Hemlock Bay

didn’t count it, just slipped the fat envelope inside his cashmere jacket pocket. “Hey, you know what the name of Ian Jorgenson’s yacht is?”
    Simon shook his head.
    “Night Watch.”
    Simon said slowly, “That’s the name of a painting by Rembrandt. That particular painting is hanging in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. I saw it there a couple of years ago.”
    LouLou cocked his head to one side, his hairpiece not moving a bit because it was expensive and well made, and gave Simon a cynical smile. “Who knows? Just maybe Night Watch is hanging in Ian’s stateroom, right over his bed. I’ve often wondered how many real paintings there are left in the museums and not beautifully executed fakes.”
    “Actually, LouLou, I don’t want to know the answer to that question.”
    “Since Sarah Elliott just died some seven years ago, all her materials—the paints, the brushes—still exist. You take a superb talent with an inherent bent toward her sort of technique and visualization, and what you get is so close to the real thing, most people wouldn’t even care if you told them.”
    “I hate that.”
    “I do, too,” LouLou said. “I need another beer.”
    Simon ordered them another round, ate a couple of peanuts out of the bowl on their table, and said, “Remember that forger Eric Hebborn, who wrote that book telling would-be forgers exactly how to do it—what inks, papers, pens, colors, signatures, all of it? Then he up and dies in ninety-six. The cops said it was under mysterious circumstances. I heard it was a private collector who killed Hebborn because a dealer friend had sold him an original Rubens that turned out to be a fake that Hebborn himself had done. Supposedly the dealer died shortly thereafter in a car accident.”
    LouLou said, “Yeah, I met old Eric back in the early eighties. Smart as a whip, that guy, and so talented it made you cry. You wondering if it was Olaf Jorgenson who popped him? Hey, Simon, there’s a whole bunch of collectors who’d cut off hands to have a certain medal or stamp or train or painting. They’ve got to have it or life loses its meaning for them. Look, Simon, when you get down to it, they’re the people who keep us in business.”
    “I wonder if Olaf ordered all eight paintings. I wonder what he’s paying for them.”
    “Huge bucks, my man, huge, count on it. All eight Sarah Elliotts? Don’t know. I haven’t heard any other names floated around. Simon, I heard those eight paintings are owned privately by a member of the Elliott family?”
    “Yes, Lily Savich owns them. And therein lies a very long, convoluted tale.” Simon rose, putting a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “LouLou, thank you. You know where to find me. I think I’ll be heading out to California soon to track down one of the major players—Abraham Turkle. He’s English, right?”
    “Half Greek. Weird guy. Very eccentric, said to eat only snails that he raises himself.” LouLou shuddered. “You take care around him, Simon. Abe killed a guy who tried to rip him off with his bare hands, just a couple of years ago. So have a care. Hey, this Lily Savich hire you?”
    Simon paused, cocked his head to the side. “Not exactly, but that’s about it. I want to get those four paintings back.”
    “I hope the others are safe.”
    “Much safer than the snails in Abe’s garden. Take care, LouLou.”
    “Why are you going after Abe?”
    Simon said, “I want to see if I can shake something loose. It’s not just the art scam. There are other folk involved in this deal who have done very bad things, and I want to nail them. Just maybe Abe can help me do that.”
    “He won’t help you do squat.”
    “We’ll see. His forging days in Hemlock Bay are over. I want to catch him before he takes off to parts unknown. Who knows what I can get out of him.”
    “Good luck shaking the wasp nest. You know, I’ve always liked the name Lily,” LouLou said and gave Simon a small salute. Then, when Simon left, LouLou turned his attention to that very pretty lady at the bar who’d kept looking over at them.

15
    Quantico

    Dr. Hicks said quietly, “Marilyn, tell me, how did Tammy look when she came back to the motel?”
    “She had on a coat and she just ripped it apart and showed me her nurse’s uniform. It was soaked with blood.”
    “Did she seem pleased?”
    “Oh yes. She was crazy happy that she got away. She just kept laughing and rubbing her bloody hands against herself. She loves the feel