Feint of Art: Read Online Free Page A

late into the night about everything from Austrian architecture to zinc white oil color. I could not imagine Ernst being involved with anything criminal. Then again, I never would have thought him capable of punching his fist through a wall.
    As I was finally dropping off to sleep, I realized that two thirty in the morning was the perfect time to call Europe, which was eight hours ahead of California. Switching on the bedside lamp, I put a call through to Amsterdam, the last known whereabouts of my rogue of a grandfather, Georges LeFleur.
    Anton had been my grandfather’s protégé and closest friend until their affection was tested by a dispute over a beautiful woman named Gina, a Persian cat named Mina, and a fake Bernini statue. Now avowed enemies, Georges and Anton kept careful tabs on one another, in what I presumed was an enduring professional and personal rivalry. It seemed likely that Georges would know something about The Magi and the situation at the Brock, or would at least know where to find the Polish forger. I knew Anton had a studio in San Francisco, but after finishing a big commission like The Magi he might well have taken an extended vacation to a country without extradition treaties.
    No one answered my first call to Amsterdam, but I left a message with the pleasant but guarded woman who answered when I phoned Milan. I tried a few other possibilities, first in Barcelona and, finally, in Paris, the city that had long ago captured my grandfather’s heart. None of the numerous gallery owners, artists, or self-described FOGs—Friends of Georges or, as I preferred, Forgery’s Old Guard—would admit to knowing his whereabouts. But that was typical; it was understood that they would pass the word along. My grandfather would call me when he was good and ready, and not one moment sooner. I switched off the light, slipped back under the covers, and fell fast asleep.

    I awoke the next morning in a funk. Under the best of circumstances I wasn’t a morning person, but today my grumpiness was worsened by a short night of fitful slumber. On top of everything else, I stumbled into the kitchen only to discover that I was out of coffee.
    I recognized that compared to war, famine, or being murdered at the Brock, running out of coffee probably didn’t qualify as a catastrophe. But those were not my choices. I was confronted with a morning sans coffee, and I didn’t have time to stop at a café. An interior designer was coming by the studio to pick up a project this afternoon and I had a stack of paperwork waiting for me. I also hoped to track down Ernst, assure myself that he was safe, and demand a logical explanation for last night’s events. Then I needed to either find Anton—or speak to the police. I might need some time for wrestling with my conscience over the latter.
    I skipped the shower, pulled on a navy blue T-shirt and a pair of paint-splattered overalls, slipped into some socks and my trusty Birkenstocks, and hit the road. As I queued up to cross the Oakland Bay Bridge, I fiddled with the radio, hoping to glean information about last night’s murder. Dupont’s death rated only a fleeting mention, but the radio did say that the Brock had reported nothing missing.
    That seemed odd. If I were going to sneak into an art museum to murder someone, I would take another moment or two to steal something valuable. Then again, I was a reformed art forger, not a thief or a murderer, so what did I know?
    Preoccupied with these thoughts, I pulled into the parking lot at my studio building and inadvertently nudged the rear bumper of a large, expensive-looking car that was parked in my usual space.
    I didn’t mean to hit it. I didn’t hit it hard. But I did hit it.
    As far as I was concerned, bumpers were designed to bump things, thereby avoiding damage to the rest of the vehicle. Besides, dings on a bumper were par for the course in a big city. Unfortunately, the gentleman who stepped out of what I belatedly