Seth just looked at him.
“One,” Logan continued, “said collector’s trying to protect his collection... so, he has it hidden away, somewhere.”
“And hangs duplicates in their place,” Seth finished.
“Yes — like a wealthy woman with a fantastic assortment of jewelry, who wears paste versions when she’s out on the town.”
“You think that’s what Sterling did?”
“Frankly, no.”
Seth frowned, but more in thought than anger, or even frustration. “Why not?”
Logan shrugged. “Our friend Jared has spent way more money for forgeries of this quality than he would have to, to just put something on the wall to fool his friends. These weren’t meant as decoys, protection against home invasion; they were meant to fool everybody, even Pepe.”
“Your pal Pepe spotted them easily enough.”
“No — not easily... he had to use all the tools of his trade, exert all of his professional skills. Ask him if he would have known these were forgeries, had he just been looking at them hanging on a museum wall... and I think he’ll say they would have fooled even him.”
“But, then... what the hell is the point of the fakes?”
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I think Sterling was passing these off as the originals... when in fact, the originals have been sold overseas.”
“Why would he do that?” Seth asked, pausing in his pacing. “Doesn’t he have enough money already?”
“People like Sterling never have enough money. They’re always looking for more.”
“Oh, but you have money,” Seth said sarcastically, “and you would never think to scam me out of—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Logan interrupted curtly. Then, wryly, he added, “But Sterling’s kind?... If you feel his hand in your pocket, he’s not making a pass.”
Seth stared at Logan, any accusation long gone. “You sound like you know something about the species.”
“I do.” Logan sighed. “Seen it up close and personal.”
This seemed to interest Seth, who asked, “Where?” and returned to his stool.
“Long time ago,” Logan said. “’nother life.”
Logan didn’t want to get into an extended biography of himself and his family. Ever since his parents had died, he’d been trying to put that part of his life behind him; and he definitely didn’t want to get into this discussion with Seth, a borderline sociopath who had no point of reference regarding parents, anyway.
Henderson cleared his throat by way of announcing his presence, as he strolled wearily into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee, and pulled up a stool next to Logan.
“They’re all fakes, aren’t they?” Seth asked, his voice so subdued Logan wondered if the kid might not cry.
The art expert nodded. “Sorry, son — please don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Shit,” Seth said. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Henderson sipped his coffee, sighed, and said, “If it’s any consolation, these are, without a doubt, the finest forgeries I’ve ever come across.”
“Really?” Logan asked, interested.
“Oh yeah — canvas is the right age, paint is old, properly crazed...”
“What’s crazy about them?” Seth asked.
“Crazed — cracked,” Henderson explained. “I have no idea how anybody could pull off something so... sophisticated.”
Logan shifted on the stool, studying Henderson the way the art expert looked at a painting. “How did you know they were fakes then, Pepe?”
Henderson’s eyes opened wide, and he smirked. “I didn’t — it was the UVIN that figured it out.”
“You put my paintings in an oven?” Seth asked, frowning.
The expert shook his head, saying, “Ultra-Violet Imaging Network... measures a bunch of stuff, using UV rays.”
Logan nodded. “And what did the UVIN tell you?”
“That despite the fact that the paint looks old and cracked, the chemical makeup is about four years old.” Gesturing with his coffee cup, Henderson said, “Take the Sargent painting, for example — Alpine Pool.”
“What about it?” Seth asked.
“Well, the real one was painted around nineteen-oh-seven.”
Hand to his forehead, as if testing for a fever, Seth stared into nowhere. “Goddamn it. I shoulda known. What a chump I am...”
“Hardly,” the expert said. “If I’d seen these paintings in any respectable museum or private collection, it would never have occurred to me they might be fakes.”
Seth and Logan traded looks — Henderson had just confirmed what Logan had told the boy earlier.
Henderson was saying, “Remington died in nineteen-oh-nine, Russell in nineteen-twenty-six, Wyeth died in nineteen forty-five, Pollock in ’fifty-six, and Rockwell in ’seventy-eight... Yet these canvases were all painted in the last three to five years.”
Seth seemed to fold in on himself a little, hunkering over the counter; he looked as if he might be sick.
Henderson finished and set his cup on the counter. “Sorry I didn’t have better news, gentlemen — it would have been a kick to be in the same room with the real paintings.” The expert climbed off the stool and tipped an imaginary hat to his host. “I’ll get my stuff together.”
Now the X5 and the cyberjournalist were again alone in the kitchen. They could hear Henderson rustling around in the living room, so Logan kept his voice low: “Seth, those paintings were a bonus — they weren’t what we went in for. You got what we went in for...”
Seth looked up, his eyes dull, lifeless. “Huh?”
“The computer disc — remember?”
The X5 said nothing.
Logan smiled tightly, and tried to keep it upbeat: “You stole the paintings as a distraction — so that Sterling would think the only reason for your break-in was to steal art. He probably has no idea that we have that computer disc.”
Nodding, though rather listlessly, Seth managed, “Probably not.”
“And,” Logan said, “if I can break that code, we might learn something that will help us bring him — and Kafelnikov — down.”
“Like what?”
Logan shrugged. “Could be anything on that disc — financial records, a tally of where the original paintings have gone, who knows?... Maybe even the link to Lydecker and Manticore.”
Out in the living room, Henderson called, “I’m ready to take off, Logan,” and Logan raised a hold-that-thought finger to Seth, then met the art expert at the door.
He shook hands with Henderson, saying, “I’ll give you a call later.”
Henderson, very softly, said, “You okay, alone with that kid?”
“Fine.”
“I don’t know, Loge... seems kinda dangerous to me.”
“That’s because he is.”
Henderson rolled his eyes and hauled himself and the small black carrying case out of there.
When Logan returned, he said, “You’ll be glad to learn all the paintings are still in the living room.”
“Great. And what are a buncha freakin’ forgeries worth?”
Logan stood next to the seated boy. “That’s what I’m trying to explain, Seth — in terms of what we’re trying to accomplish, a hell of a lot.”
“Does it help me get rich?”
Logan shrugged. “Probably not. But you will have helped to stop Kafelnikov, and possibly Sterling, who is looking pretty damn dirty now.”
None of this seemed to console Seth.
“Look,” the X5 said, “my life comes down to this... Current scenario: I’m on the run, hiding my ass, needing money all the time to do that. Worst-case scenario: Lydecker and Manticore catch up with me... and, since there’s no way in hell I’m goin’ back to Manticore alive, they kill me. Best-case scenario: I get enough money to disappear, I mean really disappear... only then can I stop lookin’ over my goddamn shoulder. These paintings coulda been my ticket.”