Chapter 39

Stone and Dino arrived at Duchamp Gallery at noon and approached one of the gallery employees.

"Welcome, gentlemen. My name is Mindy. How can I help you?"

"Is Mr. Duchamp in?" Stone asked. "I have something I'd like to discuss with him."

"He was here earlier. Let me check if he's still around. Can I give him your name?"

"Stone Barrington."

"One moment, Mr. Barrington."

She disappeared behind a wall at the back of the room and returned a minute later.

"You're in luck. He's in his office and asked me to bring you back."

She led them through a gap between offset walls and into the back room of the gallery.

As they neared the office door, Stone said, "Would it be okay if my friend waited out here?"

"That shouldn't be a problem." The woman gestured toward a couple of couches in the corner and said to Dino, "You can have a seat over there, if you'd like, and feel free to make yourself a coffee."

"Thanks," Dino said, and veered off.

The woman knocked on the door, then opened it. "Mr. Barrington is here."

She moved out of the way and Stone entered.

Simon jumped up and came around his desk, smiling broadly. "Stone, what a pleasure to see you again." He thrust out a hand.

Stone shook it. "Good to see you, Simon."

The art dealer returned to his seat and gestured to the guest chair. "I had no idea you were in Los Angeles."

"Here for a business meeting."

As Stone sat, he noticed a package wrapped in brown paper leaning against the wall behind Simon that looked exactly like the one in the photo Teddy had showed them.

"Of course, of course. A busy man such as yourself, you must constantly be on the move. May I ask, how did you know I was here?"

"I didn't. I was in the neighborhood, saw your gallery sign, and took a chance."

"I'm so glad you did. Did you enjoy the Cervantes exhibit in Santa Fe?"

"So much so that I bought one of her pieces."

"Is that right? I didn't realize. Which one?"

"Escape."

Simon put a hand on his heart. "One of my favorites. You have a very good eye."

"I just know what I like."

"That's the approach more collectors should take. I don't mean to rush you, but I am a bit busy today. May I assume you're here to discuss your mother's paintings?"

"I am."

"I see. Unfortunately, I don't have much I can tell you at the moment, but I do anticipate news by tomorrow or possibly Saturday."

"The good kind?"

"If I say anything more, you might get your hopes up."

"Not even a hint?"

"Well, maybe a hint." Simon leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I'm hearing that the paintings may be available very soon."

"How soon is very?"

"You can't hold me to this."

"Of course not."

"It's possible they could be in your possession before the end of the weekend."

"That's fabulous news. How many are we talking about?"

Simon smiled excitedly. "Three."

Stone had to force himself not to look at the package behind the art dealer. "Titles?"

Duchamp wagged his palm in the air. "I've said too much already."

"I understand."

"The minute I know more, I will contact you."

"I'll be in meetings for the next two days, so if you need me during that time, text me, and I'll slip out and call you back."

"Very good." Simon hesitated, then said, "There is one matter we need to discuss."

"Price?"

Simon smiled and shook his head. "You of all people are aware of the value of your mother's work. I won't even attempt to gouge you."

"Glad to hear it. Then what do we need to discuss?"

"Any sale has to remain between the two of us."

"I don't follow."

"The sellers are experiencing financial issues and have no choice but to sell to raise funds. If anyone they deal with finds out, that could cause problems for them."

"You mean no publicizing the sale."

"Precisely."

"What I spend my money on is my business and no one else's."

"I'm so glad you understand."

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"I believe that's it."

They stood.

"Thank you for taking time to see me," Stone said.

"It was my pleasure. Here, let me see you out."

Stone waved him off. "Don't bother. I remember the way." He opened the door, then looked back as if he'd just thought of something. "You can't give me even a hint of which paintings they are?"

Simon mimed zipping his mouth closed.

"Thought I'd give it a shot. I'll let you get back to work."

Stone met up with Dino in the back room, and they returned to their SUV, neither saying a word until they were on their way to the Centurion lot.

"Anything?" Stone asked.

Dino shook his head. "No sign of them." He'd spent the time hunting the back area for the stolen paintings.

"It would have been nice if he'd made this easy for us."

"Since when does anyone make things easy for us? How did your conversation go?"

Stone recounted what he and Simon had talked about.

"So, he's offering you the exact number of your mother's paintings that are confirmed as missing. What a coincidence."

"It is, indeed."

"What I don't get is: If he's been stealing them for Petry, why is he selling them to you?"

"If you come up with an answer, let me know."

Prior to Barrington's unexpected visit, Simon had been staring at his computer, wondering how everything had become so twisted. He had been running this ring for years without a hiccup, and now everything was hanging by a thread. Bad enough that even his brother had betrayed him. But the conversation with the lawyer had knocked him out of his funk, and he was finally able to see things clearly.

