Working
just after this...
Bill spends three hours in Starbucks and drinks three cups of coffee.
Every time he orders, the girl -- it's the same one every time, so he doesn't fucking get what her malfunction is -- seems confused that he just. wants. coffee.
Nothing with milk or foam, nothing half-caf, quarter-caf, or quadruple-caf-with-nuts-on-top. He doesn't want whipped cream and he doesn't want lowfat, skim, soy, or whole. He doesn't want a caramel or vanilla in it, and he doesn't want it over ice or blended with ice or even remotely fucking near ice.
He wants a cup of coffee. He knows they have it, he can fucking see it right there on the bloody menu. The girl -- Hazel, according to her name tag -- steps into the back to consult with the manager. Three minutes later, the manager -- Todd -- comes out of the back, takes one look at Bill, and asks, "What size, sir?"
Bill knows that they come in small, medium, and large but are not actually called small, medium, or large. "Large," Bill says.
Todd does not correct him.
The third time he gets up to get more coffee, Hazel sees him approaching and flees into the back before Bill gets to the counter. Todd comes out a moment later and refills Bill's coffee without comment, and without offering him a scone.
He doesn't particularly like Starbucks -- he actually thinks even their regular coffee type coffee tastes like burnt arse -- but it's the easiest place to use his laptop and get coffee at the same time.
He has three files open, one titled Beckinsale, one titled McKellen, and one titled Rembrant.
The Beckinsale file contains everything Bill had been able to find out about the Beckinsale family, which is a lot. The Beckinsale's, John and Marianne, are quite high profile in business and society, as often happens when an heiress (Marianne) marries a self-made man.
Kate's existence is documented, in as much as the information Bill has been able to find confirms that there is a Kate, and that she had spent several years in more boarding schools than you could shake a stick at (which is five, actually). School transcripts are ridiculous easy to get. Bill only actually gets two of them (the last two) and the one from Cambridge, of course, where she studied European History.
Up until about six months ago, she'd been gainfully employed by the National Gallery in London, and had apparently taken a sabbatical to study medieval textiles. This is all readily available information in the Museum's monthly publication, which is apparently available online for the convenience of the Gallery's patrons. It's absurdly easy to get it with nothing more strenuous than a Google search and some dedicated skimming.
He finds an article she wrote in the Gallery's publication, and skims it curiously.
In 1520, the typical Florentine women's garment was a gamurra of silk or wool, with a skirt of a single tube of fabric pleated to a waistband, and sleeves that tied on with ribbon or cord, worn over a knee-length camicia. It is interesting to note that, while Italians prided themselves on their quality of lifestyle and technological advancements, the most striking example of 16th century tailoring remains Mary of Hungary's wedding gown, with so much tailoring savvy (and a taste for the opulent) that would put Versace to shame.
The sleeves, for one, are set in over a close-fitting shirt, which allowed for both traveling ease and to boast the skills of one's tailor. While this fashion did not catch on in Europe for nearly half a century after this dress was made, it remains a precedent of which Mary can be duly proud. Equally stunning is the circle skirt, a heretofore undocumented stroke of genius that allows for minimal fabric bunching at the waistline and optimal ease of movement in the resulting folds of skirt. The fact that the voluminous damask trailed for nearly a foot behind her only adds to the design's regal appeal.
What baffles many historians to this day are the large gold brocade cuffs that, when properly attached to the sleeves, would have covered her hands entirely and made eating, dancing, and general activity almost impossible. While there has been much debate of late over their purpose, a principle factor here is being ignored, and that is: if any woman was being queened, wouldn't she want the greatest possible impact? Very little makes greater impact than priceless gold cloth that swallows the queen's hands because, as the queen, she doesn't need to use them. The implication is clear, the mystery solved, and many a Florentine woman would have gladly traded trailors.
In the author's blurb at the end of the article, it notes that Ms. Beckinsale had been instrumental in the restoration of Mary of Hapsburg's gown.
