Feint of Art: Read Online Free

But I felt the need to do something constructive. Like what? Like . . . talking to the man who had forged The Magi.
    I had recognized the artistic signature immediately: it was my grandfather’s old friend and rival Anton Woznikowicz. Spelled just like it sounded. We had worked together years ago, Anton and Georges and I, just one big, happy, art-forging family. But in the past few years I had tried to cut off contact with Anton—and the rest of my grandfather’s circle—in an effort to keep True/Faux Studios entirely legitimate. I knew from bitter experience that this world had a way of sneaking up and biting me on the butt when I least expected it.
    Anton was a gifted artist, though not of Georges’ caliber. But like Georges, he was likely to vanish the minute the police started poking around. And on top of everything else, I was worried about the old guy. If someone had been murdered in connection with his forged Caravaggio, Anton himself could be in danger. I hurried back to my truck, fired up the engine, and headed across the City to Noë Valley.
    Unless I was gravely mistaken, I was about to be bitten on the butt.

Chapter 2
     
     
     
     
Why is the imitation of nature more sacred than the imitation of art? Are Michelangelo, Rembrandt, and Delacroix to be reviled? For each learned his trade by copying the masters who had come before, just as their students learned the trade by copying them. If the imitation provides as much pleasure as the original, who is to say it is less worthy?
     
—Georges LeFleur, “Real or Fake:
Who Decides?” unfinished manuscript,
Reflections of a World-Class Art Forger
     
    I had embraced the Californian habit, sometimes called Zen navigation, of starting to drive before I’d fully decided where I was going. Tonight was no exception. I was in gear, with the truck in motion, before it occurred to me that I was heading out in search of an art forger who might be connected to this evening’s homicide, at two in the morning, in a city of nearly three-quarters of a million people.
    What was wrong with this picture?
    I was not famous for my common sense, but this seemed like a bad idea even to me. I had burned up all my stored caffeine at the scene of the murder, and a sudden wave of fatigue washed over me. I had also spent a long, hard day at the studio. Time to pack it in. I turned the truck around and headed east for the Bay Bridge, Oakland, and home.
    Twenty minutes later I was trudging up three flights of stairs to my apartment, stepping lightly to avoid the squeaky spots so as not to awaken my neighbors. I sighed with relief as I entered my own little slice of heaven.
    My home was the top floor, formerly the maid’s quarters, of a once-stately Victorian built in 1869 for a wealthy merchant. The plumbing and electrical systems were suspect, but rent was cheap, moldings were ornate, and if you stood on the toilet you could glimpse San Francisco Bay from the bathroom window. The place was a lot like me: a bit quirky, occasionally contrary, but with lots of character. Also like me, it had a good foundation but needed some aesthetic work.
    I locked the dead bolt, slung my bag on the hat tree, shuffled down the short hallway to my bedroom, changed into an oversized T-shirt, and crawled into bed. The events of the night were sinking in, and I needed to think. I knew I had to talk to the police, and soon. But old loyalties ran deep, and I wanted to keep Anton Woznikowicz out of the picture if at all possible. I also hoped to make sure he was safe from whoever had killed Dupont—that is, if the killing was even connected to the forgery. And Anton might be able to give me the most important information of all: who had commissioned a forgery of The Magi, and why.
    I had to admit that Ernst’s sudden disappearance left me feeling more than a little unsettled. We had once savored good wine, laughed until we snorted over the asking price for the splattered art of Jackson Pollock, and talked