Sheila Sharpe
Once I began reading about the fascinating world of art forgery, I could not stop. Soon, I ran out of books on the subject. Time to write your own, I concluded. This scarcity surprised me given no authentic masterpiece arouses as much passion as the discovery of great art forgery. A recent example is the uproar caused when Leonardo’s lost and rediscovered masterpiece, Salvadore Mundi, proved to be a fake (after selling for $450.3 million.) Now that we live in what’s been called “The Golden Age of Fakes,” art forgery is receiving increased attention in the news and in books. A Broadway musical has even been proposed.
Before B.A. Shapiro’s groundbreaking The Art Forger in 2012, non-fiction books dominated the genre, and I found no women writing or publishing art forgery fiction. Perhaps the subject seemed too daunting or masculine. But once Shapiro opened the door, I rushed through it along with several innovative women writers. Steeped in the art world, psychology, and crime fiction, I’ve found research and writing this novel to be endlessly rewarding. My story deepened when I added a second, dear-to-my-heart protagonist—Sondra, an art-savvy psychologist.
Starting with a short story that became a prequel to the novel, I based my male protagonist, Nick, on aspects of the two most famous and intriguing British forgers. They are Tom Keating, known as the beloved Robin Hood of art crime, and Eric Hebborn, the enfant terrible who fooled the art world with his phenomenal talent and trickery.
Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief
CHAPTER ONE
A bad forgery is the ultimate insult.
—John Grant
Monday, October 10, 2022
Nick McCoy spotted the sultry nude reclining on the red divan at the end of the gallery. She was waiting for him. Arms crossed behind her head, she gazed at him through hooded eyes, her breasts thrust upward in frank invitation. His blood stirring, he strode across the terrazzo floor toward her. Closing in, his trained eyes couldn’t miss the telltale flaws. Her skin lacked luster; there was no delicious honey glow. Her breasts were too perky, interrupting the flow of curves. There was no finesse in the brushstrokes, and those frozen lips—they wouldn’t even feel a kiss.
“Ninety-five million for this babe,” Steele said.
Nick looked from the painting on the easel to his wealthiest client. Squat, lumpy bald head, and shrewd pinpoint eyes, Dixon Steele was the worst kind of crook—a blood-sucking hedge fund billionaire. Nick was tempted to stick the old vulture with the mediocre forgery, but that might screw up his larger scheme.
“Is she worth it?” Steele said.
“Not if you want a Modigliani. Your babe is a fraud.”
“How can you tell?”
“The low price is a flag. Modigliani nudes are rare; one recently sold for a hundred and fifty-seven million. Then there’s the artistry, the feeling. Does she turn you on?”
“I’m sixty-eight, young man. Takes more than a plastic bimbo to move my flesh.”
“Plastic—there’s your answer. Modigliani was a sensualist. You feel that in every line, color, and texture of his paintings. This is the plodding work of Elmer de Hory, the phony Hungarian count.”
Steele turned the bogus nude toward the wall, then strutted around the gallery, inspecting the cream of his priceless collection. The arrogant ass flaunted his ugliness like a weapon; he even got off on repulsing people. Nick felt disgusted but also intrigued. It was easy to picture Steele as a boy scaring other kids with his Godzilla act. Nick could have used this attitude to face down his boyhood tormentors. Instead, he ran away and hid in museums.
Nick touched his right cheek. The hideous burn scars were gone thanks to plastic surgery, just a slight discoloration and tightness near his right ear. Some considered him handsome now, but the face he saw in the mirror still looked foreign to him—the reddish-brown result of Spanish, Black, and Celtic blood. More familiar was his self-image as The Freak, still alive inside him, looking more repulsive with age like the picture of Dorian Gray.
Enough pointless navel-gazing. Nick shifted his attention to the masterpieces glowing on the canvas-colored walls. Focusing on Degas’ elegant Ballet at the Paris Opera, he let the dramatic lighting and glittering swirl of pastels lift him out of his dark thoughts.
As Steele lumbered across his sight line, Nick got a whiff of his aftershave, the smell like pine-scented toilet cleaner. Steele stopped before his most prized painting, The Blue Room by Picasso. Stepping next to him, Nick looked at the lithe, naked beauty giving herself a sponge bath in her shades-of-blue bedroom. She reminded him of Raquel, Steele’s wife and his lover. Imagining the crude bastard’s fleshy mitts touching her delicate skin sent a biting rage through him, soon followed by a crushing sense of guilt over his inability to protect Raquel or return her love. If he could love anyone, it would be an unattainable woman like Sondra, his former therapist.
“Hey Pablo, you’re still the cock,” Steele gave the work a thumbs up. Moving on to Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, he gave this popular masterpiece a less vigorous thumbs up.
But Steele sneered at the next painting, jabbing his thumb down. “This one’s weak. Let’s get rid of it.”
“Weak?” Nick had to squash this idea. “You’re looking at the late, great Monet, one of his famous water lily pond paintings.
“It’s too airy-fairy, and there’s too much simpering green and pink. No lovely lilies allowed in The Man’s Lair.” He thumped his chest. “Listen, my boy; I want to feel young; I have a young wife to service. I need bold, virile paintings around me-injections of vitality.”
Nick knew this Monet was a better than average Tom Keating forgery. The work could raise questions and put him in the spotlight. But, so far, he’d managed to elude the FBI and Scotland Yard, and he’d finally gotten into an influential position close to Steele after decades of maneuvering. He owed Raquel for helping him secure the art conservator’s job at the Steele Museum and paving his way to becoming Steele’s principal consultant on all his art purchases, trades, and sales. At last, he was in the perfect position to strike.
