Back in the city, I called Inspector Cabenal and left my questions on her voicemail: had they had found Smith’s attacker, and was anyone pursuing the Chaudron forgeries? I doubted I would hear back from her and didn’t. I wondered how they could just let it go, not pursue the Louvre or Smith’s list of suspicious art collectors. The thought had me going through my papers, but I couldn’t find the list. Then I remembered Smith had emailed it to me, found it in my in-box, and printed it out.

There were four names with Manhattan addresses. I stared at them, questioning why I’d printed it and what I thought I could possibly do. Call them, say, Hey, you don’t know me, but do you happen to have a stolen artwork? Maybe a forgery of the Mona Lisa? Or maybe the original?

A ludicrous idea.

Then I thought of Smith, felt as if I owed him something, that perhaps I could at least clear his name with INTERPOL, though it wasn’t just about owing or obligation. It was about something a lot less noble: revenge. An image of myself: pack of Marlboros rolled into the sleeve of my tee above my tattoo, with my posse, on the hunt, getting even with someone we decided had wronged us. We were not always right, but that never stopped us. Funny, how far I thought I’d come. But did we ever really leave our former selves behind?

I didn’t spend a lot of time pondering that philosophical question. Instead I checked out the first name on Smith’s list, Jonathan Teivel, noting the artwork beside his name, and quickly formulated a plan. I told his secretary I was an art historian writing a piece on the artist, Titian, wondered if Mr. Teivel had such a painting, and if so, would he let me see it, all this made up on the spot and before rational thinking could stop me.

The secretary, officious but nice, said her boss was in a meeting, but she would relay the message. I hung up feeling both disappointment and relief, though it didn’t stop me from making another call. Another secretary. The same story about the article I was writing. This time, the boss was traveling and would not be back for a month. I put a question mark beside his name and, still working off my small shot of adrenaline, called the next name on the list. This one, a lawyer who, according to his paralegal, was on a case in Los Angeles and not expected back for several weeks. Another question mark next to his name. One more name to call.

“Rembrandt?” the personal assistant, friendly and chatty, repeated the artist’s name I had just given her. “Mr. Baine does collect art, some of it in our offices, but there’s no Rembrandt here that I know of. Perhaps in one of his homes, though I’m not certain,” she said. “Mr. Baine isn’t in, but I will convey your message.”