Just Watch Me (Riley Wolfe 1)

“I’ll try,” I said, even though I didn’t know what that meant. And then Mom was calling from the porch of the big Victorian house and we were walking across the wide lawn together and going in for supper, going in to that big wonderful old house, MY house—except that when I got there, Dad was gone and the house had turned into a battered old double-wide trailer and Mom was crying and there was nothing in the fridge so there was no supper after all and no money and Mom was crying, so I knew I had to do something and I did it but I didn’t mean to and then he was falling, falling, spinning and endlessly falling away, and I could only stand there and watch him falling, spinning and falling, and now it’s me falling, turning

slowly and falling, and I can’t—

I woke up with a jerk. I tried to shake off the fumes of that black-cloud feeling, but it was no good. The asshole Eberhardts and their inherited billions and electronic systems had me beat. And as for a human door in, forget it. You didn’t bribe or blackmail Black Hat or Tiburon or, God help us, the Revolutionary Guard. And even the museum senior staff was mostly the fat-ass Eberhardt family anyway. A whole fucking family of entitled asshole sheep who did nothing except sit on their fat pimply butts and count their inherited money and keep out anybody who wasn’t one of them, so getting past them was just as impossible, unless—

It hit me like something heavy falling on my head—but it felt good. Really, truly, amazingly fucking GREAT!

“There’s a way,” I said out loud. “Goddamn it, there IS A WAY!”

I jumped out of my chair and kicked through the heap of crumpled papers until I found the brochure from the museum. I threw it on the desk and smoothed it out, and this time I read through it slowly and carefully.

When I was done, I just sat there and smirked for a minute. It was there. It was really and truly right fucking there. And it was so obvious—and at the same time so totally un-fucking-thinkable!—that only Riley fucking Wolfe would ever see it, let alone try it.

It was there. I had my way.

I switched the music over to something with a feeling of celebrating—David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust. And as the opening guitar chords crashed into my headphones, I leaned back and closed my eyes again—but this time, I was working. And as I began parsing the details, I was still smiling. “There is always a way,” I told the rich-bitch asshole fucking Eberhardts. “Always.” And I pushed away the last of the black cloud and its double-wide memories and began to plan.

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.