frame?”

So, this is our third Pollock on top of, amongst others, the

Kandinsky and the Rothkos? Sheer greed.”

Geraldine looked too angry to plead, too lost to argue. “Bitch.”

“It’s been mentioned to me before.” Charlie ceded command.

“Sargent. Over to you.”

“You not taking her in Agent Glass?”

“No, likely I gotta go drag my dad out of that dog park across the street.”