On a hunch he searches for the restoration of Mary of Hapsburg's gown, and finds several articles detailing the work, including the restoration expert's (she isn't named in the article, but Bill doesn't doubt it's her) assertion that the dress was incomplete in it's original form, which was derided by several other experts. He finds thirty articles on the process, all of them in regional and gallery publications, and saves them under kate_dress on his hard drive to read later. He can't resist skimming them for content, however, and the short version seems to be that the dress Kate had gone to restore had been missing the cuffs (mentioned so specifically in the article, and Bill guesses this is why), although that hadn't been commonly known or believed until Kate had produced proof through a painting of Mary of Hapsburg dated appropriately correctly. Apparently Kate had been "ceaseless in her dedication in searching for and recovering the lost cuffs" which she had eventually been successful at.
There are pictures of the dress before and after restoration, and while Bill is no real judge of women's fashions, now or in centuries past, he has to admit that the difference is remarkable.
And he thinks it's a little funny, now, that he'd mistaken her for another Nic (although not like Nic, not at all, not in the least), an obscure relative in men's clothes come to perch on her uncle's (although Nic had insisted quite fervently that she was not his cousin, and Bill believes him) stoop, collecting whatever breadcrumbs he cares to hand out.
No, not this girl. What is she doing here?
He finds no familial connection between the Beckinsale's (husband or wife) and McKellen when he looks, and he is not surprised.
He does manage to track down several business connections between Beckinsale (John) and McKellen. None of which are conclusive of anything at all, other than the fact that they are both British gentlemen of a certain level of wealth that insures that they move in some similar circles, both business and social. He even finds a couple of photographs of McKellen and Beckinsale together, albeit a somewhat younger McKellen. In one of them, taken at what looks like some kind of party, there is a little girl just visible behind both men, who are standing together shoulder to shoulder, smiling at the camera. She has sleek pigtails and a frilly party dress. Her small face is squinched into an expression that Bill thinks might be jealousy. She is lovely and precocious looking, and recognizably Kate.
He can't tell from the picture whom her jealousy is directed toward.
He spends too much time looking at the picture and eventually has to close it in order to concentrate on other things.
He doesn't, immediately, though. Instead he goes to the FBI's site and logs in as law enforcement and scrolls through their past listings, looking for Beckinsale, John. When he finally finds it, he sits back in his chair, stroking thoughtfully at the stubble on his jaw with the side of one index finger, barely aware of the whisk whisk sound it makes.
The entry and the links it provides to related information make it crystal clear why Bill had remembered the name. Now that he's read over it again, he remembers the events, remembers the legal battles and the extradition demands and he remembers the FBI dismissing all charges (fraud, forgery, smuggling, all across international borders, all felonies, all unsubstantiated, apparently, and Bill just doesn't believe that, he simply doesn't). He remembers seeing the news article in which an FBI representative had issued a formal apology to Mr. Beckinsale. He remembers it because it was the proverbial once in a blue moon fuckup, the kind that every cop working on a big case pays attention to, because there, but for the grace of God, etcetera etcetera.
It takes him nearly an hour to track down and cross-reference John Beckinsale, and when he's finished, he thinks it's possible that Beckinsale is a very bad man, indeed.
Aside from the civil suit in 1993, Pentimento vs. John Beckinsale, alleging that Beckinsale had sold them a forgery (settled out of court, of course), there are files on the man from the nestled in the computer banks of the law enforcement agencies in the three jurisdictions in which Beckinsale spends time, London, Sussex, and Siena (they have a Villa, how nice), all of which are extensive, all of which contain information that cannot be substantiated according to investigating officers, and all of which Bill could go to prison for procuring without proper authorization.
He doesn't save them -- there really isn't any need, he isn't investigating Beckinsale, and he can get them again if he has to.
He spends the next hour finding nothing at all on Kate's merry adventures, until he chances on a listing on the National Gallery's website that shows when and why Kate had been out on assignment on their behalf.
It's quite a list.
