By Aaron Elkins
Mild‑mannered and law‑abiding, Chris Norgren, curator of Renaissance and Baroque artwork on the Seattle artwork Museum, is an not going undercover investigator, but if a precious Rubens portrait is came upon in a cargo of “authentic reproductions” in a neighborhood warehouse, Chris is pressed into provider to determine the way it obtained there. the hunt leads him to the medieval urban of Bologna, considered one of his favourite locations, yet all too quickly what could have been a welcome Italian interlude becomes a strange trip into shady artwork global doings and murderous secrets and techniques . . .
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Extra info for A Glancing Light (Chris Norgren)
But he could have been here," Di Vecchio persisted. "No, you can forget it, believe me. Whoever took those paintings knew what they were doing. They were selective. Only the best. They didn't take any junk, either from me or Gozzi or the Pinacoteca. ' " Max laughed appreciatively. "Well, I do, or did at the time. I had four eighteenth-century canvases of very dubious provenance in the basement for cleaning. You know, 'School of Somebody' kinds of things. They were sitting about five feet from the Rubens, and to an uninformed eye they would have looked every bit as good.
Blusher," the guard called. " The answering voice was loud, robust; well matched by the man it belonged to. Michael Blusher was a broad-beamed, big-boned man in his early forties. Sturdy as he was, he had the puffy, bloated look of someone who had once weighed a great deal more. He jumped up from a wooden swivel chair and came out from behind his cluttered desk, his hand outstretched. I recognized him now. I had seen him once or twice at preview receptions, but we'd never spoken. "Thanks for coming, guys," he said, pumping my hand, and then grabbed Calvin's.
It's all a matter of marketing," Calvin said soberly to me. " Blusher nodded, satisfied. " I asked. Blusher shrugged. I lifted the panel, turned it over, and put it carefully back on the padded shelf, facedown, so the back was visible. "Just what I thought," I said after a second. " Blusher leaped up. "It's re舒" "Not the painting," I said hurriedly. " "The panel? " He gave a croak of laughter. " I gestured at the back of the panel; it was made of two broad oak planks joined together, then enclosed in the groove of a sturdy, simple frame.