The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer Page A

graduate-school art history test. Name the painting from the fragment.” Kate pushed another piece into place. “From the way it’s painted I’d say it’s too sophisticated to be anything medieval, but . . . not quite Renaissance either. What do you think, Mert?”
    He smiled. “Quite astute, my dear. I’d agree. About fourteenth century. Definitely Italian.”
    “Who in New York collects this sort of stuff?”
    “Well, offhand, your husband comes to mind.”
    “Only one or two pieces–thanks to you. And not since it’s gotten so expensive, he doesn’t. Who else?”
    Mert twisted up his mouth. “Your Contemporary president, Mr. William Mason Pruitt, expressed interest in a piece I had about six months ago, but he balked at the price.”
    “Bill Pruitt?”
    “An absolute cheapskate–or was. Forgive me. I just heard the news. But he tried to get me to sell him a Rubens water-color for half the price–because he was so important. I told him to look elsewhere.”
    “Anyone else you can think of?”
    “Several people, but I’d have to check my files. And there are a few other dealers in New York who trade in such works, several in Europe, naturally–not all of them reputable. As you well know, Kate, stolen paintings and artifacts are a thriving enterprise, and–” Mert stopped short, regarded the cut-up fragments. “Wait a minute.” His canny eyes narrowed, his beak practically twitching as he hit the office intercom. “Joel. I need to see the most recent listing we have on stolen artwork. No, make that the last six months. Right away, please.”
    “Mert, what is it?” Kate caught some of his excitement.
    “We get updates every month,” said Mert, flipping pages and pages of stolen-art reports until he found what he was looking for. He slapped it onto the desk beside Kate’s incomplete puzzle painting.
    The report, one page, had a large color Xerox of a Madonna and Child at the top, a paragraph below:
     

    Italian. 14th Century. Sienese.
    Egg tempera on wood panel
    This small altarpiece, part of a church predella from Asciano, Italy, disappeared on or about March 11.
    The work is attributed to the School of Duccio, possibly even painted by the master himself.
    Approximate worth: three to six million dollars.
    Art dealers should look for the identifying Crosshatch design in the gold-leaf background.
     
    KATE LOOKED FROM ONE image to the other, raised the magnifier to her eye, noted the identical crosshatching in both. “Mert, you’re a genius!” She snatched the stolen-art report, slid it into the envelope along with the enlarged cutouts and the original collage. “I need these.”
    Mert’s eagle eyes narrowed. “What’s this all about, Kate?”
    “When I find out,” she said, “you’ll be the first to know.”

CHAPTER 10

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    Dark suits. Black dresses. Everyone appropriately solemn. The minister, who obviously didn’t know Bill Pruitt, mouthing empty declarations of praise for the man’s “good works.” No one volunteering when he asked, “Would anyone like to say a few words about the deceased?” Kate was almost tempted to say something– But what ?–simply to break the uncomfortable silence.
    She surveyed the crowd in the Upper East Side chapel: the staffs of the Contemporary Museum and Let There Be a Future, several recognizable Republican politicos, a handful of New York’s ruling class, the soon-to-be-defunct director of the Contemporary Amy Schwartz, curators Schuyler Mills and Raphael Perez, on either side of her, stone-faced–though the red carnation in Mills’s lapel seemed inappropriately celebratory. Across the aisle, Blair, Kate’s friend and co-host of the foundation benefit, rolled her eyes with each tribute the minister managed to conjure.
    A decent turnout, though people were checking watches, twitching with boredom, one man actually whispering into a cell phone.
    Richard had refused to come, would not be a “hypocrite.” Others had no such problem