The Perfect Fake Page 8

  She held up her hands. “Okay, maybe I have no right butting in, but you’re my father, and I love you. I don’t like to see you taken advantage of. If anybody says I’m sniffing around for your money, they’re wrong. Totally wrong. I have enough for myself, and I’m going to be a success at my career. What I want is...I want to help you. In your business. Or whatever you want me to do. I’m a good lawyer. I really am. But if you’d rather keep your family and business separate, I understand.”

  “No, no. We can find some work for you.”

  “Not unless you really need me. No charity. I mean it.”

  “You have a deal.”

  She returned his smile. “I’ll even give you a discount.”

  “No need for that.”

  Allison tucked the folder under her arm. “How much— No, don’t tell me. I just hope Tom Fairchild didn’t overcharge you.”

  As they crossed the reception room, Stuart said, “Where do you want to go for dinner? I didn’t think to make reservations.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Sunday night’s not too crowded. You like French. We could go to Les Halles. I can call on the way. I have the number in my BlackBerry.”

  “Perfect.” He opened the front door. “After you.”

  In the hall she kept up with his long strides. “May I ask you something? What did Tom Fairchild mean, ‘I’ll be in touch’?”

  “Well, I thought he could take a look at the Corelli map and give me an estimate on restoring it.”

  “Oh, Dad. That map is beyond restoring. Did you tell the man you sold it to what happened?”

  “No.” Stuart’s voice was near the level of a whisper. “If you should happen to see Tom Fairchild again, please do not mention the map. Very important. All right?”

  “All right, but ...why don’t you send it to New York? There are scads of restoration experts in the city. They might not be able to put it back exactly the way it was, but at least they’ll give you an honest opinion.”

  “I’ve already asked Tom to do it.” Her father pressed the elevator button. “I’m sure he’ll give me his best judgment.”

  When the doors had opened, and closed, and they were alone in the elevator with the music playing softly in the background, Allison said, “I have some news. Judge Herron’s son called me this afternoon. Not only are two of your maps missing, at least a dozen of his maps are gone, all the cash his father kept at home, and some of his mother’s jewelry.”

  “Damned bad luck all around,” said Stuart.

  Allison went on, “I had a background check done on Tom Fairchild. Jenny Gray—you remember—is a client of mine. She told me that Tom showed up at Judge Herron’s house the day of the murder to deliver a map. Tom is a friend of Jenny’s. It’s possible that Jenny—and I’m sure she didn’t realize what she was doing—might have told somebody—like Tom Fairchild—about Judge Herron’s maps, and somebody broke into his house to steal them.”

  Stuart’s brows lifted. “What are you trying to tell me? That Tom Fairchild is a murderer?”

  “What I’m saying is that you shouldn’t bet on his being so trustworthy. He has a criminal record. He’s on probation for burglary and grand theft.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “It’s irrelevant. I’m sorry you disapprove, but I am in a bit of a bind.” Stuart’s voice had iced over. “End of discussion.”

  She faced forward and saw the image of her own astonished face. She closed her eyes. “You know, I think I’ll just go home.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to have dinner with me. We planned this, and you forgot. You didn’t even make reservations.”

  Stuart was watching the floor numbers counting down on the digital display. “Aren’t you a little old to be having temper tantrums?”

  The elevator opened at the lobby, an expanse of polished marble, glass walls, and indoor palm trees.

  “We’ll just do this some other time,” she said.

  He lifted his hands, giving up. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you for the map.”

  “Certainly.”

  Allison walked ahead of him across the lobby, not looking back, the tap of her heels echoing in the empty lobby. She took the fur collar from around her neck. She was burning. All she wanted was a drink.

  Chapter 8

  Tom went by The Compass Rose to drop off Stuart Barlowe’s check and the keys to the van. Interior stairs led from the workroom to the second-floor

  apartment. He found his sister at the sink washing the dishes from dinner. Tom slid the check under a refrigerator magnet. “He stiffed us for the sales tax.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Rose dried her hands on a dish towel. “I can’t believe you got that much. We did all right this year. Not great, but okay. Have you eaten? I have some spaghetti left.”

