Page 150 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“Where are the originals?” Monica asked.

While Teddy hung back and examined the box, Rudy led Stone, Monica, and Viv to the other end of the studio, where dozens of canvases were stacked like books on a shelf. The Matilda Stones were hidden among them.

Monica sighed. “These are the real ones.” She glanced at Stone, her eyes sparkling. “She was an amazing talent.”

“She was.”

“I’m sure she would be very happy that you found these.”

“Thank you.” Stone looked at Rudy. “Do you know yet if Simon’s taking these with him when he picks up the fakes?”

“Thereproductions,” Rudy corrected him. “I do and he’s not. He texted me last evening that he wants me to hold on to them until tomorrow.”

“I believe we told you to let us know if he contacted you again.”

“You try creating one of these overnight and tell me how much free time you have.”

Teddy caught Stone’s eye and tapped his watch. If Stone was going to get to the Centurion lot on time, they needed to leave soon.

“Here’s how it’s going to go, Rudy,” Stone said. “I’m leaving, but my friends Monica and Viv are going to stay for a while, and you’re going to tell them everything you know.”

“Not just about these,” Monica said, indicating Stone’s mother’s paintings. “About everything you’ve been involved with, from your first forgery until now.”

“Are you trying to get me killed?”

“Would you rather spend the rest of your life in jail?”

Rudy looked unsure as to what would be the worse fate, but after a few seconds, he groaned. “Like I have a choice.”

“Good call,” Stone said.

As he and Teddy headed for the stairs, Monica pulled out her phone.

“You don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you?”

Rudy groaned again.

—

Simon had not slept well.

First, Sticks had woken him with a call at midnight to tell him he’d be at the gallery at two p.m. It took an hour before Simon relaxed enough to doze off again. But then his dreams became one long parade of all the ways his plan could fail.

It was almost a relief when dawn came.

Before he even climbed out of bed, he called his bankers in New York and instructed them to transfer all the money in his personal account and the bulk in his business account to his Cayman Islands bank account. He left enough in the gallery’s account to keep it from dipping into the red until the middle of next week. By then, he’d be living under the first of several new names, designed to eliminate any chance he would ever be found.

He didn’t know yet where he would settle, but he did know his first stop would be Argentina, as it was one of a handful of countries without an extradition treaty with the U.S.

Not willing to risk being yanked off a commercial flight, he’d spent far more than he would have liked on a charter jet, set to leave at one a.m. Sunday.

After showering and dressing, he spent the next few hours checking in with his East Coast galleries, which had alreadyopened. He didn’t particularly care how they were doing, but he needed to keep up the pretense that all was normal.

At eleven-thirty, he picked up a rental cargo van and drove to Rudy’s place.

A dark-haired woman with tanned skin opened the door and smiled. “You must be Simon.”

“And you are?”

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