Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer, #1)(38)

“Crumbs,” said Jordan. Rapidly, she tried to think of how the plan would change if Feinman had her thrown out.

“Calm down and paint on,” Feinman said. “I’m not ratting you out. I knew who you were when I turned you down at Tej’s. I knew you could just forge your way in here. Sometimes, you just have to be a conscientious objector. I wanted it on the record that I feel you could do more with yourself.”

“Absolutely. Explore my full potential. A benevolent big E. I appreciate it. One always wants to be more,” Jordan said. “So this is just a neighborly visit?”

Feinman peered at Jordan in a complicated way, as if thinking that Jordan’s reasons for choosing a life of criminality might surface if she looked hard enough. Finally, she just said, “Keep that smile. It’s an original.”

After she had gone, Jordan let out a long, long, long breath of relief. Belatedly, Trinity texted her: I think I saw Feinman headed your way.

Jordan texted back: Hot tip. What’s going on with H?

Trinity: Still mum

No word was good. Or at least it was not bad.

Usually Hennessy and Jordan were art forgers.

Tonight they were thieves.

Hennessy had gotten in earlier to suss out where the intended target was. With this many floors and rooms, and with none of the vendors neatly catalogued, that was quite a feat. After she’d discovered where the painting was, Jordan had arrived with her precious wrapped decoy and her painting supplies. She’d set up in the most public place possible to demonstrate her trade. Look at me, her presence shouted. Look at me being Hennessy, sitting here painting a copy of a Sargent, definitely not somewhere else stealing a painting. Look at me and my alibi. It was to be the perfect crime: Jordan had spent weeks working on a flawless copy of the painting they meant to steal, and Hennessy’s job was to swap them while the owner wasn’t looking.

They needed it.

Jordan went back to work. She tried not to think about what Hennessy was doing. She got some commissions. She heard the word Bryde whispered back and forth; she didn’t know what it meant. She smiled for her small, shifting crowd of watchers. Most only paused for a few seconds unless they were placing a commission.

Except for one.

He stayed long enough that Jordan glanced up. Conservative, expensive gray suit. Conservative, expensive black watch. Conservative, expensive silk black tie. All behaving so well in concert that they were utterly forgettable.

“They say ten percent of works in museums are fakes,” he observed.

Jordan glanced up at him. He was young and handsome in a way so in line with cultural expectations that his appearance passed through attraction straight into boredom. His hair was carefully tousled and curled, his facial hair carefully allowed to shadow his chin in an orderly fashion. He had good teeth, good skin. Very blue eyes. He was inoffensive in every way. She said, “And, what, another forty percent misattributed without any malicious intent?”

He replied blandly, “That makes at least half of art appreciation the cultivation of a willing suspension of disbelief.”

“Fun for all ages.”

He laughed. It was a smooth and easy laugh. It did not imply that it was laughing at her. It implied it might be laughing at him, if that was what she wanted. Or it might just be laughing, if she preferred that. He observed, “You’re incredibly good.”

“Yes,” agreed Jordan.

“I can’t draw a stick figure,” he said. “I’ve got no—”

“Don’t be boring,” she interrupted. “Just say you never tried. People are always saying talent when they mean practice.”

“I never tried,” he concurred. “I practiced other skills.”

“Such as? Provide an itemized list.”

He glanced off into the crowd. Not quite skittish, because skittish didn’t seem to be his style. But something else was asking for his attention. “You remind me of my brother.”

“Congratulations,” she said.

“On what?”

“On having such a beautiful brother.”

Now he laughed for real, a considerably less even sound, and he looked away from her as he did, as if he might muffle the truth of it by so doing. This was obviously not a sound he meant to hand out to people. She wondered how deep he was in this world. He didn’t seem to have that edge one required to survive. He seemed more likely to sell annuities or bonds.

She returned to her work. “Can I ask what you’re doing here tonight?”

“No,” he said.

She looked up at him. He smiled that bland smile but didn’t back down from that no. It was a no that wasn’t malicious or rude. It was simply a fact. No. You’re not allowed to know.

Suddenly, she saw how he might survive in this world.

“Declan,” someone said, and his eyes narrowed. It was a far more memorable expression than any he’d worn to that point. He shifted, and as he did, she noticed his shoes. They were also surprising. Excellent, buttery brogues with smart tooling. Not bland. Not forgettable.

“Is that you?” Jordan asked.

Instead of replying, he tucked a business card just behind the edge of her canvas. There was one word above the telephone number, printed in silver: LYNCH.

Lynch.

Now there was a coincidental name. She enjoyed it; it felt like it meant things were going to go right.