From The Lost Van Gogh:
"Our NYPD contact is here." She half-waved, half-pointed at Clay. "Detective Ryder."
"Detective, something interesting came in our UPS delivery today."
Florene had hit it right about Director Armand Castelblanco's voice. The resonance on the museum tours was not electronically enhanced. No corner was given to contradiction or to challenges - even Clay shifted into Best Behavior Mode.
Once the knot of men and women around him broke apart, Castelblanco - who could've just stepped out of a John Singer Sargent portrait, so exquisitely tailored and amiably unapologetic for his hauteur was he - took a sideways step as well. Doing so, he revealed a small, unframed oil painting on an easel: a portrait of a man, head to mid-chest. The subject, well into middle age, was hawk-faced, intense, wary. The artist was unmistakable. Clay moved closer, reeled in by an invisible hook attached to an invisible line.
"A Van Gogh...in your UPS delivery?"
"Apparently."
"Saint-Rémy?"
"Very good, Detective!" Castelblanco stared at Florene. "Did you tell him, Miss Cope?"
Small flames of indignation rushed into Florene's cheeks. "As agreed, I mentioned nothing over the phone."
"Then do keep going, Detective! Excellent! Excellent!"
The entire situation was making him uneasy - the irresistible magnet resting on the easel, what he assumed to be Castelblanco's uncharacteristically high spirits, the almost giddy, Christmas-morning anticipation of the Met's top brass. If he wasn't the object of some elaborate joke, maybe he was in one of those dreams where everyone else is dressed for work and you're naked. Or really stupid. His mouth, totally dry, croaked out, "It's the head orderly of the asylum."
"It is indeed!" With the ratcheted-up enthusiasm of a game show host, the director urged him on. "Name him, and you match the curator!"
"The name is unusual...starts with a 'T'... No, I'm afraid the rest escapes me." He was still a few feet away. "Is it...authentic?"
Instantly, Clay regretted his question. Stupid had crept through, and won. Only the rankest amateur would have asked. An answer would require a battery of tests - X-rays and chemical analyses - followed by a poll of international Van Gogh experts.
Nothing could have made him appear more unprofessional.
Nothing, consequently, could have surprised him more than Castelblanco's reply.
"It's fair to say that we are... unanimous in our optimism." With an outstretched arm, the director drew Clay closer to the easel. "Detective Ryder, permit me to introduce you to Monsieur Trabuc." Lightly, he exhaled the ah of the 'Tra' and blew out the extended boo like a puckery kiss, ending it with a hard k. Sliding into a stage whisper, he confided, "I'm afraid that he is lost."