  “No, I picked up a sub.” Popping the top on a soda, Tom walked down the short hall to the living room and saw the twins sitting at the coffee table doing their homework. At their age, he had calluses on his thumbs from playing video games. “Hey, ladies.”

  “Hi, Tom.” They sent him a smile and went back to their books.

  The living room had once been the upstairs master bedroom, when his grandparents had been alive. Even then, it hadn’t been much of a house, with creaking wood floors and plumbing that groaned when you turned a tap. Rose had started renovations, but that ended when the money ran out.

  In the kitchen, he hung his jacket on the back of a chair. Rose said, “Bob Herron was here earlier.”

  “Who?”

  “Royce’s son. He brought me a gorgeous Civil War map of Florida. He said Royce would have wanted me to have it.” Rose opened a cabinet and put away the plates. “He says that a lot of the maps were stolen. The police are going to make up a list so all the dealers can be on the lookout. The person who broke in got some pieces of his mother’s jewelry, too, and the cash Royce kept in the bedroom closet.”

  Tom said. “Rose, you need to get a dog with big teeth.”

  “I have an alarm. Royce left his back door unlocked. Poor Royce. At least he didn’t suffer. That’s what the detective told Bob. The funeral is on Tuesday.”

  “I hate funerals,” Tom said.

  “You have to go.” Rose shook her head. “Oh, God, I can’t think about it.” She crossed to the table. “Look what else he brought.” She took a framed photograph out of a mailing envelope. “He found it on Royce’s desk. See if you recognize anyone.”

  Tom set down his soda. The black-and-white, eightby-ten group photo had to be at least forty years old, to judge from the outdated clothing. “Hey, that’s Granddad.”

  “It was taken at a map fair in Toronto he went to with Royce. Look who else is there, if you want a chuckle. There’s a list on the back.”

  Among the men in their dark suits and narrow ties, smiles frozen by the flashbulb, stood a woman and two teenage boys, obviously brothers. They shared the same high forehead and short, straight eyebrows. Tom turned the frame over and read the list. William Fairchild, Royce Herron. Half a dozen VIPs from the Royal Ontario Museum. The premier. Frederick Barlowe. Margaret Barlowe. Sons Nigel and Stuart, but someone had reversed their names. Nigel had a big smile and a cowlick. Stuart looked older, more serious, with hair angling over his forehead and incipient shadows under his eyes.

  “It’s Stuart Barlowe. What a geek.”

  “Be nice.” Rose returned the frame to the envelope. “I remember this photograph. Royce had so many hanging on his wall. He showed me. ‘Look, there’s your granddad and me.’ I’ll save it for the girls.”

  Tom finished his soda while Rose wiped the counters. She wore her usual attire—shorts and a baggy T-shirt. After Eddie had moved out, she’d put on ten pounds and stopped frosting her hair. When Tom had mentioned it, she’d asked why she should bother.

  “Speaking of Barlowe,” Tom said, “he asked me if you’d like to sell some of his maps here at the shop. He inherited a
bunch from his father, and I guess he wants to clear out his closets.”

  Rose’s ponytail swung as she looked over her shoulder. “He wants me to sell his maps?”

  “Why not you?”

  She snorted. “I never see him in here. I don’t even think he likes maps.”

  “Barlowe? Sure he does.”

  “You think so? He’s not a real collector. He has no passion for it. There’s no theme to his collection. Royce sold him a Tommaso Porcacchi atlas in very fine condition, and he cut all the maps out for Christmas presents.” She shrugged. “But if he wants to put some maps in the shop, I’ll be happy to earn a commission.”

  “Rose, do you know anything about Gaetano Corelli? Venetian, late fifteenth century, early sixteenth.”

  “I’ve heard of him, sure.”

  “Say you had a world map by Corelli in decent condition. What would it be worth?”

  “Didn’t Corelli do sea charts?”

  “He did, but he also put together an atlas—his only atlas.”

