Just Watch Me

by Jeff Lindsay

  “I don’t believe you—I don’t want to believe you!”

  “That’s always a dangerous posture when you’re considering a purchase like this,” he said.

  “And how on earth would you know whether it’s a fake, Mr. Expert?” Katrina demanded.

  “Actually, that’s part of my job,” he said, with a display of very good, very white teeth. “Or it was. I worked for Sotheby’s—in London? Because I’m a Yank, I was their expert on modern American.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I would have preferred German Expressionist, but—”

  “All right, fine, you really are Mr. Expert,” Katrina said, abruptly feeling cranky. The thought that someone would take away her Hofmann was truly annoying. “So what makes my painting a fake?”

  He took her arm and led her to a spot as close to the painting as they could get, with just the clipboard table between them and the easel. He had a strong grip, but warm and gentle, too, and again Katrina caught herself thinking that she liked this man—and perhaps in a somewhat dangerous way. It’s the wine, she told herself. Four glasses—that’s all it is. But the feeling stayed with her.

  “Look,” he said, leaning toward the brightly colored canvas. He waved a hand in an up-and-down direction. “Vertically, the composition, it’s really good, very Hofmann. The shapes and colors, all very authentic. But look over here, this patch above the bottom right. See it?”

  Katrina frowned at the painting. “The pink rectangle? What about it? What’s wrong with it? You don’t like pink?”

  Again he showed his teeth—and again Katrina felt a small thump of excitement in her chest. “I don’t mind it at all. Neither did Hofmann. But this pink—”

  “It’s too pink?” she asked, favoring him with a small smile.

  He returned it. “The pink itself is wrong,” he said. “It’s called Passion Pink, it’s made by DelMar, and it was first put on the market in 1984.”

  “Shit,” Katrina said. “Hofmann died in ’sixty-something. ’Sixty-eight?”

  “’Sixty-six, very good,” he said, and Katrina found herself liking his approval, too. But very much not liking the idea that she would not go home with a Hans Hofmann.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she said. She looked longingly at the painting. “You’re really sure?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “It costs me money to be wrong, and I’m not rich.”

  She glanced at him; the Savile Row suit, the fact that he was here tonight, had made her assume he belonged. If he was some kind of climber or gold digger, she would shake him off quickly and go back to being bored. She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then what are you doing here?”

  His smile was different this time, softer. “I can easily afford a ticket and a small donation. I’m not that poor. And for me, orphans are . . .” He shrugged, looking rather vulnerable. Then he abruptly straightened up and spoke briskly. “And anyway, if I can save a lady from getting ripped off by a fraud, it’s worth it. And that painting is a fraud.”

  “Shit, shit, shit, SHIT,” Katrina said, staring at the treacherous canvas. “I really want that painting.”

  “Even though it isn’t a real Hofmann?” he said mockingly.

  “Almost, yeah,” she admitted, and he laughed. After a moment, she did, too. She straightened up and threw down the pencil. “Well, now what?”

  “I could buy you a drink,” he said. “To make up for spoiling your evening.”

  Katrina bit her lip and hesitated. Like all who live in enormous wealth, she was eternally on her guard. People were almost always friendly because they wanted something—money for a cause, or a personal project, or a foolproof investment. This man didn’t really seem like he was after anything—or at least, she corrected herself wryly, not after money. But he had already admitted that he didn’t have real money, which meant she was right to be wary. And another glass of wine, on top of the four she’d had, was not a good idea, either. On the other hand, he’d shown no sign that he knew who she was—and she really had a good feeling about this man and didn’t want to let go of him, not just yet. “Well . . . ,” she said. “Oh! I’m sorry, I’m Katrina Hobson.” She held out her hand and he took it. She watched him carefully for any sign that her name meant anything to him but saw nothing.

  “Randall Miller,” he said. He reached into his pocket and came out with a business card. He handed it to Katrina, and she looked at it with real curiosity. It read:

  RANDALL MILLER

  Dealer in Contemporary Art

  Interior Design Consultant

  “Design consultant! Well, that’s funny,” she said. “I’m doing a massive redecoration on my house—that’s what I wanted the Hofmann for.”

  “Oh, I didn’t— Aw, crap,” he said. “I really didn’t know—I mean, now it looks like—I wasn’t dunning you for business, honest,” he said, and he looked flustered, which Katrina thought was cute and kind of endearing.

  “I know,” she said, patting his arm and wondering if it was true. “But it’s a funny coincidence. Anyway, I have someone under contract for the work.”

  “Oh, good,” he said, looking a little relieved. “Who are you using?”

  “Irene Caldwell?” Katrina said. “She came highly recommended.”

  “Yes, she’s very good,” Randall said. “And anyway, as much as I’d be happy to help you, I am completely booked right now. I have this massive project that really—” He shook his head. “Ah, listen to me. Talking shop when there’s a thirsty lady right in front of me.” He offered her his arm in a way that was gallant and still mocked the very idea of gallantry. “Your Grace—how about that drink?”

  “I’d like that,” she said. “But I’ve had a couple already, so please, stop me if I start a strip tease or something?”

  He laughed. “I’m not sure I can promise that,” he said. “But I’ll try.”

