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I'd never planned to take her life as well. But plans change.

When she's dead, her reputation devoured by scandal, I'll weep at her grave. They will be tears of triumph.

twenty-four

T
he false moustache
itched and was probably unnecessary. As were the contacts that changed his eyes from brown to an indistinct hazel and the long blond wig he'd fashioned into a streaming ponytail. His face and any exposed skin had been carefully lightened, toning down the gold hue to the pale and pasty complexion of a man much happier out of the sun.

Three earrings glittered on his right earlobe, wire-framed glasses with tiny round rosy lenses were perched on his nose. He rather liked the bloom they gave everything.

He'd chosen his wardrobe with care. Tight, pegged red pants, a saffron silk shirt with flowing sleeves, black patent leather boots with small heels.

After all, he didn't want to be subtle.

He looked like a desperately fashionable, fanatically artsy type just skirting the edge of reasonable taste. He'd seen enough of the breed in his career to know the right moves, the right speech patterns.

He checked his face in the rearview mirror of the mid-sized sedan he'd chosen from Rent-A-Wreck. The car hadn't been a pleasure to drive, but it had gotten him the
sixty-odd miles to Pine State Foundry. He had hopes it would get him back to the coast when he was finished.

He took his cheap, scarred faux-leather portfolio case out of the car with him. Inside were dozens of sketches—most of which he'd borrowed, so to speak, from Miranda.

The forgery of the
David
had to have been cast somewhere, he thought. Somewhere, due to time constraints, locally. And this was the closest foundry to the Institute. The one, his quick search of records indicated, the staff and students used habitually.

He took out a roll of peppermints and began chewing one as he studied the foundry. The place was a scar on the hillside, he decided. Ugly brick and metal jagging up, spreading out, with towers puffing smoke. He wondered how closely they skirted EPA regulations, then reminded himself that wasn't his problem, or his mission.

Tossing his ponytail behind his back, he slung the strap of the portfolio over his shoulder and headed in the direction of a low metal building with dusty windows.

In the heeled boots, adding a little swish was a matter of course.

Inside was a long counter with metal shelves behind, stuffed with fat ring binders, plastic tubs filled with hooks and screws, and large metal objects that defied description. At the counter on a high stool, a woman sat paging through a copy of
Good Housekeeping.

She glanced up at Ryan. Her eyebrows shot up instantly, her gaze skimmed up and down. The slight smirk wasn't quite disguised. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm Francis Kowowski, a student at the New England Institute of Art History.”

Her tongue was in her cheek now. She caught the scent of him and thought of poppies. For God's sake, what kind of man wanted to smell like poppies? “Is that so?”

“Yes.” He moved forward, letting eagerness come into his eyes. “Several of my classmates have had bronzes cast here. That's my art. I'm a sculptor. I've just transferred to the Institute.”

“Aren't you a little old to be a student?”

He worked up a flush. “I've only recently been able to afford to pursue . . . Financially, you see.” He looked miserable, embarrassed, and touched the clerk's heart.

“Yeah, it's rough. You got something you want cast?”

“I didn't bring the model, just sketches. I want to be sure it's forged just exactly to my specifications.” As if gaining confidence, he briskly opened the portfolio. “One of the other students told me about a small bronze that was done here—but he couldn't remember who'd done the casting. This is a sketch of the piece. It's David.”

“Like in Goliath, right?” She tilted her head, turning the sketch around. “This is really good. Did you draw it?”

“Yes.” He beamed at her. “I was hoping to find out who did the casting on this so I could make arrangements for him to do my work. It was about three years ago, though, according to my friend.”

“Three years?” She pursed her lips. “That's going back a ways.”

“I know.” He tried the puppy look again. “It's vitally important to me to find out. My friend said that the piece was beautifully done. The bronze was perfect—and whoever did the foundry work used a Renaissance formula, really knew his craft. The sculpture was like museum quality.”

He took out another sketch, showed her
The Dark Lady.
“I've worked desperately hard on this piece. It's taken all my energies. Almost my life, if you can understand.” His eyes began to shine as she studied it.

“She's great. Really great. You oughta be selling these drawings, kid. Seriously.”

“I make a little money doing portraits,” he mumbled. “It's not what I want to do. It's just to eat.”

“I bet you're going to be a big success.”

“Thanks.” Delighted with her, he let tears swim into his eyes. “It's been such a long haul already, so many disappointments. There are times you could just give up, just surrender, but somehow . . .”

He held up a hand as if overcome. Sympathetically, she popped a tissue out of a box and handed it to him.

“Thank you. I'm so sorry.” He dabbed delicately under his tinted lenses. “But I know I can do this. I have to do this. And for this bronze, I need the best you've got. I've saved enough money to pay whatever you charge, extra if I have to.”

“Don't worry about extra.” She patted his hand, then turned to her computer terminal. “Three years back. Let's see what we can find out. Odds are it was Whitesmith. He gets a lot of the work from students.”

She began to click and clack with inch-long red nails, and shot him a wink. “Let's see if we can get you an A.”

“I appreciate this so much. When I was driving up here, I just knew this was going to be a special day for me. By the way, I just love your nails. That color is fabulous against your skin.”

It took less than ten minutes.

“I bet this is the one. Pete Whitesmith, just like I figured. He's top of the line around here, and most anywhere else if you ask me. Did a job for this kid—I remember this kid. Harrison Mathers. He was pretty good too. Not as good as you,” she added, sending Ryan a maternal smile.

“Did he get a lot of work done here? Harrison, I mean.”

“Yeah, several pieces. Always hung around over Pete's shoulder. Nervous kid. Here it shows a small bronze nude of David with sling. That's the one.”

