Just Watch Me

by Jeff Lindsay

  CHAPTER

  5

  Two days later, I was still feeling the high when I went to see Monique. I was going to make this happen. And Monique was a big part of the setup. And of the finish, when we got there. If we got there, I thought. But I pushed that away, too. Having an answer made me feel too good to doubt it. It also felt good to have a reason to see Monique.

  Like always, I paused just outside and peeked in Monique’s window. Creepy, I know, but I can’t help it. I mean, I am not a Peeping Tom—except with Monique. That’s partly because she used to paint naked, which is something truly worth seeing. And except for one night of celebration—which she says will never happen again—I don’t get to see it.

  That is tragic because, like I said, Monique is worth seeing. She’s twenty-eight, with one of those slim bodies that doesn’t look like much when it’s covered up—especially covered up with the paint-spattered coveralls she always wears. But as I found out that one wonderful night, when the coveralls come off, Monique’s body is a true playground. The curves are subtle, but they are elegant and they beg your hands to wander. Her coffee skin feels like somebody took satin and improved it. Her lips are full and sensuous and taste like some kind of wild berry. And when she gets wound up—

  Anyway, that’s a night I will never forget. And I swear, I will find a way to repeat it.

  When I looked in now, she was in front of her easel—dressed, unfortunately. Her hair was pulled up and back, she had a paintbrush between her teeth, and she was frowning at an Impressionist painting I recognized on her easel. A blown-up section of the original was on a computer monitor to her left. She glanced at it, then went back to frowning at the easel. I was pretty sure the frowning wouldn’t last long. She’d figure it out—Monique always figures out these things. That’s why she’s so damn good at what she does.

  Monique is an art forger. A really good one.

  Maybe the best in the world.

  I had checked out her background. You have to know about the people you work with—I mean, if you want to stay out of the slam. So I checked. And I’m pretty sure Monique didn’t start out with the thought of working the dark side of the street with wicked people like me. She came from a respectable Pittsburgh family, mother a pediatrician and father a well-known professor of moral philosophy at Pitt. Monique had gone to Harvard on the fast track for an advanced degree in art history, her passion. But after taking a few studio classes, she discovered that she had a real talent for painting. And beyond that, she had an absolute genius for imitating other painters.

  On a bet, egged on by her boyfriend, Ron, Monique had made a near-perfect copy of one of the paintings in Harvard’s museum, the Fogg: She chose Renoir’s Chez la Modiste. And because she was a little bit vain and had a very quirky sense of humor, she’d signed it with her name, but disguised to look like Renoir’s.

  Monique’s plan was to sneak her copy into the Fogg Museum and put it side by side with Renoir’s—just a joke, a lark, a fun way to say, “Look what I can do!” And she’d done exactly that, leaning her copy against the wall under the original and successfully slipping away without detection.

  Or so she thought. But someone else had come along right afterward and taken the original, hanging Monique’s copy in its place.

  It took the Fogg a week to discover the forgery. It only took the detectives three days to find Monique’s name in the signature and then find her. They had not been amused. Neither had the Fogg Museum or the university—and neither had the judge. I always suspected the judge, a true Boston Southie, saw a black girl trying to pull a fast one. And her boyfriend, Ron? He was really helpful—to the police. He told them that yeah, Monique did the forgery and snuck it into the Fogg Museum, and he didn’t know what she did with the original. Ain’t love grand?

  So the evidence was all against her. It was more than enough. Monique was expelled, sentenced to jail, and shamed. Even her parents, who paid for a good lawyer, washed their hands of her. Turns out they were kind of social climbers, even her dad. So much for moral philosophy.

  Six months into serving her sentence, Monique was released. Ron, her talkative boyfriend, had been nabbed trying to sell Chez la Modiste, the real one, to an undercover agent of the FBI. “I argued down to second-degree accessory and forgery,” the lawyer told Monique. “So it’s time served—but you’ve still got the felony on your record. Best I could do.”

