He stood there for a space with Jordan Hennessy, both of them looking at the painting. El Jaleo was both dark and luminous. In it, a Spanish dancer twisted through a dark room. Behind her, guitarists twisted round their instruments and onlookers clapped her on. It was all black and brown except for the striking white of the dancer and the flushed red in details. In person it was obvious how much rigor had been put into the contorted dancer and how little had been devoted to the musicians and the background, forcing the viewer’s attention onto her, only her. The entire work looked effortless, if one didn’t know better. (Declan knew better.)

“You’re my prospective punter, aren’t you?” Jordan asked. “I should have known. Mr. Pozzi of South Boston.”

Declan said, “How do you find a forger? Be in the market for a forgery.”

“Pozzi’s on the nose, don’t you think?”

Samuel-Jean Pozzi was the subject of one of John Singer Sargent’s most dramatic portraits, a full-length glory featuring his friend Dr. Pozzi, a well-known dandy and OB-GYN, in a blazing red dressing gown. Declan had feared using it as a name when contacting Jordan for a forgery might give the game away, but the potential reward of looking clever was too great a temptation.

“You didn’t guess it, did you?” Declan lifted his red scarf from his collar. “I’m wearing this scarf in his honor.”

“Cadmium red,” Jordan said. “Slightly toxic but little risk if handled well. Before I forget—”

She handed him the keys to his stolen car.

“Did you remember it takes premium?”

“Crumbs, I knew I forgot something. I did top up the wiper fluid.”

“Where is it?”

“A lady never tells.” She grinned at him. Then she stepped as close to the painting as she was permitted, bending at the waist to study the brushstrokes, graceful as one of Degas’s dancers. Her grin tugged wider as she guessed, correctly, that he was looking at her. Straightening, she lifted her arm and twisted her body, pulling herself into a perfect imitation of El Jaleo’s dancer. There was nothing like the sound of a museum, and the Gardner was no exception. The murmur of other patrons in the adjacent courtyard, the sound of footsteps echoing in hallways, the respectful whispers. Jordan Hennessy was art in front of art in a room that was art in a building that was art in a life that was art, and Declan told himself he had only come here to get his car back.

Foolish Declan smirked; Paranoid Declan sneered.

Paranoid Declan lost. Foolish Declan said, in an even tone, “You never finished my portrait. Seems unprofessional to just leave a client hanging like that.”

Jordan nodded. “And now you want a refund.”

“A refund won’t fill that hole on my wall.”