The 'Portrait de Vincent van Gogh' was dropped off the next morning at the hotel's front desk. Simon was having breakfast at the hotel restaurant at the time.
Last evening Emily surprised Simon by inviting him to dinner.
"Are all American women so forward?"
"Do all Brits talk funny?" She actually giggled. They made arrangements to meet when she was done working.
One of the bell hops alerted Simon to the paintings arrival. He directed him to have it delivered to his room, finished the coffee and went up to examine the faux Lautrec.
He unwrapped the picture and set it on a chair. Stood back, perhaps ten feet, and stared at the painting. Last evening, when Emily quoted a figure of thirty-five hundred dollars, he thought that was a little rich. Of course, he bought it anyway. Now that he had the chance to look at it more closely the conclusion was that it was worth every penny. It struck him odd, once again, that the world is such a small place. What were the odds that he would stumble across a work of art done by the very same artist commissioned to paint his fake?
After writing a check and making arrangements to have it delivered, Simon and Emily discovered that they both enjoyed Italian food. He arranged to pick her up after work.
Simon poured Emily some wine while they perused the menu. He was a little surprised to his reaction while sitting across from this woman. Nervous? He seemed to recall being nervous once, when was that, fifteen?
Emily looked up from the menu. "So, Simon, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a high class con man." Simon was more than a little shocked at his candor.
Being unfamiliar with the city, earlier Simon had asked the hotel concierge for a recommendation. He settled on Dante amp; Luigi’s, one of the oldest existing Italian restaurants in the United States.
Emily smiled ever so slightly. "And exactly what does that involve?"
Simon surprised himself. He spent the next hour and a half telling Emily his life's story. His family moving from Ireland to England while still a boy; being a grifter; moving up the ranks from money laundering for the Russian mob to creating tax shelters for the wealthy and finally changing his name from Aronson to Jones to hide being a Jew. With no hesitation he also told her about Elisabeth and Connor.
"Is that so?” was her only response. Emily went on eating as though Simon had only commented on the weather.
Although he didn't understand why, Simon found himself becoming increasingly uneasy. "Your turn," he said.
Emily, as it turned out, had actually been a hippie. University of California, Berkeley; active participant in multiple anti-war and civil rights protests; living in communes; traveling in VW buses; indulging in marijuana and mushrooms and briefly following the Dead.
"Mom and Dad were both professionals. Mom a university professor; Dad a doctor. Both of them gone. I don't really have any family."
Simon could see that talking about this made Emily uncomfortable. "And the artwork, how did you become involved with that?"
Here she perked up. "I backed into it. Some of the people at the commune made their money by selling at swap meets and flea markets. I used to go along to help. Found out that I have an affinity for art. So, I started buying and selling. I figured out that if I was going to be serious about it that I should go back to school. Got my Masters in art history. Been doing it ever since."
Simon stood there looking at the painting; his mind was elsewhere. Emily baffled him. The best thing, he decided, was to get back to work. A few packages had arrived from Europe.
Two weeks earlier he had rented a building on Pine Street between 9th and 10th Streets. He called the front desk, requested a bell hop and had the packages delivered to his rented car in the hotel garage.
The first floor of the building was set up as a store on Historic Antique Row. Simon went to Freeman's Auction, filled a truck with expensive stock and was immediately in business. To his surprise the shop was a success and would be in the black in record time.
The purpose of the business was to obfuscate the scam. Simon set the second floor up as a studio for Anthony. For Doo Wop's peace of mind, and his own, there was access to the studio through the alley behind the building. Simon wanted to do everything within reason to eliminate ties between artist and painting. No incriminating materials would be found at Anthony's home studio; he could come and go as he pleased, unseen.
Simon unwrapped the packages at the second floor studio. Uncle Moe had been in charge of locating and purchasing the vintage materials necessary to duplicate a late 19th century painting. What he had before him were several canvases from the period; brushes; materials to make brushes, if necessary; two frames; some wood and nails.
The second package contained hundreds of tubes of paint. They were labeled in small black letters. The enclosed inventory listed the following colors: silver white zinc white lemon chrome yellow no. two chrome yellow vermilion chrome yellow no. three chrome yellow geranium carmine prussian blue very light cinnabar green orange lead emerald green veronese green
Jean Pierre had gone to great lengths hiring a German chemist to duplicate Van Gogh's palette. The chemical composition of these oil paints were virtually identical to those used by Vincent himself.
It occurred to Simon that there was a chance; however slight, that the Bureau still monitored Anthony's life. With that in mind, he walked down to the corner pharmacy. In the rear corner sat a telephone booth. Dialed a number in his little black book.
"I'm sorry, Anthony's not home. This is his wife. May I take a message?"
"Please tell Mr. DeAngelo that his order is ready."