  Her parents, surprisingly, were waiting for her. They gave her a check for $10,000 to “get settled”—and told her not to call them anymore.

  In spite of all that bullshit hitting her right in the face, Monique was grateful. Because she had learned three very important life lessons from the experience: Never trust anybody, screw them before they screw you, and love sucks. And when she had that figured, she was ready to play on Team Riley.

  Like all great players, she found her own way over to the dark side. She took the money from Mom and Dad, moved to New York, and used the cash to set up a studio. And then she went into business doing the one thing she was good at and could still do with a felony on her record.

  She did that the smart way, too. She nosed around until she heard rumors of a gallery owner who was supposedly selling copies and charging for the real item—without telling the customers, of course. Monique thumbed through the dealer’s catalog, made two brilliant copies as a calling card—and her career was launched. She’d even branched out into sculpture and objets d’art because there seemed to be nobody else covering that corner of the market. She turned out to be just as good at that as she was with painting. Her copy of Dudu the Scribe, a Sumerian votive figure, was breathtaking. So between the objets and the paintings, she’d made damn good money and built a reputation. Even better, I found her, which was good for both of us, especially financially. I’d put a lot of money into her pocket.

  The relationship had grown. Turns out, Monique had a flare for costumes, too. She started helping me design my disguises, making sure they were clothes that were right for who I was supposed to be. And accessories? Let’s face it, that’s not a Guy Thing. I would never have gotten that right. Monique did. She was a genius at figuring that stuff out—watches, ties, briefcases, and especially shoes. I relied on her now for all that—and maybe I relied on her too much? You might say I have trust issues—but the truth is, trust is something I can’t afford. You trust somebody in this game—anybody—and sooner or later they’re the ones who drop the dime on you.

  So I don’t actually trust Monique—but it’s awful damn close. And anyway, it’s in her own best interest to keep me working. Because, like I said, she helps me, and I help to make her rich. She could even afford to take a job for the love of it now and then.

  Like now, the thing on her easel. The idea of Monique working on this painting was so sad, it finally got me moving. Knowing it did not say anything good about my character, I stepped in and snuck up behind her, as close as I could get without touching. Hard not to touch—she smelled like patchouli oil mixed with cinnamon, and the curve of her bare neck was right there, inches away. And if I stood there any longer, I was going to bite it.

  “You have to use a finer brush.” I spoke softly but almost in her ear, and Monique jumped a foot into the air. Very satisfying.

  “Jesus fuck, Riley!” she said, turning on me with a raised brush, like she was going to stab me. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

  I shrugged. “The window was open.”

  “Of course it’s fucking open! Why shouldn’t the fucking window be open?! We’re on the twenty-fifth fucking floor!”

  “A really pleasant climb, too,” I said. It was. No real challenges, so I could relax. Let my mind go.

  “Jesus fuck,” Monique said again. “You and your fucking par-kay.”

  “It’s par-kour,” I told her. Not for the first time.

  “Whatever,” she snapped. “Just cut it out. Why do you have to
pull that shit on me anyhow?”

  “Weeeellll,” I said with a shrug and a very small smile, “I like to surprise you.”

  “So next time, surprise me and knock on the fucking door like everybody else, all right? I don’t paint naked anymore—thanks to you.”

  “Tragic,” I said. “Your work loses that other dimension.”

  “I wish you’d disappear into another dimension,” she said. “You’re going to give me a heart attack someday you go on like this.” She blew out a long breath, deliberately calming herself. “Well, shit. All right, so what is it this time? I’m kind of busy.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. “Busy, Monique? Really?” I tipped my head to the canvas. “With Mary Cassatt? I mean . . .”

  “Fuck you twice, Riley,” she said. “You don’t know shit.”

  “Sorry,” I said. But in fact, I DO know shit. A lot of it. For one thing, I know Cassatt was strictly second rank, and not worthy of Monique’s time.