Don’t blow it now! Steele usually listened to his advice, but he was fickle and rash and required canny handling.
“The Monet is one of your most valuable paintings. Prices are still rising on the water lily series.” Nick paused.
“Might be wise to hang onto it for a while.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Let’s dump the Braque. I’m done with brown cubist shit.”
Wanting to smack the lout’s face, Nick said, “This still life looks a bit muddy because it’s the only painting I haven’t restored in this gallery. Let me clean off the surface grime, then see how you feel.”
Steele grunted his assent, lifted the Braque off the wall, and handed it to Nick.
“Are you almost done with Cezanne’s Cardplayers and Matisse’s Joy of Life sketch? Missing them. They are my family, you know, the only ones I can count on. People never fail to disappoint and fuck you over. Am I a cynic, or what?”
“I’d say you’re a realist, Mr. Steele. I can fix the flaws in paintings but not in people.”
“Hey, Nick, you’re my man. It’s time you called me Dix.” He gave Nick’s shoulder a heavy-handed squeeze.
A feeling of power surged through Nick. Finally, all his work to win Steele’s trust and affection was paying off. He could now easily deceive the old crook, and the discovery of his betrayal would feel like a knife in Steele’s gut. Flashing on images of the fire that had massacred his home and family, Nick counted the days until he could skewer the perpetrator.
“If all goes well, ah, Dix, I might be able to get the Braque, the Matisse, and The Cardplayers back here in the next few days. The cleaning won’t take very long.”
“Good. Then the whole family will be together again, all dolled up.” He showed off his stump-like teeth.
““I’ll be out the next few nights and a lot of the days.”
“No problem. I’ve got the entry codes.” Nick cleared his throat, then rolled out the lie. “I’ll need to be gone for a while after completing this job. I’ve got some out-of-town business.”
Steele scowled. “That’s damned inconvenient. What if I need to decide fast on a deal? You’d have to be here to evaluate the works in question.”
“Consult my mate, Miles Hartwright. You know him. He’s the British art historian at UCSD. Miles knows the market and has a great eye, almost as good as mine.”
Steele chuckled. “I like your modesty.”
Nick gave Steele Miles' card, wrapped up the Braque, and headed for the gallery’s rear exit, leaving Dix to spend quality time with his ill-gotten family.
Nick was surprised and annoyed to find the inner steel door unlocked and the outer wooden door open. He never forgot to lock up or guard his back. Other than Steele, Raquel, and himself, only Steele’s rotten son, Simon, knew the code. The precious masterpieces were cleverly protected. Few would guess that Steele had hidden a collection worth billions inside a dilapidated barn on a large estate in Rancho Santa Fe.
Nick locked the doors and strode from the cool, sheltered gallery into the dicey world of bright light, dark shadows, and October’s hot Santa Ana winds. He picked up his pace. The wind sucked the moisture out of his skin and anything green or alive. Wildfires were due to strike. His sensitive radar picked up a more imminent threat. He scanned the surrounding pines and eucalyptus trees, his vigilant eyes alert to any movement in the dappled light. He turned the corner and spotted Simon’s red Maserati parked on the gravel beside his dusty SUV. The bloody twit was leaning against Nick’s car door, watching him through mirrored sunglasses. Nick preferred Steele’s ugly mug to his son’s sly-eyed prettiness.
“I heard you in the gallery with Pops,” Simon said as Nick approached him. “You really know how to work the old goat, don’t you? He swallows any bullshit you feed him.”
“You forgot to lock the doors after eavesdropping. Move aside.”
“Make me.” He rubbed his puny ass on the car door.
“What do you want, Simon?”
“I want you to leave.”
“You’re in luck; I am leaving.”
Simon kicked the gravel. “I mean for good.”
“Why? You don’t give a rat’s ass about the art collection.”
“It’s my inheritance, and I don’t want a slick, snot-nosed Brit screwing with it. You’ve conned Dad. He thinks you walk on water, but you don’t fool me.”
“Likewise.” Say no more, but he’d had it with this spoiled parasite. “Does Papa know his free-loading son uses his allowance to deal drugs and make sadistic porn flicks?”
Simon glared at him through slitted eyes. “Tattle on me and I tell on you. You’re screwing his latest slutty wife.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I have proof from a private eye. If you don’t disappear, I’ll show the PI’s report to Pops. There’s an obscene shot of you and Raquel doing the nasty at Rosarito Beach.”
Nick clenched his teeth. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, shocking your old man into a heart attack?”
Simon shrugged, smirking.
Nick suspected the cold-hearted bastard’s greed included wanting his father dead. Simon no longer had to compete for the inheritance with his mother—Dix’s second trophy wife—or his older brother. Nick recalled they had died in a convenient-for-Simon car crash three years ago.
Simon strolled to his car, folded into the low-slung seat, and turned his mirrored glasses on Nick. “Take the slut and get out of San Diego and I’ll bury the report. You have ten days to find another place to squat. Otherwise, I squeal, and you’ll be the one who stops Pa’s ticker.” Simon showed his pointy, little-boy teeth, another part of him that hadn’t matured to his thirty-something age. “But if the old cuckold survives, he’ll make sure you both croak in the worst possible way. You’re fucked, asshole.” Giggling, Simon gunned the motor.
Turning his back on the punk’s squealing wheels, Nick loaded the Braque in the back of his SUV and then slammed the trunk’s door, a rush of adrenaline spurring him to run. Old man Steele incited Nick’s hatred and contempt, but his psycho son scared the shit out of him.
No way could he trust Simon’s deal. Most likely, he had less than ten days to pull off a dodgy revenge scheme and get out of this hellhole alive. He could almost hear the clock ticking...
End Chapter One