paintings could be evidence in a case against Sterling, might even implicate the Russian.”
Seth shrugged,
“There's plenty more where these came from. Anyway, I thought they might bring in a little pocket change.”
Logan thought.
“Get them,” Logan said.
“Hey, they're
I did your damn job, for free— this is, whaddya callit, a perk!”
“Seth,” Logan said, “this is more important than money.”
“Easy for you to say, Donald Trump!”
“Sterling may be our link to Manticore.”
Seth let out a long, slow breath. “Okay… I'll let you eyeball 'em… but that's it.”
While the boy was gone, Logan struggled to open the disc. This was going to take time, and a lot of concentration, which wouldn't be possible with the X5 underfoot. He set it aside; he'd deal with it later.
Seth returned with the rolled-up paintings, spread them, smoothed them out, on the sofa and on the nearby floor.
“Eyes Only” couldn't believe his eyes.
He'd known Sterling had a mammoth collection, but to think these had been on display at corporate headquarters… N. C. Wyeth, Charles Russell, Norman Rockwell, Frederic Remington, Jackson Pollock, and John Singer Sargent… he was staggered, stunned.
“Leave these,” Logan said, “and I'll have an art expert go over them.”
Seth's head reared back. “You're kidding, right? I mean, you're not really thinking I'm going to leave these with you, are you?”
“You need them authenticated, Seth.”
“Do I look that stupid?”
“Is that a trick question? It'll help you sell them, if you know what they're worth.”
Seth thought about that for a moment, but then shook his head. “You get the art expert— call my pager… and I'll bring the paintings back.”
“All right,” Logan sighed, patting the air with his hands. “All right.”
Rolling up the paintings like dorm room posters, Seth said, “Do it by tomorrow night, or I'll take my own chances with a fence.”
“What if I can't line somebody up by then?”
“Oh I got faith in you, Logan,” Seth said, the rolled-up masterpieces under one arm. The James Dean face grinned in all its awful boyishness. “Just like you got faith in me, right?”
Seth showed himself out.
Chapter Ten
SCENE OF THE CRIME
STERLING ESTATE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019
Turning to Kendra and her closet for help, Max dolled herself up in one of those skimpy sexy frocks that she had so scrupulously avoided until now. At least it wasn't frilly or trashy— the simple black strapless minidress, set off by a rhinestone belt, displayed much of her sleekly muscular legs, plentiful cleavage, and just about all of her unblemished, bronze shoulders. Sitting on the bench in front of her roommate's makeup mirror, Max put on some black you-know-what-me pumps that rivaled any torture Manticore had come up with.
“You look good, girl,” Kendra said with an appreciative, almost envious grin. “Foxy and fine.”
Original Cindy, who had come over to help with the makeover, widened those big beautiful brown eyes and, with a head shake, said, “You look any better, Boo, Original Cindy'd set out to recruit you for
team.”
That took the edge off, making Max laugh, and the other young women joined in, in a round of giggles.
Then, studying her reflection, Max rose and turned in a slow circle. “Damn, you two are really good at this— you oughta do makeovers on the tube… I can't find the butt-kicking tomboy no matter how hard I look.”
“Oh, she's in there,” Original Cindy said. “She'll come out, anybody screw around witchoo.”
“But these shoes… ” Max winced, working to maintain her balance. “They're tighter than Normal's ass.”
O. C. laughed at that, and Kendra shrugged. “Those are the best I can do— not my fault, my feet are just a little smaller than yours… Cin, you got anything in your collection?”
“Hell,” Original Cindy said, “my dogs are bigger than either of you… But don't you the get the wrong idea: Original Cindy is
damn delicate!”
More shared laughter.
“The pumps're fine,” Max lied, lightly. What was she going to do, pick her best pair of running shoes?
Hands on hips, Original Cindy asked, “What's your secret, Boo? How'd you get yourself an invite to some Fat Daddy Greenback's booty shake?”
Grinning, almost embarrassed, Max said, “Ain't no booty shake… just a cocktail party.”
Original Cindy raised an eyebrow. “They gonna be tunes?”
Max felt the argument slipping away from her. “Well, yeah, I suppose.”
Original Cindy raised the other eyebrow. “Gonna be all kindsa young, firm hotties with their talent hangin' out?”
Max smiled and sighed. “You know there will be.”
Original Cindy turned to Kendra and in unison, they bumped hips and said, “Booty shake!”
“Would I doubt my elders?” Max asked innocently.
That got the expected feigned indignation, and after some more giggling, Kendra went to her bedside table, opened the drawer, selected something, and returned to hand it to Max: a two-inch-square foil package.
“When you accessorize,” Max said, and now she was the one arching an eyebrow, “you don't kid around.”
Original Cindy whooped in delight. “Aw-iiight,” she said, slapping five with Kendra. “Sister girl lookin' out for ya, Boo! You gotta love it.”
Max was amused and, well, touched. “I doubt I'll need this,” she said, “but because you're the one givin' me the makeover, I'll take it with me— you never know what might come up.”
They all laughed again. In truth, that sprinkle of feline DNA in Max's makeup had reared its furry little head again not so long ago, and Max had again found herself doing battle with her hormones. For a human being to devolve into a cat in heat, from time to time, was one of the more humiliating aspects of her test-tube development. But she was on the downside of it now.
Earlier, Kendra and Original Cindy had penciled Max's brows, taught her about eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick… techniques of war Manticore had skipped, criminal methods Moody had passed over…
Fifteen minutes in, her patience wearing thin, Max had asked, “Is this porn-star trip really necessary?”
Kendra looked hurt. “You want to make a good impression, don't you?”