  “I seem to remember something about that.” Rose joined Tom at the table. “I’d have to look this up, but I think around the nineteen fifties or sixties, the maps in the Corelli atlas were removed from the binding. You see, Stuart Barlowe isn’t the only Philistine in the map world. Who owned the atlas, I have no idea, but you’d see the maps listed for sale, and then they just dried up. You can buy scads of Corelli sea charts, but I haven’t seen a land map in years. When that happens, it usually means one of two things. Either they have completely fallen out of favor, or somebody cares enough to buy all of them. So to answer your question, I don’t know what his world map would cost.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Thirty thousand?”

  “Is that all?”

  “It’s a guess. Why are you asking?”

  “Barlowe owns it.”

  “Does he?”

  “He bought it in New Mexico for ten thousand dollars. The map included Florida and the Caribbean, so he was going to let Royce show it at the map fair. When Royce was shot, he was holding it, and the blood—” Tom hesitated. “Anyway, the map was totaled.” As he watched the surprise turn to dismay on his sister’s face, Tom said, “Stuart Barlowe told me it was one of his favorite maps. He said he’d pay me six thousand dollars to reproduce it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He wants an exact copy. I mean exact, right down to the antique paper. Where do I find some? You don’t keep any five-hundred-year-old paper around the shop, do you, sis?”

  Her mouth hung open for a second before she said, “Stuart Barlowe wants you to forge a map?”

  “It isn’t a forgery.”

  “What would you call it, then?”

  “Replacement. Barlowe wants me to replace his map.”

  “What is he going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Keep it in a drawer. Use it for darts practice. I don’t care what he does with it.”

  “That’s the problem. Right there.”

  “What problem?”

  “Yours. That you don’t care. What if he wants to sell it someday? What happens then? Tom, you can’t put a phony map into circulation. What are you thinking?”

  “It wouldn’t happen. There’s no way this map will be on the market. Ever. Barlowe wants perfect, and he can’t have perfect. But say I make a good effort. He’d pay me an advance of three grand, nonrefundable. That’s half what I owe in restitution. It would keep the Weasel off my back for a year.” Tom looked into her eyes, the same green as his own. “What?”

  She put her chin on her fist and stared across the kitchen.

  “Oh, Jesus.” He got up and tossed his soda can into the trash under the sink. “I am not Eddie Ferraro. I am nothing like Eddie.” Tom laughed. “If I were, the map would be so convincing I could collect the entire six thousand.”

  Rose glanced toward the living room and kept her voice low. “Eddie thought he could do things the easy way, too, and he got slammed for it. There is no easy way, Tom. You have to put one foot in front of the other, day after day, no matter what obstacles life throws in your path. If you haven’t figured that out yet, then you’re going to end up like Eddie. Or worse.”

  “You mean living in an Italian village, making my own wine?”

  “I’m talking about your integrity! You’re going to take money from Stuart Barlowe to do a map that you just sat there and told me you couldn’t do well enough to be paid the entire amount for.”

  “You don’t even like Stuart Barlowe,” Tom said.

  “That isn’t the point! Would you do that to me? Take money you knew you didn’t earn?”

  “No, you’re my sister.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes pierced him.

  Tom leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. “I need the money, Rose. I’m tired of asking you for help. I’m a graphic artist, but nobody will hire me; not openly. My customers don’t tell their clients who’s really doing the work. Barlowe saw the Ortelius map I did for the shop, and he was impressed. It was damned good. He wants me to do a map. It’s a job. Do I care what he does with it? No. That’s his problem. Not mine. His.”

  She looked at him a while longer, then shrugged. “Fine. If that’s your choice.”

  “You know, Rose, contrary to what you and everybody else seems to think, I am not destined to be a total fuckup.”

  “I never said that!” She pressed her lips together. “I just— I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “What are you really worried about? Me or the reputation of The Compass Rose?”

  “For God’s sake, stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You have problems. Guess what? So does everyone else. Life isn’t a piece of cake for me, either.”

  Tom blew out a breath, then reached for his jacket. “I should be going. I’ve got some work to finish tonight.”

