“I take it you think they’re authentic?” Tox asked.
“By eye, yes, but we will have to do a forensic examination to determine authenticity. I assume there is no recent provenance as these were stolen. Correct?”
“Correct,” Calliope affirmed. “I literally pulled them out of a trash can.”
“What’s a forensic analysis?” Tox stared down at the sketches.
“It’s a laboratory analysis of the works, examining the paper, the signature, the medium, even the angle of strokes. We once authenticated a Jackson Pollock painting because, among other things, his fingerprints were on the canvas.”
“Who does the analysis?” Calliope seemed reluctant to part with her discovery.
A knock on the door jam precluded Clara’s answer.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” The man from the lounge stood in the doorway.
Tox and Ren barely had room to turn in the small space. On the upside, their broad bodies blocked the man’s view of the desk.
The gentleman spoke with a crisp British accent and gestured with the round, wire-rimmed glasses in his hand. “Miss Gautreau, Ambrose Teller. I’m guest lecturing for two weeks with Professor Hauer: governments’ claims to antiquities.”
With an ease born of experience, Clara stood and draped the cloth over the sketches, concealing them from view. Then she walked over to Professor Teller with her hand extended.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor. What a fascinating field. I assume you will be lecturing on the Steinhardt Phiale?” Clara threw out the question like a challenge, and Ambrose did not hesitate to return her parry.
The older man did not release her hand while he replied. “Of course. It’s a significant piece.”
Clara released his hand. Ambrose Teller continued, “Looks as though you’ve stumbled upon something interesting.”
Rather than reply, Clara gifted the professor with a sultry smile and took his arm, turning him toward the hallway. “Ambrose, are you perhaps free for lunch tomorrow?” Her French accent thickened to a sexy purr.
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Parfait. I will come to your office at noon. D’accord?”
“That would be lovely, my dear. See you then.”
Out in the hall, Steady nudged Cam. “Girl’s got some moves.”
With her back to the office, Clara shot daggers at Caleb Cain. He grinned and continued on down the hall.
Clara returned to the office and sat back down at her desk. As if the old professor had never appeared, she continued, “So, the forensic examination can be done at the university. We have a privately funded lab that is used by The Met, The Guggenheim, and The Museum of Modern Art. You could call the FBI Art Crime Team. They have an excellent lab in Quantico, but since we are here, you might as well use our facilities, which I think are better. We also have a secure vault where the sketches can be properly stored. These poor things have been through too much. The restoration will be quite a project. Either way, you must notify the authorities as soon as the authentication is complete.”
Tox turned to Calliope for confirmation, and she gave him a firm nod. He then looked to Ren who spoke for the group. “All right. We’re in agreement. Clara, I’ll accompany you to the lab to secure the art. I’d like to meet you back there tomorrow morning to observe.”
“The laboratory opens at 10 am.” Clara cradled the sketches wrapped in the cloth. “Shall we?”
Tox, Calliope, Steady, and Cam turned right, Clara and Ren left as they filed out of her pantry of an office. The pair passed Ambrose Teller as he emerged from the men’s room, cleaning his glasses with a square of toilet paper. Other than an absent nod, he barely acknowledged them, yet Clara felt compelled to follow his retreating form until he disappeared around a corner.
The group of men and Calliope stood outside on the brick forecourt of Schermerhorn Hall and formulated a plan.
“Nathan knows the SAC at the Art Crime Team. Special Agent Godfrey or Godson—there’s a ‘God’ in the name. He can at least give him a heads-up until we have confirmation.” Steady threw out.
Behind them, the door opened and Professor Ambrose Teller exited the building. He walked past them at a crisp gait, and a safe distance. When he was out of hearing range, Cam spoke.
“We may have a problem.”
The group waited for him to elaborate.
“There was a Professor Ambrose Teller at Oxford, a decade ago, but it’s not that guy.” Steady turned his phone to show them the photo of a distinguished black man in a three-piece suit.