“That's great. Amazing. Whitesmith. He still works here?”

“Sure, he's a cornerstone. You go on over to the foundry. Tell Pete Babs said to treat you right.”

“I don't know how to thank you.”

“How much would you charge to do a drawing of my kids?”

“For you, absolutely free.” He shined a smile at her.

 

“Sure I remember it.” Whitesmith mopped at his face under the bill of a stained blue cap. He had a face that should have been carved in granite, all blocky square and deep grooves. He was built like a bullet, broad at the base,
narrow at the shoulders. His voice rose over the roar of furnaces, the hard clangs of metal.

“This was the piece?”

Whitesmith stared at the sketch Ryan showed him. “Yep. Harry was mighty particular about this one. Had the formula for the bronze written out—wanted me to add some lead so it'd cure faster, but otherwise it was an old formula. I'm coming up on break, let's take this outside.”

Grateful, Ryan followed him out of the heat and noise.

“I've been casting for twenty-five years,” Whitesmith said, lighting his break Camel and blowing the smoke into the lightly chilled air. “I gotta say, that piece was a little gem. Ayah. One of my favorites.”

“You did others for him too?”

“Harry, sure. Four, maybe five in a couple-year period. This was the best of the lot, though. Knew we had something special when he brought in the mold and wax copy. Now that I think on it . . .” And he did, taking a long deep drag, blowing it out. “That was the last piece I did for him.”

“Was it?”

“Ayah. I don't recollect seeing young Harry after that. Students at the Institute . . .” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “They come and they go.”

“Did he work with anybody else?”

“No, far as I know, I did all Harry's casting. He was interested in the process. Not all the students give a hot damn about this end of it. Just what they think of as art.” He sneered a little. “Lemme tell you, pal, what I do is goddamn art. A good foundryman is an artist.”

“I couldn't agree more. That's why I was so desperate to find you—the artist who worked on this wonderful little
David.
”

“Yeah, well.” Obviously pleased, Whitesmith sucked in smoke. “Some of those artist types are snots, pure and simple sons of bitches. Figure a guy like me's just a tool. I gotta be an artist and a scientist. You get a prize winning sculpture outta here, you got me to thank for it. Most don't bother, though.”

“I knew a foundryman in Toledo.” Ryan sighed lustily. “I considered him a god. I hope Harrison was properly appreciative of your work.”

“He was okay.”

“I guess he used a flexible mold for the
David.
”

“Yeah, silicon. You gotta be careful there.” Whitesmith jabbed with his cigarette for emphasis, then nipped it between his thumb and forefingers and flicked it away in a long, high arch. “You can get distortions, shrinkage. But the kid knew his stuff. He went with the lost-wax method for the model. Me, I can work with all of them, wax, sand, plaster investment. Do the finishing and tool work if the client wants. And I stick with my work, all the way. Don't like being rushed, either.”

“Oh, did Harry rush you?”

“On that last piece he was a pain in the ass sideways.” Whitesmith snorted through his nose. “You'da thought he was Leonardo da fucking Vinci on deadline.” Then he shrugged. “Kid was okay. Had talent.”

Though it was a long shot, Ryan took out the sketch of
The Dark Lady.
“What do you think of her?”

Whitesmith pursed his lips. “Well now, that's a sexy broad. Wouldn't mind casting her. What are you using for her?”

A little knowledge, Ryan thought, could be a dangerous thing. Or it could be just enough. “Wax with a plaster investment.”

“Good. We can work fine with that. Fire the plaster right here too. You don't want air bubbles in that wax, ace.”

“No indeed.” Ryan slipped the sketch away again. The man was too solid, he thought, too cooperative to be involved. “So did Harry ever come around with anyone?”

“Not that I recollect.” Whitesmith's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Oh, I just wondered if the friend who told me about the piece, and you, ever came by with him. He spoke so highly of your work.”

“Ayah, and who'd that be?”

“James Crispin,” Ryan improvised. “He's a painter, so
he wouldn't have come around unless he was hanging with Harry. I've researched the formula,” he added. “If I bring it in along with the wax cast and mold, you'll do the work?”

“That's what we're here for.”

“I appreciate it.” Ryan held out a hand. “And I'll be in touch.”

“I like the look of your lady there,” Whitesmith added, with a nod toward Ryan's portfolio as he turned back to the foundry door. “Don't get the chance to work on anything that classy often. I'll treat her right.”

“Thanks.” Whistling lightly, Ryan walked back toward the car. He was congratulating himself on an easy and successful morning's work when another car pulled into the lot.

Cook got out, stretched his back, gave Ryan a mild stare.

“Morning.”

Ryan nodded, adjusted his pretty rose-colored glasses and slid behind the wheel of his rented car while Cook walked to the offices.

Close, very close, Ryan thought. But there'd been no flicker of recognition in those cop eyes. For now, he was still one short step ahead.

 

Once he was back in the house by the cliffs, he removed the moustache, took off the wig, gratefully blinked out the contacts. The precaution had been necessary after all, he thought as he happily removed the ridiculous shirt.

Apparently Cook had forgery on the brain.

That was fine. When the job was over, having Cook's investigation slanted toward most of the truth would be an advantage.

Now it was only mildly unnerving.

He removed the makeup from his face, throat, and hands, brewed a pot of coffee, and settled down to work.

There were eight students who'd used the foundry in those critical two weeks. He'd already eliminated three off the top, as their projects had been too large.

Now thanks to good old Babs and Pete, he had the one
he wanted. It didn't take much time to go back into the records he'd already accessed from the Institute. And there he found Harry's class during that final semester. Renaissance Bronzes, The Human Form.