  “Anyway, I like her,” Monique said, still sounding defensive. “She was from Pittsburgh, same as me.” She glared at me, daring me to say that being from Pittsburgh never made anybody a great painter. And honestly, it was on the tip of my tongue, but I’m no fool. I bit down and didn’t say it.

  “And what the hell, Riley, she’s a hell of a lot better than she gets credit for,” Monique said. “But because she’s a woman, nobody gives a shit about— I mean, look at the detail, the color!” she yelled at me, pointing to the monitor. “Every fucking bit as good as Degas!”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But nobody else thinks so, and there’s no real money in doing a Cassatt.”

  “Tough shit! I like doing it!” she said. “And it’s for a respectable decorator who pays up front!”

  “Respectable? Really?” I said, and I couldn’t keep a little bit of smirk out of my voice. “A respectable interior decorator?”

  “That’s right! Is there something wrong with that?”

  I shrugged. “Not that I can think of,” I said. “Although I didn’t know you could be respectable and still sell them fakes.”

  “My fakes are worth what they pay,” she said.

  “And the rich assholes deserve it. I totally agree, you know that, Monique. And your work is fantastic, usually better than the original,” I said. Maybe laying it on a little thick, but it was true. “It’s just that as good as you are and as hard as you work, I just think you should be making more money.”

  “I make plenty of money.”

  I snorted. “With a Cassatt? Come on, Monique, Cassatt doesn’t bring top dollar.”

  “Well, goddamn it, she should! Just because she was a woman—!”

  “Probably,” I said. But I knew I had her here. “You know you’re not going to change the market. And like I said, the chump change money is a waste of your talent.”

  Monique rolled her eyes. “Meaning you have something that isn’t a waste of my incredible, one-of-a-kind talent? And a Riley Wolfe Project always comes first?”

  I looked at her for a moment. I couldn’t be sure if she was being sarcastic. I mean, the part about me—definitely. But I couldn’t tell if she really did appreciate how good she was. And she really was the best, in my opinion. That was one big reason why I’d brought her something that was going to be the biggest challenge I’d ever faced. I had to have the best if I was going to pull this off. And another reason was that I liked her. I don’t like a lot of people. It’s counterproductive. I mean, if Monique sucked at what she did and I used her because I liked her, I’d be in the slammer very damn quickly. It’s always your “friends.” I mean, who else knows enough to kick you into the shit? Nobody wants to admit it, but it’s true: It doesn’t pay to have friends, because you have to trust them, and that never works out.

  “Well?” Monique said. “What do you need that only a great artist like me can provide?”

  I smiled. I was pretty sure I had her on the hook. “This.” I dropped a photograph on her computer table. “And this.” A second photo.

  Monique glanced at the pictures and looked at me, shaking her head. “Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns. I can do those in a week each—and I can name four guys in the metro area that could do these for you. Cheaper, too.”

  I smiled bigger, my shark smile, and I could see it made Monique very uneasy. “I could name seven, almost as good as you,” I said.

  “Fuck you, Riley.”

  “I said ‘almost,’ Monique,” I said. “You know I don’t do almost.”

  Monique looked back at me. She could see I was serious now, and for some weird reason that made her smile. “I know that,” she said, in a softer voice, and the tone of it made my blood start to bubble. “That’s one reason I put up with you.”

  She wasn’t doing anything but looking at me and smiling, but I felt like pawing the ground and snorting. “What are the other reasons?”

  “Money’s good,” she said. “And you never miss.”

  I swallowed. My throat was so tight it hurt. “Anything else?”

  “Sure.” Her smile got bigger and a little bit wicked. “One of these days, you will miss,” she said. “I kind of want to see that.”

  That hit me. I mean, what the hell? She wanted to see me go down in flames? “What the fuck, Monique,” I said. “Why?”

  She shrugged, but she was still smiling. “Perfectly natural,” she said. “Everybody wants to watch a cocky bastard get skunked.”