It was time for Simon to get out of the art business, of every kind.

Years ago, he'd socked away a substantial stack of cash in a Cayman Islands bank. With that and the million he'd just received from Petry, he would have more than enough to live comfortably a good long while.

His plan formed quickly. He'd give the forgeries to Sticks, sell the originals to Barrington to add to his nest egg, then he'd sneak out of the country on a false passport he kept for emergencies. He just needed to make it through the next thirty-six hours, then Simon Duchamp would never be seen again.

He shot to his feet. There was work to do.

Rudy Morgan's studio was located downtown, in an old factory that had been refurbished and divided into townhomes.

Simon had to press the doorbell three times before Rudy's voice came through the intercom. "I'm busy. What do you want?"

"It's Simon. I have the final painting for you."

The door buzzed.

He located Rudy in the man's basement-level studio, sitting in front of a pair of easels.

"Where should I put this?" Simon asked, holding up the painting from Del Mar.

Rudy nodded toward a wall without looking away from what he was doing. Simon deposited the painting, then joined the forger.

On one easel was the Matilda Stone original stolen in Marin County, and on the other was a near identical painting, missing only a few details.

"That's better than I expected," Simon said.

Rudy scowled. "It's crap, but I guess that's what you get when you don't give me any time."

"It'll be fine. The client won't notice."

"Are you blind? The brushstrokes are wrong. And look at this." He pointed at a tree on the original and then the same spot on his fake. "I can't get the color right."

Simon leaned in for a closer look. He could see what Rudy was talking about, but he knew Petry would never notice.

"It's more than good enough for the time you've had."

Rudy snorted, then started painting again.

"The other one?" Simon asked.

Rudy yawned and nodded toward the corner. "Over there."

"May I?"

"Knock yourself out."

Summer at Sheep Meadowleaned against the wall, next to its original. If anything, it looked even better than the one Rudy was working on.

"When will you get to the one I just brought?"

"When I finish this one, which"—Rudy paused to yawn again—"is getting further and further away the longer you bother me."

"They'll all be ready tomorrow morning, though?"

"You said noon."

"Fine, fine, noon."

Rudy tried to stifle a third yawn but failed. "They'll be ready."

"I need them boxed, too."

"You never said anything about boxing them."

"I'm saying it now. All in one. But don't make it too big. You and I will need to carry it out of here."

"Anything else, your lordship?"

"That's all for now."

"Fuck you very much, Simon."

"I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, and if you do happen to get them done early, let me know."

"Get out!"

Pain shot through Phillip's skull as he lifted his head and opened his eyes.

He was in a dingy, dimly lit room, tied to a chair. He tried to pull free from his restraints, but his arms barely moved.

The last thing he remembered was being rear-ended while heading to the hotel for the night. He'd gotten out to give the other driver a piece of his mind when someone had come up behind him and plunged a needle into his arm and everything went dark.

From the way his body ached, whoever had kidnapped him had been having fun working him over. They'd realize their mistake when he returned the favor.

He heard voices and the room's only door opening. Someone flicked on the overhead light, forcing him to shut his eyes against the glare.

When he pried open his lids again, he could see at least a half dozen people in the room, snickering and glaring at him. Based on the choice of tattoos climbing up their necks and arms, they could have been models for an Aryan brotherhood recruitment poster.

"He's awake," one of them yelled into the other room.

Another one approached Phillip and tapped his cheek. "How you feeling, big guy?"

Phillip stared at him unimpressed and said nothing.

"You think you're tough?" The guy slapped him harder. "You ain't tough. If you were, you wouldn't be the one tied to the chair, now would ya?" He pinched Phillip's cheek and laughed.

Two more men entered. One had the same rough-edged look as the others, though he was older and carried himself as if he were in charge. The other Phillip knew—Nico Savage, Petry's pet lawyer.

Nico leaned down so that he was eye to eye with Phillip. "Really sorry about this. It's not personal. You were in the way. That's all."

Phillip spit in his face.

Nico stood and casually wiped off his cheek. "I like you. In different circumstances, we could have done great things together, but my hands are tied." He turned to the guy he'd come in with. "Let me know when it's done."

As soon as he left, the beating commenced. Fists and clubs and boots pummeled Phillip from all sides, until someone tilted his face upward.

He sneered.

The guy let Phillip's head drop back down. "Shit. He ain't dead yet."

Boots approach the chair, then fingers slipped under Phillip's chin and gently raised his face again. It was the older guy who'd come in with Nico.

He chuckled. "You're something else, aren't you?"

"You want us to give it another go?" someone behind him asked.

The boss shook his head. "We've been here too long already."

"What should we do with him?"

"Bring him along. If he wants to be a punching bag, we'll let him be a punching bag."

"You heard the boss. Jared, do your thing."

A few moments later, a needle pierced Phillip's arm again.