Declan liked the parties. And there were ever so many parties. He had never allowed himself to be so public in DC, so himself, so out and about, but Jordan argued that extroversion was actually safer. It took no effort, she noted, to disappear someone who didn’t really exist, so they should live, they should live loudly. It was impeccable logic and, in any case, what Declan wanted to hear. He liked making his burner phone his real phone, making sure that, yes, it was a good number for him, a permanent number for him, a place to get the man for the job. The first get-together was small: an exhibit opening at a tiny Fenway gallery. Drinks and music, a funky vibe, young collectors, an after-party that spilled into a bar. After that, Declan bumped into his senator’s sister’s daughter on the street in Somerville and got invited to dinner, which turned into drinks, which turned into dancing. All of it turned into more texts and calls and invitations. Jordan was an exceptional and practiced partygoer. He liked how he looked on her arm.
Declan liked finding out how passionate Sargent had been about El Jaleo. A musician himself, Sargent had been fascinated by the culture of flamenco, and a trip to Spain had left such a mark that three years later he was still painting studies of dancers and guitarists for the piece that would eventually hang in the Gardner. When the twelve-foot-long painting debuted at the prestigious Salon, it rocketed Sargent to fame and cemented a career that would last his entire life. Was this what it had in common with Madame X? Was it that the painting changed his life, or was it that he knew that it was going to change his life? What was soul? Declan didn’t know, but he liked trying to find out.
Declan liked the new roles his brothers played in this fantastic construct. Even though he felt guilty about letting Matthew’s schoolwork slide (Was he going to college anyway? Would he ever actually be an adult?), he liked ordering takeout with him, and he liked using him as an excuse to see the touristy things, and he liked doing the holidays with him. Matthew’s dreamy episodes seemed to be fewer than before, and Declan felt safe enough to get Matthew a part-time job at one of the local galleries, packing orders, which seemed to improve his mood. Everyone loved seeing him; who didn’t love Matthew? And Ronan—even though he wasn’t in Boston, his presence was still huge in Declan’s life. Once Declan stopped changing his phone number and started going to parties, a Moderator named Carmen Farooq-Lane called to ask if he’d been in touch with Ronan Lynch since the Potomac River incident. (No, said Declan, but while I have you on the phone I should let you know I’ve made very good friends with an attorney since your unannounced attack on my personal residence, a sentence that ended the phone call.) And in the oddest places, people would lean in and suddenly whisper, Are you Ronan Lynch’s brother? Please thank him. This would have petrified Declan back in DC, but now it all made him feel like he was part of something bigger. Golden Matthew, charming the city. Rebellious Ronan, finally grown into something useful. Cunning Declan, trafficking in art and stories. The Brothers Lynch. He liked not worrying about them all the time.
Declan liked coming to the Fenway Studios at the end of the day when Jordan was just waking up for her workday, which lasted all night. He liked that without any conversation they’d decided it was right for him to sit in the antique leather chair by the window and tell her about his day while she worked at her canvases. He liked that she had begun painting him again, although she refused to show him this portrait. He liked that she was trying to make him her sweetmetal. He liked watching her create her copies of El Jaleo and Madame X, her ability with the brush never failing to transfix him as she forged layer upon layer in oils, same as when he had first glimpsed her at the Fairy Market. Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau.
Jordan Hennessy.
He thought about her all the time.
He liked it all. He liked it very much.
“What are you thinking?” Matthew asked.
“What?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m not thinking about anything, Matthew, I’m just waiting for Jordan like you are.”
The two brothers lingered in the Dutch Room in the Gardner museum, killing time until Jordan was meant to meet them for late lunch. Breakfast for her, since she probably was only just now waking up.
“You are thinking, though,” Matthew insisted. He had that whinge to his voice that indicated today was going to be one of his tricky days. “You’re thinking of things you’re going to talk about with Jordan. Why don’t you talk about them with me?”
He wasn’t wrong, which was an impressive display of discernment on his part. But it was no less aggravating. Declan said, “Because you’re two different people. I’m not going to copy-paste a conversation.”
“You just think I’m stupider than her,” Matthew said. “You save all the smart things to talk about with her and then just point out people walking dogs to me.”
“Do you or don’t you like it when I point out dogs?” Declan asked.
Matthew groused. “I don’t only like when you point out dogs. I want to know what you’re doing. What you’re, like, you know, thinking.”
“Fine,” Declan said. “I was wondering if these paintings are sweetmetals. If that’s why they were stolen.”
The green-wallpapered Dutch Room in the Gardner was notable for many things, including a Rembrandt self-portrait, a few Rubens, and some very excellent historical furniture, but it was now probably most famous for the things that weren’t there.
One cold March several decades before, two thieves dressed as policemen had stolen thirteen works, including a Rembrandt and a Vermeer. It remained the largest unsolved art heist in history. Any crime of that size would have been notable, but the loss was felt even more acutely because the Gardner museum was both small and unusual, unable to rebound in the way any other museum might have. Isabella Stewart Gardner had overseen every inch of the intimate museum’s creation. She’d acquired and placed every piece, micromanaged down to the building and tearing down of walls and other architectural features, and one of the requirements in her will was that nothing in the museum be changed after her death. Even widening one of the doorways a few inches for accessibility had required petitions and paperwork. This mandate meant that the museum couldn’t acquire new works or rearrange old ones to take the place of the stolen works. Instead, the empty frames had been hung back up where the pieces had been. In essence, the loss itself was now displayed—and what more universal piece of art could there be?
“Sweetmetals, why? Because they were weird choices? The stolen stuff, I mean?” Matthew asked, which, again, displayed slightly more focus than Declan had come to expect from his brother. He’d been paying attention on their many visits.
“Because they were weird, yes. Because there were more expensive pieces hanging just feet away and they left them. Because they took that bronze finial, of all things.”
“The bird thing,” said Matthew.
“Yes,” Declan echoed drily. This was more of what he expected from his brother. “The bird thing.”
For decades experts had been trying to understand why the thieves had taken the pieces they had, and why they had treated them the way they did. They’d hacked valuable canvases right out of the frame. They’d pocketed disparate works on paper. They’d taken the Shang dynasty bronze beaker that had been on the table in front of the Rembrandt they also stole. And of course, as Matthew noted, the bird thing—they had stolen a bronze eagle finial off the end of a random flagpole. Was it personal? Experts wondered. A random grab? What did these works have in common?