  She took his arm, and he led her over to one of the three bars in the ballroom. He sat her at the closest table while he went to get the drinks. In just a minute, he returned with her pinot grigio and what looked like a martini for himself. “Well,” he said, sitting next to her and raising his glass. “Cheers. Chin-chin. Sláinte. Salud.”

  She raised her glass in return. “Prosit!” she said with a smile.

  “That’s right, I left that one out,” Randall said. “So, uh, to get the awkward questions out of the way right away”—he nodded at her wedding ring—“you’re married, right? Or is it—forgive me, but are you, um, a widow?”

  Katrina took another sip of wine to cover her thoughts while she tried to think of how to answer. She felt very relieved that the man obviously didn’t know who she was. But she had no idea how to answer the question without seeming . . . what? Wanton? Open to something beyond flirtation? It would have been lovely simply to tell the truth, that Michael was away on business—but did that sound like an invitation? He was clearly attracted to her, and she didn’t want him to get the impression that it was mutual— But it is, she thought, and fought to push the thought away. Screw it, the truth, she thought.

  “Michael is in Zurich on business,” she said, and couldn’t stop herself from adding, “He’s away on business a lot.”

  “That’s a shame,” Randall said. “You must miss him.”

  Katrina bit her lip and took another sip to keep herself from blurting out more truth. She put down her glass and gave him a small smile. “And how about you? Is there a Mrs. Miller?”

  Randall shook his head. “Nope. Never found the right one. It’s just possible that my standards are too high,” he said ruefully. “Like with art? I just can’t be satisfied with 99 percent of the crap they pass off as art nowadays.”

  “I know just what you mean!” Katrina said, relieved to be past the awkward stuff. She told him of a show last month—in a reputable SoHo gallery, too!—that had been an appalling waste of time and space. He responded with som
ething similar he’d seen in London, and they relaxed into a safe zone, just two art lovers enjoying a drink, and each other’s company.

  Afterward, Katrina couldn’t remember much about what they’d said, just that it was light, inconsequential, amusing stuff. On top of being truly knowledgeable, he had a way of making you like him, trust him, a quality that was a combination of charm and believability. And Randall was very funny, in a dry kind of way Katrina thought he might have picked up in England. He made her laugh, which was something she hadn’t been doing a lot of—certainly her husband seldom even brought a smile to her face nowadays.

  When dinner was announced, Randall took her to the head table and thanked her for a lovely evening. His seat was far away in the back of the room, and she watched him go with real regret. And later on, when the interminable damn dinner and endless speeches were finally over, she looked for him as she left the ballroom. But of course, he’d been seated in the back—the “cheap seats,” as he’d called them. So he must have left much more quickly than Katrina could manage since she also had to stop and say a few words to all the important people she met on her way out. There was certainly no reason why he would wait for her, a married woman. They’d had a pleasant half hour of talk, and that was the end of it. Katrina went home, to her massive modern palace, and went to bed alone.

  But she could not get Randall Miller out of her mind.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The two paintings were easy, just as Monique had known they would be. The Rauschenberg was a simple matter of matching the images and the colors of the paint-over. The Jasper Johns was a simpler design, since he didn’t usually deal with images as complex as Rauschenberg, and it went much quicker. She was finished with both paintings in only two weeks, which gave her a little free time. She thought about taking a quick trip to the Islands, maybe Antigua, or working on something of her own, or even just hanging around her apartment, watching TV and eating too much.

  Nothing really appealed to her. Leisure was not something she appreciated; Monique hated having nothing meaningful to do, no task she could focus on. It made her restless, cranky, even a little mean.

  For two days she fretted, paced, ran meaningless errands around the city, and let the self-loathing of not working build up until she felt like screaming and kicking small animals.

  And thinking about Riley and the mysterious job he had for her just made it worse. And of course the ridiculous things he said about the size of the score, which made her even madder. Ten figures? TEN?! For the love of God, was he serious? And that was just her cut? It was flat-out impossible. Where would that much money come from? And how could he hope to get his hands on it? And what on earth would she do with that much money anyway?

  Early on in working with Riley, she had discovered they had something important in common: Neither of them was truly driven by money. Oh, it was lovely stuff, and wonderful to have too much of it, and neither one of them was an ascetic of any kind. But it was not what motivated either one of them. For both of them, it was the challenge, the feeling of stepping all the way out there on the thinnest branch of the tree and plucking the ripest apple, the one nobody else could get.

  So Monique knew that with a payoff this big, the risk had to be equally big. Whatever Riley had in mind, it would be dangerous, impossible, ridiculous, something no one else would even consider conceivable. That went for her part in it, too. Not that she would be risking her life, probably. But certainly there would be a large element of risk. Which was just fine with her. And after all, there was the money . . .

  But for the love of God, what would she do with that much cash? And then she thought, with an uncharacteristic giggle, she didn’t have a thing to wear while spending it! It was such an absurd thought—but she enjoyed it. And she realized it had helped her decide what to do with a few free days and just before she went completely off her rocker, too. Why not? she thought. I deserve something wonderful.

