The Pegasus Secret by Gregg Loomis Read Free Book Online Page A

Dumpsters. At the end, he found a door marked “Administrative Offices.”
    Lang had the impression he had stepped through Alice’s looking glass. Hair of every color, rings in every visible orifice, clothes from
Star Wars
. The clerk at Ansley Galleries had been conservative in comparison.
    A young woman with half her head shaved and polished, the other covered by Astroturf-green hair, glanced up from the computer terminal on her desk. “May I help you?”
    “I’m Langford Reilly. I have an appointment with Mr. Seitz.”
    The woman jabbed a dagger-length fingernail painted an ominous black. “In there.” She picked up a phone. “Mr. Reilly’s here to see you.”
    A man stepped from a doorway. Lang wasn’t sure what he had expected but Mr. Seitz wasn’t it. Instead, he was normal looking. Well-tailored dark suit, red power tie, shiny black wingtips. He was slender, just under six feet tall. Early forties, judging by the dove-wings of gray over his ears. His chiseled face had recently seen the beach. Or the inside of a tanning booth.
    A gold Rolex competed in dazzle with jeweled cuff links as he extended a manicured hand. “Jason Seitz, Mr. Reilly.”
    “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Lang said. “Quite a colorful crew you have here.”
    His eyes followed Lang’s stare. “Art students. We try tohire from the art school,” he said as if that explained the costumes. “Won’t you step this way?”
    They entered an office that was as traditional as the employees outside were weird. Seitz indicated a leather wing chair where Lang could admire the wall of photographs: Seitz shaking hands with or hugging local business leaders, politicians and celebrities. He slipped behind a dining room table–sized desk littered with snapshots of paintings, sculptures and some other objects Lang didn’t immediately recognize.
    Seitz leaned back, made a steeple of his fingers and said, “I usually don’t have the pleasure of meeting with people I don’t know, but Ms. . . .”
    “Mitford—Sara Mitford, my secretary.”
    Seitz nodded. “Ms. Mitford was quite insistent, said it was urgent. Fortunately, I had a cancellation. . . .”
    His gaze had the practiced sincerity of someone used to soliciting money. It fitted nicely with the favor he wanted Lang to know he was doing him.
    “I really appreciate your taking the time. I’m sure running this place keeps you busy.”
    The museum director smiled. Lang would have been astonished had he shown anything but perfect teeth. “Actually, the board of directors runs the museum. I am their humble servant.”
    “Yeah. Well . . .” Uncertain how to respond to the ill- fitting humility, Lang opened his briefcase and leaned forward to hand the copy of the Polaroid across the expanse of mahogany. “I was wondering if you could tell me about that.”
    Seitz frowned, squinting at the picture. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
    “Les Bergers d’Arcadie
, Nicholas Poussin. Or at least a copy of it.”
    Seitz nodded. “Mid–seventeenth-Century French, if I recall.The original of that picture hangs in the Louvre. What specifically is it you want to know?”
    Lang had what he thought was a plausible explanation. “I’m not sure. That is, I’m a lawyer and I have a case involving . . .”
    The director held up his hands, palms outward. “Whoa, Mr. Reilly! The museum is not in a position to authenticate art for individuals. As an attorney, I’m sure you can understand the liability issues.”
    Lang shook his head, eager to calm what he recognized as a bad case of legal anxiety syndrome. “I apologize. I didn’t make myself clear. All I want is to learn the history of the painting, what it’s supposed to depict.”
    Seitz was only marginally calmed. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.” He whirled his chair around, removing a book from the antique table behind him that served as a credenza. Thumbing through it, he continued. “I can say, I think, that