Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(18)

It was hard to say how long Hennessy had been squatting there. Properties like these, owned by Saudi investors or princelings or something, they could sit empty for years.

They—Myrtle, Pick, and another Jeff, Jeff Robinson—had come in via the glass-walled poolroom. Pick, who seemed well versed in the art of breaking and entering, had brought a large, lightly adhesive window decal advertising specials on chainsaws. He’d affixed this to one of the large panes of glass and then punched it. The sound had been remarkable mostly in its unremarkableness—just a dull, sandy sound, nothing that warned of home invasion.

“See,” Pick whispered as he peeled off the decal with its new shattered-glass crust, “I told you, no alarms. Hennessy don’t want the police here.”

They took stock in something that seemed to be an enormous and grand living room. A wall of French doors overlooked a stone patio where a bronze woman shot an arrow straight into the sky. The room was decorated with a delicate tufted couch and two chairs pointed at the carved fireplace, a priceless Persian rug, several abstract paintings, a ten-foot-tall potted schefflera, and a brilliant yellow Lexus supercar parked askance as if it had driven in from the patio to enjoy a fire. A paper plate with a congealed half-slice of pizza sat on the car’s hood; a cigarette was extinguished in the extra cheese. These final three objects provided the bulk of the room’s odor of exhaust, smoke, and marinara sauce.

Despite all this excess, the real focal point was a perfect copy of Sargent’s masterpiece Madame X that leaned on a substantial easel. The white-and-black marble floor beneath it was a universe of paint constellations and comet streaks. It was a showstopper. The woman in the portrait was nearly as tall as Myrtle and stood gracefully, one hand gathering the bulk of her black satin dress. Her hair was deep red, her skin so pale it was nearly blue. A signature was painted in the bottom right corner: JOHN S. SARGENT 1884.

The painting was absolutely perfect except for the puckered bullet holes over the delicate eyebrow and flushed ear.

“What a head case,” Pick said.

Myrtle had heard of Hennessy before the party at TJ Sharma’s. Hennessy was supposed to be the best forger on the East Coast. Too expensive for run-of-the-mill copies, but, as evidenced by the perfect copy of Madame X, the person you wanted if you were going to try to sell a fake high-end work to a gullible and moneyed overseas buyer outfitting their new mansion. And there she—she, that would teach him to make assumptions—was at that Sharma party. Small world. Guess word of when Feinman was going to leave her coffin to walk among the mortals got around. He was surprised Feinman turned down Hennessy’s request to get into the Fairy Market; Hennessy was clearly more than qualified for the job. He’d gotten an invite, after all, and what was he but a dealer?

It was easy enough to follow her home and case the joint. He’d have no problem getting good price for her forgeries at the market she couldn’t get into.

When life handed out lemons, it just made good sense for someone to make lemonade.

“Let’s spread out,” Myrtle said in a low voice. “Look for the high-ticket things.”

“Electronics?” Pick asked.

This was what came from hanging out with criminals. “If that’s what you want to do. Meet back at the pool.”

Robinson peered inside the Lexus. He asked, “And if Hennessy shows up?”

“A car left this morning,” Myrtle said. “Hennessy was in it.”

Pick produced a plastic jar of zip ties from the same bag that had produced the adhesive decal. “And if there’s anybody else, just tie ’em up.”

Myrtle was again impressed with his criminal credentials. “Right. Right. Nobody’s calling the cops, so just keep ’em quiet.”

They spread out.

Every room was full of paintings. Hard to tell if they were Hennessys or originals. Some of them he recognized—Mondrian, Waterhouse, Ruysch, Hockney, Sandys, Stanhope. Forgeries? High-end prints? Originals? In a house like this, they could be.

He began to take everything he saw, making multiple trips to stack the frames by the door.

Myrtle discovered Hennessy’s workspace in one of the wings. The light was turned on, though it was empty. The ceiling was high and crowned with another massive chandelier. A headboard and footboard leaned against the wall behind rolls of canvas, empty gilt frames, and canvas stretchers. Government paperwork, checkbooks, passports, and envelopes covered a rollback desk. A computer sat on the floor beside it, the keyboard pulled far enough into the room to be in danger of being stepped on. Everywhere else was paint, pencils, paper, books, paintings, drawings. He saw Sargent’s The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, Abbott Thayer’s The Sisters, William Orpen’s To the Unknown British Soldier in France—but they were surely for Hennessy’s own satisfaction, being too well-known to ever be passed off as originals.

A striking portrait took center stage. The subject was a lovely golden-haired woman in a man’s jacket; she peered warily at the viewer. He wasn’t ordinarily into figurative art, but it made him feel things in his parts. Which parts he hadn’t worked out yet. Multi-part feelings.

“The trick is to buy as many shitty old paintings as you can find, then you work over the top of them. You’re fucked if they x-ray, of course, but to the casual eye, the unprofessional beauty, all the punter sees is the beat-up old panel, and they’re right there with you. Give the people what they want, that’s all it’s about.”