Page 136 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“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 returnedto 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 themforPetry, 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.”

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