“People have killed for far less than artistic ambition,” Thalia said. “Not to mention the money involved.”

Zoe nodded as she began to wander slowly about the room. “He was that committed. Uh-huh.” She stroked the cheek of a third-century Greek marble bust with the back of her index finger, then turned back to face Thalia. “But all he said was, ‘This is your secret and mine, kitten. Right?’ He slipped his hand around my waist and I started to melt again. I nodded. Then from somewhere, somehow I managed to find enough strength, enough presence of mind to step away from him and cut a priceless deal. ‘Agreed,’ I told him. ‘Our secret on one condition: I want you to teach me all your tricks.’ Well, you’d’ve thought I had slapped him. I saw that murderous desperation for another instant and then he agreed.”

Zoe went back to her chair and sat down. “That was it for the great sex. I became a student, a threat, an obligation, and for the rest of the summer his sheets were warmed by the same steady procession of artist groupies that had trekked through his bed before I had come along. I learned then how vain he really was, how he cared for nothing but his art, how I would have been discarded in a few weeks anyway.”

“That must have hurt.”

Zoe shook her head. “Not really. That was when I learned just how committed I was to my end of art. The sex had been good, an eye-opener for me, a coming of age, but none of that really mattered anymore because for the rest of the summer I spent hours and hours learning the most current forgery methods—a lot of which are still unknown to fakebusters.”

“Remarkable,” Thalia said. “Is he still forging the masters? Even now that his own work is selling so well?”

The familiar sound of a metal door slamming somewhere distant in the warehouse filled the brief pause.

“Here he comes,” Thalia said as she hurried to clear away the evidence of their foray into Willi Max’s collection of grand crus. Zoe took the glasses back to the work area and stashed them under a shelf.

“He doesn’t do fakes anymore,” Zoe said. “But the fakes are as responsible for his success as his own talent.”

“How so?”

“Well, first he started painting them for the money, and then for the revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“He targeted the critics who had rejected him—which was most of them. As you know, they’re creatures of fad and fashion rather than of any sort of discretion or good judgment At first, he wanted to destroy them—and he did ruin a couple.”

“How?”

“Well, Von Gleick in Hamburg was one of Erik’s worst critics.”

“Von Gleick,” Thalia interrupted softly. “His reputation was ruined by a forgery case.”

“Not an accident,” Zoe went on. “It just so happens that Von Gleick also spent a lot of time telling the world what an expert he was on Jackson Pollock.”