Reaching inside, I gather the bundle into my hands and wander over to my desk, placing it down with the care it deserves.
Then I pull off the cover, take a seat, kick my feet up, and grab my drink.
And I relax back and admire it for a while, smiling to myself when I think that Brent Wilson probably does this very thing each day. Except he admires a fake – another fake that I masterfully crafted and buried under a slab on the porch of the Pantheon before I dug it up again. I smile at the thought. I’m not sure what I took more pleasure from: discovering that the real sculpture had been in Rome all along and my girl found it for me, or watching Brent run away with another fake. It’s a close call.
I look up when the door knocks, and a second later, Gramps pokes his head around. His eyes fall straight to Head of a Faun, a knowing smirk pulling at his old lips. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ I ask, getting up and pouring him a whisky.
He walks slowly to the chair on the other side of my desk and lowers on a little grunt, accepting the tumbler when I hand it to him. He tosses a newspaper on the desk, and it lands next to the sculpture. I look down, smiling.
Brent’s face graces the front page, and the headline is telling the world that he’s been sentenced to ten years for stealing an O’Keeffe from Sotheby’s. I’m not going to feel too bad for setting up the prick. I needed justice for Mum and Dad. I smiled my fucking arse off as I smothered the painting with his fingerprints, thanks to the glass I stole from his suite at The Stanton. God, I would have loved to have seen the look on his face when the police found the O’Keeffe in the vault of his hotel. Framing Brent was one of my finest moments. I’m still buzzing.
‘He’ll be gunning for you when he’s out,’ Gramps muses.
‘I’ve got a good five years before I need to worry about that.’
He reaches for the sculpture, swivelling it until it’s facing him. Then he leans back on a smile and stares at it.
I watch him, getting as much pleasure from studying my granddad as I do the long-lost treasure. ‘Gramps?’ I say, winning his attention. I hold up my tumbler and toast the air above Head of a Faun. ‘To Mum and Dad.’
He nods, and we both knock back our drinks, slamming the glasses down on the Theodore Roosevelt desk in unison.
Gramps smiles, getting comfortable as best as his old bones will allow. Then he breathes in and lets the air out on a wistful sigh. ‘I love you, Becker boy.’
‘Love you more, Gramps,’ I reply quietly, reaching forward and swivelling the sculpture back to face me before refilling our drinks and passing his over. ‘Love you way more.’ I relax back in my chair.
‘To the Hunts,’ he says. ‘Best bleedin’ treasure hunters that ever lived.’ He stares at the sculpture, and I see peace in him as much as I feel it in myself. ‘Did you hear they’re having the Mona Lisa removed to be cleaned?’ he asks, his eyes still on Head of a Faun.
‘Oh?’ I try to stop my veins from tingling with excitement. Honestly, I do.
He peeks up at me. ‘Next month, apparently.’
‘Interesting.’ I muse, rolling my tumbler across my bottom lip.
‘I thought so, too.’ He reaches for the sculpture and swivels it back to face him. ‘But, you know, you’re retired now.’ He lifts his glass and swigs.
‘Yeah,’ I muse, our eyes locked across the desk. ‘I’m retired.’
My dear old granddad’s mouth slowly stretches into a grin.
And damn my thirst for adventure, I grin right back.