  “Tom?” Rose’s voice stopped him at the door. She said, “I could use your help with some framing this week. We sold some maps. We did all right.”

  “Yes, we did.” He smiled back at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Feet skimming over the ground, Tom maneuvered his motorcycle up the cracked driveway of his landlord’s house. The headlamp swung across a ’58 Mercedes diesel sedan, a row of tomato plants in wire cones, and Tom’s sailboat, which rested on blocks. He pulled inside the garage, hung his helmet on the handlebars, and retrieved his roast beef sub from the saddlebag. As he pulled down the heavy wood door, he noticed that Fritz had company on the back patio. Smoke from the grill drifted through the strings of small white lights swagged from the eaves, to the oak trees, and back again.

  Tom walked over to see who was there. He recognized the gay couple who lived down the street, the trauma nurse from next door, and some folks from Fritz’s AA group, the only ones who seemed to be sober. Fritz’s girlfriend, Moon, looked up from changing a CD in the player on the back steps, and told Tom to help himself to some hot apple cider. She was a big woman about fifty with frizzy black hair, a long denim skirt, and a handknit red sweater too small for her chest.

  The CD came on—the warbling lament of Portuguese fado.

  Tom asked, “Is Fritz around?”

  “He’s inside getting the burgers,” Moon told him. “Eat with us. There’s plenty.”

  “No, thanks, I’m okay.” Tom noticed a woman at the end of the picnic table with her head down on her skinny arms, sobbing. He couldn’t tell who it was, with the pale blond hair over her face. One of the neighbors was patting her shoulder and making cooing noises.

  “Who’s that?” Tom asked quietly.

  “Martha. She’s smashed.”

  He nodded. Martha Framm had been a friend of Royce Herron’s. Tom didn’t know Martha well, but she had said that when his sailboat was ready for launch, she would send her lift truck over. She owned a marina at the end of the street and often showed up at Fritz’s with a bottle of red wine to complain bitterly about development along the Miami River. The old bu
ngalows and little Spanish-style apartment buildings were being bought up and demolished. The entire neighborhood had a big bull’s-eye on it. Fritz had been offered half a million dollars for his place and had told the developer where to stick it. If he ever changed his mind, Tom would have to move.

  The screen door banged shut. Fritz lumbered down the steps in rubber thong sandals, carrying a tray stacked with hamburger patties. His belly hung over his shorts, and his sweatshirt had a picture of Jesus Christ as a Rastafarian. Fritz himself had no hair at all on his head except for eyebrows like ledges and a white mustache whose tips hung below his double chin.

  “Hey, buddy. Got an extra burger if you want one.”

  “Thanks, but I picked up a sub.” Tom followed Fritz to the grill. A concrete block supported the corner where a leg had rusted off, and a flood lamp on a pole made a circle of light. Tom said, “Somebody ought to take Martha home.”

  “She’s better off here. Between Royce Herron and the city commission, she might try to drown herself. Oh, you’ve been busy all weekend. They voted on Friday to approve The Metropolis. No big surprise.” Fritz tossed the patties onto the grill. “Martha thinks the judge was taken out by the same lowlifes who bribed the zoning board.”

  “Where’d she get that idea? He was shot by map thieves. That’s what the police say.” Tom shifted to avoid the smoke.

  “Who knows? Martha told Moon and me that the former head of zoning quit because he’d been blackmailed. Somebody set him up with a prostitute and took pictures. Even for Miami, that’s pushing the envelope, but I could believe it. There’s a lot of money involved in this thing. Retail shops, restaurants, bars, offices. Plus four hundred and thirty-four residential units starting at seven hundred thousand dollars per unit. Top floor will set you back three-point-five mil.”

  “Okay, but what did Royce Herron have to do with it?”

  “He opposed it.” Fritz poked at the burgers with a long metal spatula. “Martha says Judge Herron was going to put some pressure on one of the major investors. A friend of yours in the map business, or maybe not a friend. Stuart Barlowe.” Fritz raised his brows in Tom’s direction.