It takes him twenty minutes to find two instances of missing artifact-quality valuables gone missing within a week of her visit (one of which is a -- or maybe it's the, Bill isn't sure, isn't even sure what the hell the thing is -- "Two-Sided Icon with the Virgin Pafsolype and Feast Scenes and the Crucifixion and Prophets. Byzantine (Constantinople?), second half of the 14th century. Tempera on gessoed wood. Collection of the Ecumenical Patriarchate, Istanbul", according to the news coverage anyhow, and the other a supremely ugly pitcher from the 13th century B.C., which is "intricately carved" according to the newspaper article, but which looks like someone took a chisel to it and just went crazy to Bill).
He sits back again, thinking hard. He's vaguely aware of Todd, hovering at the edges of his vision, and he wonders if it's nearly closing time or something.
He's barely touched on McKellen's file, merely adding business holdings, routine information from the CLETS and triple I, none of which contains anything interesting, and he hasn't even looked at the window containing the file labeled Rembrant.
He'd say he is spending too much time on this, too much time on Kate, except…
Except Kate is inextricably linked with McKellen, though Bill can't clearly see how or why, just yet.
He feels it, though, he knows it.
And McKellen is inextricably linked with Nic and with DBY and with Bill himself, if you want to stretch it a little, and apparently Nic has some kind of connection to Dominguez, as unlikely as that seems, and he can't fucking imagine any way for that to happen that doesn't involve someone else, someone sharper and more dangerous, someone like McKellen himself.
And there is just too much he doesn't know, just too fucking much, and he has to fucking start somewhere.
Since he can't start where he really wants to start -- that would be grabbing Nic by the shoulders and shaking him until his bloody teeth rattle, shaking the stupid twat because Bill would bet anything that Nic has no idea, just no fucking idea how fucking dangerous what he's doing is (but Bill does, Bill hasn't ever had to clean up after any of Dominguez's entertainment, but he's fucking heard about it, and even if it is exaggeration, even if it's only a tenth as bad as the stories say, even if it's only a hundredth as bad, well that's bloody bad enough), shaking him and demanding to know why he was there, what the hell he thinks he's doing, who the hell had set it up -- this seems like as good a way as any.
All roads cannot lead back to Dominguez, Bill thinks, and he knows it to be true, he really does, but some part of him believes that all roads can, maybe all roads do.
Bill spends three hours in Starbucks and drinks three cups of coffee.
Every time he orders, the girl -- it's the same one every time, so he doesn't fucking get what her malfunction is -- seems confused that he just. wants. coffee.
Nothing with milk or foam, nothing half-caf, quarter-caf, or quadruple-caf-with-nuts-on-top. He doesn't want whipped cream and he doesn't want lowfat, skim, soy, or whole. He doesn't want a caramel or vanilla in it, and he doesn't want it over ice or blended with ice or even remotely fucking near ice.
He wants a cup of coffee. He knows they have it, he can fucking see it right there on the bloody menu. The girl -- Hazel, according to her name tag -- steps into the back to consult with the manager. Three minutes later, the manager -- Todd -- comes out of the back, takes one look at Bill, and asks, "What size, sir?"
Bill knows that they come in small, medium, and large but are not actually called small, medium, or large. "Large," Bill says.
Todd does not correct him.
The third time he gets up to get more coffee, Hazel sees him approaching and flees into the back before Bill gets to the counter. Todd comes out a moment later and refills Bill's coffee without comment, and without offering him a scone.
He doesn't particularly like Starbucks -- he actually thinks even their regular coffee type coffee tastes like burnt arse -- but it's the easiest place to use his laptop and get coffee at the same time.
He has three files open, one titled Beckinsale, one titled McKellen, and one titled Rembrant.
The Beckinsale file contains everything Bill had been able to find out about the Beckinsale family, which is a lot. The Beckinsale's, John and Marianne, are quite high profile in business and society, as often happens when an heiress (Marianne) marries a self-made man.
Kate's existence is documented, in as much as the information Bill has been able to find confirms that there is a Kate, and that she had spent several years in more boarding schools than you could shake a stick at (which is five, actually). School transcripts are ridiculous easy to get. Bill only actually gets two of them (the last two) and the one from Cambridge, of course, where she studied European History.
