“Betty, Betty.” Worthington’s thumb dug in deep enough to leave a crescent mark from his nail. “It would take far more than an unsubstantiated rumor to convince someone of any artistic sophistication at all that the Dunstans aren’t exactly what we know they are-paintings by one of our greatest Western artists. A competitor is simply trying to cause trouble before the auction. A tempest in a teapot, that’s all.” Or a bit of extortion. Hardly the first time-or the last.
“But what about the thumbprint?” she asked.
Worthington wondered how Betty knew that he was trying to dig a hole in his forehead with his thumb. “What thumbprint?”
“The ones on the Dunstan paintings that belong to Justine, not to Thomas Dunstan.”
“Betty.” Worthington took a better grip on the phone and his exasperation. It’s always something before a big auction, and it’s always at the worst possible time. “Even if his lover’s fingerprints were all over the canvases, all it would prove is that Justine was with Dunstan when the paintings were created. Since Dunstan didn’t paint unless his Scarlet Muse was with him, finding her fingerprints on the canvas would hardly be earth-shattering. Even if the identity of the owner of the purported fingerprints could be proved, which is highly doubtful.”
“But Tal was so upset.”
“I’ll call Tal and straighten things out. Are you in Las Vegas now?”
“Yes.”
“Keep a lid on Lee. The less said, the better.”
Betty looked at the man pouring whiskey into a tumbler and sighed. “I’ll do what I can.” She hesitated. “This will make the paintings less valuable, won’t it?”
“Don’t worry,” Worthington said. “And keep Lee away from the public until he’s sober. If you get a call from anyone offering to sell new Dunstans to you, pass the call on to me.”
“Why would anyone want to sell us Dunstan paintings? We don’t have that kind of money.”
Extortion, you silly twit. What else? Worthington’s thumb ached almost as much as his head. Lee verifies fake paintings and everything is sweet-except Crawford will have my balls if I don’t generate enough auction excitement to support a minimum of eight million dollars per Dunstan. Ten is what Crawford really wants. That will make the kind of waves that nobody can question, not even the IRS.
Worthington was, in his own way, as eager as Crawford to make a huge splash. It would bring his new auction house to the attention of the big players in the art world in a dazzling way. But that would be hard to pull off with a dozen dubious Dunstans coming out of the woodwork at the last moment.
Crawford didn’t have the money to soak up twelve new paintings at four million each, much less at ten. And if the new paintings went for less, they would devalue the ones Crawford already owned.
“Don’t worry about anything except keeping a lid on Lee and calling me if someone contacts you about the paintings,” Worthington said. “Do you understand?”
Betty sighed. “I don’t understand anything, but I’ll do what you say.”
Worthington hung up and dialed Crawford’s cell phone number from memory.
Answer, you bastard. Time is running out.
SEPTEMBER 16
4:15 P.M.
Dad?” Lane asked, sticking his head out of the bedroom doorway. “Where are you?”
“In our office,” Faroe called out, “burping the eating machine.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted all this on the St. Kilda network, so I thought I’d give you what I have so far.”
Computer under his arm, Lane walked into his parents’ office. He took the locked gun cabinet and the wall of electronics for granted, but he always loved seeing the array of computers. Working for St. Kilda Consulting meant not only that his parents had great equipment but that he got to use it sometimes.
His idea of heaven.
The baby tucked against Faroe’s shoulder gave a belch that Lane would have been proud of.
“Is that a round-two burp?” Lane asked.
Faroe blinked. “A what?”
“You know. You’re full and then you give a big belch and you’re ready for-”
“Round two,” Faroe said, shaking his head. “Gotcha.”
Grace looked up from her computer and held out her arms for little Annalise. “I have a new search running on the Moorcroft case.”
“Anything?” Faroe asked.
“I’ll know in a few hours. Or days. Depends on how many levels I have to go through to strike gold.”
“We’ve got to hire some more researchers,” Faroe said.
“Steele said he’s vetting them as fast as he can.”
“He’s worse than the government when it comes to background checks.”
“Good thing, too,” Grace said dryly. “St. Kilda is a lot more demanding than good old Uncle Sam.”
“Steele has me,” Lane said, smiling and opening his computer. “Look at this. I don’t understand half the language, but there are a lot of zeros to the left of the decimal.”
“Drag a chair over,” Faroe said, settling into his own office chair, “and show me what your swarm found.”
“This is only preliminary,” Lane said. “We haven’t had much-”
“Gimme,” Faroe cut in. “No researcher ever has enough time.”
Lane sat and scooted a rolling office chair across the Spanish tile floor. Faroe stuck out a long leg and cushioned the impact of his son’s landing.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” Lane said.
“At the bottom line,” Faroe said.
“Which one,” Lane said under his breath.
“You always say that.”
“You always give me a reason.” Lane frowned at the computer. “Okay, most recent hits first. I shunted all the general Western art stuff into a separate file if-”
“Bottom line,” Faroe said ruthlessly.
“Right. Recent Dunstan hits. Governor of Nevada, one of the state senators, a congressional representative, and a rich dude called Talbert ‘Tal’ Crawford congratulated themselves at a press conference called because Crawford is making a big contribution to something called the Museum of the West. He’s donating his entire collection of Western art, including whatever he buys at the Vegas auction on Sunday.”
Faroe watched his son with steady eyes that were more green than hazel, intelligent, and fierce in their intensity. “Generous man.”
“Yeah. It’s his first big charitable contribution, too, and he has megabucks. Has had it for years. Oil, mostly.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought so,” Lane said. “You always say to look for the pattern, then look where it isn’t followed.”
Faroe’s smile made him look deceptively gentle.
“I’ve got a bunch of stuff on Crawford from the financial angle,” Lane said.
“Let’s stick with Dunstan for now.”
“There’s not much to stick with. All the really recent hits have to do with the museum. Most of the other recent hits on the Dunstan name have to do with the upcoming auction. The art bloggers are all over it like a cat covering-” Lane glanced up, saw his mother nursing the baby, and cleared his throat. “All over it like a cat in a sandbox.”
Faroe bit back a smile. Lane was really trying to keep his language clean around his baby sister.
So was Dad.
“A month or so ago there was a thread on some art blogs that some new Dunstans had been discovered,” Lane said, “but nothing came of it that got posted on the Internet. Other blogs said anything new by Dunstan would be a fraud or a scam of some sort.”
“Copy the blogs to me,” Faroe said.
“Already did.”
“Despite what you sometimes think,” Grace said without looking up from her computer or the baby, “your son actually listens to you. Sometimes.”