  Before she could even figure out what she had meant by that, or what justified it, Monique had booked a suite at the Mandarin Oriental spa for two full days. She checked in with little more than a bathrobe and slippers and spent an hour looking through the menu of services offered by the spa. And then she made appointments for every single one. She spent the two days running through everything the spa offered: Oriental Essence massage, Calm Mind Retreat, Thai Yoga massage. Then onto Clearing Factor, aromatherapy, and Restorative Detox Wrap. She went to bed after the first day feeling as if her body was made of overcooked spaghetti.

  The second day she dove into the beauty treatments: Áyurvedic Facial, HydraFacial, and all the more traditional options. She left the next morning feeling like a completely different person—and half convinced she looked like one, too. And she dove directly into part two of her program. She went on a tour of Manhattan’s high-end boutiques, indulging in an absolute orgy of shopping and spending some rather large chunks of what she still secretly thought of as her Ill-Gotten Gains. She bought an entirely new wardrobe and took it back to her studio, where she laid it out, sorted it, and gloated over it. Some of it she would probably never wear—but she could, she told herself, and that was what mattered.

  She was still admiring her new glove leather boots when the door’s buzzer sounded. Frowning, puzzled at who might be calling on her now, she looked through the peephole. Although she had never seen that particular face before, she had seen several others wearing the same jacket. And she knew the owner of that jacket changed his appearance the way other people change shirts. It was Riley Wolfe.

  She rolled her eyes and opened the door.

  * * *

  —

  Ithought I might surprise Monique—either because of the way I looked or because I was using the door this time instead of the window. No such luck.

  The door swung open, and Monique stood there with the same half-pissed-off expression she always wore. I liked to think she put it on so I wouldn’t know she liked me.

  “You’re three days early,” she said, tapping her right foot.

  I just looked at her for a few seconds, and I had to smile. “You knew it was me,” I said. “Even though I used the door.”

  Monique snorted. “Don’t get too excited. It’s that stupid jacket,” she said. She had to say my Yankees jacket was stupid. She was a Pittsburgh Pirates fan, of course. She stepped to one side. “Come on in.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t need three whole weeks for those two paintings,” I said as she closed the door behind me. “I bet you finished two days ago and you’re bored out of your skull.”

  “I finished five days ago,” Monique said. “And if I was bored, what do you think you could do about it?”

  “Oh, I can think of something,” I said.

  “Well, think of something else.”

  “All right,” I said. “Almost as good—the paintings?”

  She just shook her head. “Come take a look.”

  She led me over to a corner of the studio where two easels stood side by side. She’d thrown a bedsheet across the top that hid whatever was on them. I was itching to whip off the sheet and look, but I knew better. Monique has a dramatic streak. She likes to do things with a little flair. You know—showmanship. Or is it show-woman-ship?

  Anyway, I waited while Monique flipped a switch on the wall. A handful of track lights came on, and the easels were flooded with light. And only then did she whip off the sheet. “Ta-da,” she said with quiet pride.

  I had been sure the pictures would be perfect, and one quick glance said they were—from a distance. I mean, I expect perfection from Monique, but I never take anything for granted. I had to be absolutely sure. I took a magnifying glass from a pocket and moved up to the first canvas, the Rauschenberg.

  Monique and I have done this before. She knows how I work. So as I began, she got comfortable in a nearby chair and started flipping through an Italian art maga
zine, Espoarte. She didn’t really speak Italian, but as an art-history buff she could usually get the gist of what she read. Besides, Espoarte was mostly about the gorgeous pictures anyway. So I stopped thinking about her and dove into the Rauschenberg.

  I am not a huge fan of modern painting. Too much of it is like jerking off; it’s fun for the guy doing it and doesn’t mean a whole lot to anybody else. But I kind of like Rauschenberg. I don’t know why. One thing is, it has texture. You can look at photos of Rauschenberg’s work without really getting a true sense of it, and that kind of keeps you from appreciating what he’s done. You need to see the real thing—because the feeling of it is a big part. You want to run the palms of your hands across the canvas.

  Monique knew that—hell, she knew it a whole lot better than I did. And as I got up close and personal with her copy, I had to admit she’d copped it beautifully. The way she’d laid on the paint was pure Rauschenberg, and the bumpy, gritty surface of the canvas was just right. I wanted to rub my cheek on it.

  I didn’t. I just looked, and I took my time. I went over every inch of that canvas, looking for any small mistake. I mean, I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any, but everybody has to sneeze or burp or something, and that’s all it takes. What’s the thing they say about the glitches in the Odyssey? “Homer nodded,” right? So if Monique had nodded, I needed to find out now. After twenty minutes, I had to admit that if she had, she’d done it somewhere else. The canvas was flawless.

  I looked at the bottom left corner last, the spot where I’d told her to put the Times clipping. At first pass, I couldn’t see it. I got closer, used the magnifying glass—and there it was. Once I had seen it, it stuck out like a sore thumb. Before that, it was invisible. Monique had pulled off that trick of making something undetectable until you see it, and then you can’t un-see it. I don’t have any idea how the trick works, but I’ve seen it enough times to know it does. I had to smile, looking at it. Then I straightened up and moved to the second painting.