Nothing. Add that to all the other information she’d tracked down about the elusive Peter Casaventi and she had, well, nothing. Squared. She glanced at the notes she’d jotted down during a morning spent hunched over the computer hoping that no one would come in and ask her why she was looking up information on a well-known painter’s obscure son. Apparently Farmingham had been right both about Peter Casaventi not being known as a forger and his keeping a low profile. Damn it. All she could find were a few references in the society pages, all concerning his attendance at various high-profile Casaventi family events. Most of the papers referred to him as a “reclusive restorer” and mentioned his “tragic” lack of artistic talent. A few showed pictures of him with beautiful blonde women—all of whom looked more or less alike, and none of whom ever showed up more than once. Not helpful. Donata had used all the not-inconsiderable resources available to her as a police officer and hadn’t even turned up so much as a home address.