Up until about six months ago, she'd been gainfully employed by the National Gallery in London, and had apparently taken a sabbatical to study medieval textiles. This is all readily available information in the Museum's monthly publication, which is apparently available online for the convenience of the Gallery's patrons. It's absurdly easy to get it with nothing more strenuous than a Google search and some dedicated skimming.
He finds an article she wrote in the Gallery's publication, and skims it curiously.
In 1520, the typical Florentine women's garment was a gamurra of silk or wool, with a skirt of a single tube of fabric pleated to a waistband, and sleeves that tied on with ribbon or cord, worn over a knee-length camicia. It is interesting to note that, while Italians prided themselves on their quality of lifestyle and technological advancements, the most striking example of 16th century tailoring remains Mary of Hungary's wedding gown, with so much tailoring savvy (and a taste for the opulent) that would put Versace to shame.
The sleeves, for one, are set in over a close-fitting shirt, which allowed for both traveling ease and to boast the skills of one's tailor. While this fashion did not catch on in Europe for nearly half a century after this dress was made, it remains a precedent of which Mary can be duly proud. Equally stunning is the circle skirt, a heretofore undocumented stroke of genius that allows for minimal fabric bunching at the waistline and optimal ease of movement in the resulting folds of skirt. The fact that the voluminous damask trailed for nearly a foot behind her only adds to the design's regal appeal.
What baffles many historians to this day are the large gold brocade cuffs that, when properly attached to the sleeves, would have covered her hands entirely and made eating, dancing, and general activity almost impossible. While there has been much debate of late over their purpose, a principle factor here is being ignored, and that is: if any woman was being queened, wouldn't she want the greatest possible impact? Very little makes greater impact than priceless gold cloth that swallows the queen's hands because, as the queen, she doesn't need to use them. The implication is clear, the mystery solved, and many a Florentine woman would have gladly traded trailors.
In the author's blurb at the end of the article, it notes that Ms. Beckinsale had been instrumental in the restoration of Mary of Hapsburg's gown.
On a hunch he searches for the restoration of Mary of Hapsburg's gown, and finds several articles detailing the work, including the restoration expert's (she isn't named in the article, but Bill doesn't doubt it's her) assertion that the dress was incomplete in it's original form, which was derided by several other experts. He finds thirty articles on the process, all of them in regional and gallery publications, and saves them under kate_dress on his hard drive to read later. He can't resist skimming them for content, however, and the short version seems to be that the dress Kate had gone to restore had been missing the cuffs (mentioned so specifically in the article, and Bill guesses this is why), although that hadn't been commonly known or believed until Kate had produced proof through a painting of Mary of Hapsburg dated appropriately correctly. Apparently Kate had been "ceaseless in her dedication in searching for and recovering the lost cuffs" which she had eventually been successful at.
There are pictures of the dress before and after restoration, and while Bill is no real judge of women's fashions, now or in centuries past, he has to admit that the difference is remarkable.
And he thinks it's a little funny, now, that he'd mistaken her for another Nic (although not like Nic, not at all, not in the least), an obscure relative in men's clothes come to perch on her uncle's (although Nic had insisted quite fervently that she was not his cousin, and Bill believes him) stoop, collecting whatever breadcrumbs he cares to hand out.
No, not this girl. What is she doing here?
He finds no familial connection between the Beckinsale's (husband or wife) and McKellen when he looks, and he is not surprised.
He does manage to track down several business connections between Beckinsale (John) and McKellen. None of which are conclusive of anything at all, other than the fact that they are both British gentlemen of a certain level of wealth that insures that they move in some similar circles, both business and social. He even finds a couple of photographs of McKellen and Beckinsale together, albeit a somewhat younger McKellen. In one of them, taken at what looks like some kind of party, there is a little girl just visible behind both men, who are standing together shoulder to shoulder, smiling at the camera. She has sleek pigtails and a frilly party dress. Her small face is squinched into an expression that Bill thinks might be jealousy. She is lovely and precocious looking, and recognizably Kate.
He can't tell from the picture whom her jealousy is directed toward.
He spends too much time looking at the picture and eventually has to close it in order to concentrate on other things.
