SEPTEMBER 12
1:30 P.M.
Ramsey Worthington frowned at his computer screen. It was a large screen, noted for showing the fine details of any properly prepared photographic file. As an auctioneer in high demand and the owner of several galleries selling fine Western art, Worthington frequently had to make judgments of fine art via electronics. If the piece interested him enough virtually, he would ask to see it physically before he made a decision whether to buy, trade, or represent the art in question.
“Something interesting?” John Cahill asked.
Worthington looked up at his manager and occasional lover. Cahill wasn’t the jealous type. Neither was Worthington, at least not when it came to sex. As always, Cahill was dressed in a way that was neither too formal nor too casual, suggesting wealth and breeding without insisting on it. Not for the first time, Worthington wished that his wife had half of Cahill’s understanding of style.
“I’m not sure,” Worthington said. “The photo is obviously made by an amateur.”
Cahill leaned over Worthington’s shoulder to look at the screen. “Photo sucks, but the painting looks fabulous. How big is it?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She?”
“Jillian Breck.”
“Oh, hell. Not that crackpot again,” Cahill said, disappointed.
“No. Some relative of hers, apparently. Same last name, different first name. Supposedly the old woman died and Jillian Breck is the heir.”
Worthington clicked to a second image. It was as powerful as the first.
Cahill made a disgusted sound. “Whoever is out there painting these ‘Dunstans’ should give it up and paint under his own name. He’s good enough to make a decent living. With the right representation and some luck, he might even make an excellent living. He’s quite powerful. Technique and intensity both. Not a common combination.”
Worthington nodded.
A third image came up. Powerful, beautiful in its stark landscape and overwhelming sky.
“Did you send these to Lee Dunstan?” Cahill asked.
“Not yet. He was furious about the painting Ford Hillhouse sent. Sounded like Lee was going to stroke out over the phone.”
“Why does something like this always happen before a big auction?” Cahill muttered.
Worthington shrugged. “Greed. Someone knows that big money is out there attached to Dunstan’s name. They want a piece of it.”
“They should have done their homework,” Cahill said.
Worthington nodded. “Yes, the human figures are unusual for Dunstan. Any forger would know it. Which means this one is either stupid-”
“Unlikely,” Cahill cut in. “He knows his subject too well.”
“-or these just might actually be Dunstan’s work.”
“They aren’t Dunstans until Lee says they are,” Cahill pointed out.
“Either way, I hope we can sit on them until after the auction,” Worthington said. “The last thing we need is twelve excellent, probably fraudulent Dunstans circulating. Smaller things have taken the wind out of the market.”
“What are you going to do?” Cahill asked.
“I’ll think of something.”
Cahill laughed quietly. “You always do.”
SEPTEMBER 12
9:00 P.M.
Score was sweating hard, pumping iron in a controlled frenzy that kept him from punching a hole through the wall. It seemed that people just got stupider every day. He’d been lucky to leave the office before he took somebody’s head off and shoved it up their dumb ass.
His cell phone went off. His private cell, the one that only a few people had the number for. He racked the weight and looked at the caller ID.
Blank.
“Score,” he said briefly into the phone.
“I hope you’re on the trail of those paintings.”
“Like I told you.” About ten times already. “Dead end. They burned.” The only thing that kept Score’s voice neutral was the really sweet yearly retainer this client paid.
But the more they paid, the more demanding they were.
“Then why is Jillian Breck asking galleries all over the West to look at JPEGs of three unsigned Dunstans?”
“So there were photos somewhere, sometime,” Score said, wiping off his sweat with a big towel. “So what? I took care of the paintings, and the rest is bullshit and ashes.”
“I’d like to believe that. I don’t. Find those paintings or bring me proof that they don’t exist. And do it before the auction!”
Score looked through his home gym’s front window to the glittering panorama of lights that was the L.A. basin at night. “How can I prove something doesn’t exist? Run the ashes through a spectrograph?”
“Whatever it takes. That’s what you’re paid for.”
SEPTEMBER 12
11:15 P.M.
Jill rolled over and tried to find a more comfortable position on the bunk. She couldn’t.
This bunk is softer than my usual bed on the rowing bench of a raft. Relax, damn it!
Eyes closed, she listened to the wind playing with the cottonwood leaves. At the rate the temperature was falling, the leaves soon would be turning sunshine yellow and flying away.
What if Purcell is right? What if Modesty meant to die?
The wind blew harder.
Jill rolled over again.
What if she didn’t?
With a word she rarely used in front of clients, Jill kicked out of her sleeping bag.
“Never should have had that extra cup of coffee,” she muttered, coming to her feet in a rush.
But she didn’t have to pee and it wasn’t caffeine keeping her awake. If she was up and prowling around, it was because she was too restless to lie still anymore.
“Maybe one of the galleries has sent me an e-mail.”
And maybe not.
She thought of going to the hideout in the back of the pantry and looking at the paintings again, just to reassure herself that they were really real.
“It took you half an hour to wrap them and put them away. Do you really want to-”
The satellite phone rang, cutting across her words.
“Guess I’m not the only one awake.” She picked up the bulky unit, looked at caller ID, and saw “private caller.” Pretty much what she expected. Most cell phones didn’t register on the land-based system, much less on the satellite phone.
She hated accepting unknown calls at satellite rates.
It rang again.
“It’s got to be better than talking to myself. And the rates are real low right now.” She punched a button, and said, “Hello?”
“Jillian Breck?” The voice was oddly thick, like someone with a plugged nose.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Blanchard. I’m a Western art dealer. I understand that you have some paintings I’d be interested in seeing. That true?”
Jill frowned. She didn’t remember sending an e-mail to anyone called Blanchard. But he easily could be working for one of the galleries she’d sent messages to.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re calling the right number?”