thing. Happy to do it.”
“Make the call.”
He did.
She listened attentively as he made arrangements with Sherwood, calling him “Woody.” Vogelsang's manner was friendly enough to convince Max she wasn't the first client the detective had referred to the fence. Vogelsang assured the man these were “quality goods,” that the seller was reliable, and so on.
Vogelsang covered the receiver and turned to Max. “How's an hour from now?”
“Swell,” she said.
He relayed the information and nodded to her as he listened. Then he said, “I'll tell her,” hung up, and gave his client detailed directions, ending with, “Third door on the right.”
Max thanked him.
“So,” Vogelsang said cheerfully, hands flat on his desk, “the next time I see you, you should have some cash.”
“Sure,” she said, exiting, throwing a blatantly insincere smile over her shoulder at him. “And the next time I see you, you should have some information.”
Back at her apartment, Max changed into a black hooded sweatshirt, leather jacket and pants, to better protect her against the bad weather on its way. She collected the Grant Wood and the Heart of the Ocean (still in their zippered pouch); and then she rode the Ninja hard into the night, heading to the address Vogelsang had provided.
The rain was closing in now, as if the city was a suspect the weather was after, Max knew that the storm could erupt at any moment and, despite the zippered bag, she feared subjecting the painting to a downpour, so she pushed the bike, enjoying the engine's harsh song as she revved it up.
The first drops hit her just as she drove through the doorless entry of the building, a dilapidated three-story brick structure with most of the windows punched out and the walls starting to crumble. Only the roof seemed to be sound.
Max parked the bike, climbed off, and looked around. She stood in a wide hallway that had once had offices on either side— but now, doors were either absent or hung open, with their glass knocked out; and the Sheetrock interior walls had holes kicked in them. She could hear rats scuttling. Not surprisingly, the apparently abandoned building was dark, and if it hadn't been for her special genetics, she would have needed a flashlight to get around.
she wondered.
Carrying the zippered bag like a pizza she was delivering, she crept down the hall to the third door on the right— the only closed door in the corridor. To her relief, Max saw light filtering out from underneath.
Of course, this
could be a trap…
But caution just wasn't on her agenda, tonight. She turned the knob and walked right in.
Unlike what she'd seen of the rest of the building, this room was still in perfect shape— except for a head- sized hole on the right wall, providing an impromptu window into the next office. But the other walls were fine, the door had a lock, and an overhead fluorescent illuminated the room.
In the middle crouched a bunged-up metal desk with a TV on a crate next to it; two metal folding chairs were on the client's side of the desk. On a card table against the back wall sat a hot plate, with an open door nearby leading to a tiny bathroom. A sleeping bag, rolled up, was snugged in a corner; and the tiniest of refrigerators purred. These were spartan quarters, to say the least, but the place was spotlessly clean.
Behind the desk, his hands folded on the desktop, seated in an ancient swivel chair, was a gray-haired man of perhaps seventy with wire-frame glasses aiding lively dark eyes of indeterminate color, a neatly trimmed but thick salt-and-pepper mustache, and a long but well-tended beard every bit as gray as his hair. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt buttoned all the way up, with no tie— the suit was out of style but not threadbare. Despite the surroundings, he struck Max as both dignified and businesslike.
“Mr. Sherwood?” Max asked.
He rose, gestured to one of the metal folding chairs opposite him. “I would be pleased if you called me Woody… And you're Max?”
“I'm Max,” she said, and couldn't help but smile. “Interesting place of business. Do you, uh, live here as well?”
As she sat, so did he. “At the moment I do, yes… Sometimes being an art speculator causes us to reevaluate our lifestyle and make certain subtractions.”
“Like a bed, for example?”
He sighed, but his response seemed chipper. “I won't deny that I've had a few setbacks of late… but I'm just one deal away from Easy Street.”
“Is that in a nice part of Seattle?”
“It's an expression, dear. Pre-Pulse.”
Max thought:
Sherwood was saying, “You know, dear, you're very young and quite pretty. You look healthy.”
She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. “Thanks… I guess. What does that have to do with any transaction we might have?”
He patted the air with one hand. “I meant nothing by it— just an observation. But the people who bring me merchandise are, by definition, thieves. The young ones are drug addicts and don't have your… robust glow. The older ones have a… hardness about them, that I hope you will never achieve.”
She didn't know what to say to that; no matter: Sherwood was plowing on.
“Now I'm not saying a woman… a young woman… can't be a thief, and a good one. I've known a number, over the years… The female thieves I've known have either been… unpleasantly hard, or, frankly, gay… or both.”
Not knowing whether to be amused or irritated, Max said, “And you're wondering if I'm gay?”
Teeth flashed in the beard again. “My dear, at my age I'm afraid it's damn near irrelevant.”
Max returned the smile. He was an engaging old boy. “Would you like to see what I have for you?”
“Oh yes,” he said, with just a hint of innuendo. “I think we've had sufficient conversation to satisfy the social contract, don't you?”
She answered that with a glazed smile.
With her back to Sherwood, she slowly unzipped the bag, slipped the necklace surreptitiously into her pocket, then slid out the painting. When she turned back to him, his mouth dropped like a trapdoor.
After a long moment of staring at the painting, he asked, “Is that… that the
thing?”
“It should be.” She smiled. “But I won't be offended if you want to test it.”
“Please,” he said.
She placed the painting on the wide desk and, from one of the drawers, Sherwood withdrew a device that he explained was an UVIN. Then, standing at the desk, the painting like a patient on a surgical table awaiting the doctor's skills, he said, “Get the lights, would you please, child?”
Max did as the old boy requested, and the fence fired up the UVIN and ran its rays over the painting. He looked from the painting to her, his expression almost… alarmed; and then back down at the painting, going over it again with the ultraviolet light. A crack of thunder made her jump; heavy rain hammered at the windows and echoed down the corridor.
“My dear,” he said finally, “this is indeed a genuine Grant Wood.”
Trying to conceal her excitement, Max asked, “How much?”
“Normally… ” He shrugged. “… six figures, easily. But you may have guessed I don't have that kind of money