He doesn't, immediately, though. Instead he goes to the FBI's site and logs in as law enforcement and scrolls through their past listings, looking for Beckinsale, John. When he finally finds it, he sits back in his chair, stroking thoughtfully at the stubble on his jaw with the side of one index finger, barely aware of the whisk whisk sound it makes.
The entry and the links it provides to related information make it crystal clear why Bill had remembered the name. Now that he's read over it again, he remembers the events, remembers the legal battles and the extradition demands and he remembers the FBI dismissing all charges (fraud, forgery, smuggling, all across international borders, all felonies, all unsubstantiated, apparently, and Bill just doesn't believe that, he simply doesn't). He remembers seeing the news article in which an FBI representative had issued a formal apology to Mr. Beckinsale. He remembers it because it was the proverbial once in a blue moon fuckup, the kind that every cop working on a big case pays attention to, because there, but for the grace of God, etcetera etcetera.
It takes him nearly an hour to track down and cross-reference John Beckinsale, and when he's finished, he thinks it's possible that Beckinsale is a very bad man, indeed.
Aside from the civil suit in 1993, Pentimento vs. John Beckinsale, alleging that Beckinsale had sold them a forgery (settled out of court, of course), there are files on the man from the nestled in the computer banks of the law enforcement agencies in the three jurisdictions in which Beckinsale spends time, London, Sussex, and Siena (they have a Villa, how nice), all of which are extensive, all of which contain information that cannot be substantiated according to investigating officers, and all of which Bill could go to prison for procuring without proper authorization.
He doesn't save them -- there really isn't any need, he isn't investigating Beckinsale, and he can get them again if he has to.
He spends the next hour finding nothing at all on Kate's merry adventures, until he chances on a listing on the National Gallery's website that shows when and why Kate had been out on assignment on their behalf.
It's quite a list.
It takes him twenty minutes to find two instances of missing artifact-quality valuables gone missing within a week of her visit (one of which is a -- or maybe it's the, Bill isn't sure, isn't even sure what the hell the thing is -- "Two-Sided Icon with the Virgin Pafsolype and Feast Scenes and the Crucifixion and Prophets. Byzantine (Constantinople?), second half of the 14th century. Tempera on gessoed wood. Collection of the Ecumenical Patriarchate, Istanbul", according to the news coverage anyhow, and the other a supremely ugly pitcher from the 13th century B.C., which is "intricately carved" according to the newspaper article, but which looks like someone took a chisel to it and just went crazy to Bill).
He sits back again, thinking hard. He's vaguely aware of Todd, hovering at the edges of his vision, and he wonders if it's nearly closing time or something.
He's barely touched on McKellen's file, merely adding business holdings, routine information from the CLETS and triple I, none of which contains anything interesting, and he hasn't even looked at the window containing the file labeled Rembrant.
He'd say he is spending too much time on this, too much time on Kate, except…
Except Kate is inextricably linked with McKellen, though Bill can't clearly see how or why, just yet.
He feels it, though, he knows it.
And McKellen is inextricably linked with Nic and with DBY and with Bill himself, if you want to stretch it a little, and apparently Nic has some kind of connection to Dominguez, as unlikely as that seems, and he can't fucking imagine any way for that to happen that doesn't involve someone else, someone sharper and more dangerous, someone like McKellen himself.
And there is just too much he doesn't know, just too fucking much, and he has to fucking start somewhere.
Since he can't start where he really wants to start -- that would be grabbing Nic by the shoulders and shaking him until his bloody teeth rattle, shaking the stupid twat because Bill would bet anything that Nic has no idea, just no fucking idea how fucking dangerous what he's doing is (but Bill does, Bill hasn't ever had to clean up after any of Dominguez's entertainment, but he's fucking heard about it, and even if it is exaggeration, even if it's only a tenth as bad as the stories say, even if it's only a hundredth as bad, well that's bloody bad enough), shaking him and demanding to know why he was there, what the hell he thinks he's doing, who the hell had set it up -- this seems like as good a way as any.
All roads cannot lead back to Dominguez, Bill thinks, and he knows it to be true, he really does, but some part of him believes that all roads can, maybe all roads do.