CHAPTER 6
Vaughn
It was eleven, the night before the public opening of the student art show. Late enough that I’d be unlikely to run into any faculty, but early enough that no one would remember someone who was clearly not a student wandering around in the middle of the night. I parked in a seldom-used lot and took the Saska in its garment bag with me to the art building, and in through the side door that I’d taped the lock on earlier when the building was open. I peeled the tape off as I entered and let the door shut with a soft snick.
In the dark, the sculptures and installations that dotted the hallways were startling, sinister, and the piles of wood, metal, broken mirrors, empty frames, and other detritus hazardous. I made my way to the gallery. There would be no alarms; not inside the building, not for student work. I had been hoping for a spare nail left in the wall—a painting mounted and then moved—on which I could hang the Saska, but no such luck. I’d brought one with me, but I’d rather not risk the noise of hammering it in.
Along the wall outside the gallery were student studios, and I tried the knobs, hoping to find one unlocked. On the fifth knob I tried, I found it, and inside was the easel I was looking for, appropriately paint-flecked and wobbly. It would work just as well to set the Saska up on the easel as to hang it on the wall; maybe even better. I tucked it under my arm and headed back to the gallery. As I followed the line of studios back around to the gallery entrance though, I noticed a gleam of light coming from the gap underneath the studio door directly across from the gallery entrance, and froze.
There was no other way into the gallery from this direction, nor any way out of the building. I stood for a few heartbeats, waiting. Then absent humming came from the studio and I cursed the industriousness—or night owl schedules—of the young. If the student had just arrived and was in for a lengthy work session, there was nothing for it. I either had to walk past his door, or stand here and wait until he left. And I hated to wait.
If he was working and humming, hopefully he was engrossed and listening to music on headphones. I could probably walk right past him and he wouldn’t notice. One thing I’d learned long ago was that when people were in a place they shouldn’t be, or at times they shouldn’t be there, they were far too concerned with feeling out of place themselves to register that you were also out of place. Chances were that even if he saw me he’d assume I had every right to be here. An adult wearing a suit presented enough of an authority figure to most people that they’d look the other way.
I waited another minute, maybe two, and when the humming continued, I walked slowly, softly, toward the gallery door. Just as I passed the occupied studio—as if I’d awakened it by looking—the door swung open, revealing a paint-speckled young man wearing headphones and holding an iPhone.
We both froze, midstep, like bandits in a cartoon. He was likely more startled than I was, eyes going wide at the sight of me. Then his gaze went to the easel under my arm and his eyes narrowed. He yanked off his headphones and settled into a languid, cocksure stance.
“What are you doing with Martin’s easel?”
“Borrowing it,” I replied, infusing my voice with the elixir of entitlement and uncaring that said I had every right to be wherever I wanted and to do whatever I was doing and it would behoove anyone I met to remember that.
“Borrowing it for what?” the young man said suspiciously.
“It is in service of a good cause, I assure you.”
I took a step farther into the hallway so I could see past him into his studio. And when I did, I lost any concern I had that he might prove a trouble.
“And what are you working on, my young Beltracchi?”
“Huh? Just a painting for school.”
He crossed his arms and jutted his chin, leaning against the doorframe. It was a lazy, unconcerned pose. But it was a calculated one that had the bonus of blocking the doorway. I should know. I’d cultivated a similar one myself over the years.
I pointed at the canvas on his easel.
“Has Willowbrook begun assigning forgeries as part of their curriculum, then?”
The panic that flickered over the boy’s face was schooled to neutrality almost immediately, but I’d seen it.
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” he said. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Just an art appreciator. May I?”
I brushed past him. On the easel stood a decidedly not-bad-at-all forgery of Percival Rising, an early Meredith Palmer.
“I’m impressed,” I said. The boy was now fidgeting beside me, mouth open on a denial or an explanation, but I cut him off, pointing to another painting leaning against the wall. “You did Oliver, for the student show.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“It’s the best piece in the gallery.”
“Thanks.” He looked reluctantly pleased.
Turning back to the Palmer forgery, I leaned in close. The brushwork was good, the style meticulous. But…
“Have you ever seen this painting, or only reproductions?”
I could see him trying to find an answer that didn’t give anything away, and I waved him off.
“You’ve never seen it. Palmer edges her green with scarlet on the palette, then she uses a fan brush to feather it in. You can’t see it in the reproductions, but on the canvas, these greens all have the barest thread of scarlet running through them. It lifts the tone of the whole piece. Gives it an energy, a sense of movement.”
His eyes were wide.
“Nice to meet you, James Novack,” I said, and turned to leave.
“Wait! What are you doing here? Who are you?”
I paused in the doorway. He looked very, very young, blond hair in a careless swoop, eyes unshadowed.
“I propose a gentleman’s agreement. I won’t mention your…extracurricular pursuits, and you won’t mention my presence here after hours. Deal?”
I held out my hand to him, and he shook it. Then he narrowed his eyes at me and leaned in, clearly intrigued.
“But what are you doing here?”
I held up the easel and the garment bag, and winked at him.
“Oh, you’ll know it when you see it. I assure you. Good night, James.”