  “‘Cocky bastard.’ Thanks, that’s nice.”

  “It’s accurate,” she said. “Just because you always find a way to pull it off—I mean, you act like that’s a given.” She just looked at me for a minute. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to slap her or kiss her. Maybe both. Then she shrugged. “Anyway,” she said, “mostly I really do want you to keep winning. Except,” she said, raising a perfect, paint-spattered hand, “for the Bet.”

  Now I had to smile. “Sooner or later, I’ll win that, too,” I said.

  “You won’t,” she said. “You can’t.” She flicked at the two pictures with her finger. Then she frowned and cocked her head at me. “This contemporary stuff isn’t your usual turf, Riley. What’s up?”

  For just a minute, my mind zoomed off Monique and onto the prize. “Something big. Huge,” I said. “Jesus, Monique, when I pull this off—goddamn it, everything changes forever! This is—”

  “A Jasper Johns copy is going to change everything forever? That’s not possible, Riley.”

  “But it is,” I said. The excitement poured through me as I talked, and some of it must have splashed onto her because she bit her lip and her eyes got big. “These paintings are just the beginning, just seeding the ground. But what they are going to lead me to, Monique—what these two drab contemporary pieces are going to help me do—Jesus Christ, it’s going to be the most awesome—!”

  “Ouch!” Monique barked. I looked down. Without knowing it, I’d grabbed her by the wrists, and I guess I was squeezing. I dropped her hands.

  “It’s huge, Monique. It’s abso-fucking-lutely huge.”

  She rubbed her wrists and looked again at the photos. She shrugged: simple stuff. “When do you need ’em?”

  I gave her a tight grin. “Soon. Probably . . . three weeks?”

  “‘Probably’?”

  I shook my head. “Timetable isn’t really set in stone. But—” I suddenly remembered the important part. “Oh! Here . . .” I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out two small pieces of this morning’s New York Times. Each piece was no more than a strip with a partial headline and today’s date. I held them up. “Very important,” I said, passing the two strips of newspaper to Monique.

  “Riley, what the hell . . . ?” she said, glancing at the papers and then back to me, to see if I was joking. I wasn’t. “All right, I give up. What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “This is the best part,�
� I told her. “You glue one strip onto each canvas—the lower left corner, left as you face the canvas, very important. Crucial. And then . . . you overpaint it, hide it. But not too well. You know, so it can’t be seen, but if you look for it—boom! There it is!”

  Monique shook her head. “What the fuck, Riley, you mean you want people to know these are fakes?”

  Showing all my teeth in a savage grin I really felt, I nodded. “That, my darling, is the entire fucking point.”

  Monique kept her eyes fixed on mine, but I didn’t say anything more. She knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t, either. So she sighed, shook her head, and said, “All right, sure, why not. I’ll make two perfect fakes and make sure people know they’re fakes. But someday, maybe you’ll tell me why?”

  I just smiled. “Maybe,” I said. Then I clapped my hands together and got serious again. “So!” I said. “Can you do it?”

  “Hmp,” Monique said. I could tell she was still just a little pissed I wouldn’t tell her. “You said three weeks?”

  “To be safe,” I said. “Like I said, it’s hard to be really sure. You know how these things go.”

  “No, I don’t know, Riley, because I’ve got no idea what ‘these things’ are this time.”

  I just shrugged. We both knew I wasn’t going to tell her. “Can you do it?”

  She looked at me a little longer. Then she picked up the photos. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “a couple of days to finish the Mary Cassatt, then a week each for these two . . . I mean, if nothing goes wrong?” she started.

  “What could go wrong?” I said. “Two people who are the greatest on earth at what they do—what the hell could go wrong, Monique?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Global warming might drive up the price of paint.” But she couldn’t help one more try at opening me up. “But damn it, Riley—this is routine stuff. I mean—it’s really going to shake the whole fucking world?”