Long Gone. Alafair Burke

he’s a recluse.”

      “Salinger went into hiding because he couldn’t stand the public attention anymore. Does your guy realize no one’s even heard of him?”

      “First of all, he’s so not my guy. And yes, of course he realizes this, but he thinks being a supersecret man of mystery will give him an allure. Drew tried to persuade him otherwise, but he says the only appearances that matter are the images he chooses to reveal in film.”

      “But you’ll meet him at his show?”

      “Nope. He’s not coming.”

      “That’s … well, that’s ridiculous. How does he expect to sell anything?”

      “That’s where we get to the mainstreaming part. How much do you think a Hans Schuler will run you?”

      “Clueless on that, as you well know.”

      “Guess.”

      They’d had countless discussions about the randomness of art prices. Art was worth whatever a buyer was willing to pay in an arm’s-length transaction on the open market. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how many photographs he’s printing and signing. Assuming he runs a series of—what, a couple hundred?—I’d guess you’re charging at least a few thousand dollars.”

      “Seven hundred bucks.”

      “Dudes in Union Square Park charge more than that.”

      “That’s why he says he’s mainstreaming radicalism. He’s making high-concept art available to any and all. And there’s no limited print run. Take a look at that lower right-hand corner there.”

      Jeff did a half-raise forward to get a closer look. “What a cheese-ball.”

      Instead of marking each piece 1/some number to indicate where a particular print fell in a limited numbered series, Schuler had penciled “1/8” onto every photograph to indicate an infinite run. According to him, there was no need to restrict art’s supply to make it precious. The very advantage of photography as a medium, he pontificated in the artist’s notes that accompanied the prints, was the ability to produce identical replications. By lowering the price, he would make his work accessible to more people, making him more influential than any artist who sold only a handful of pieces, no matter the price.

      Alice suspected that Schuler himself didn’t believe a word of his trite puffery. The plain fact was that Schuler’s plan, if successful, would pocket him far more cash than a traditional showing for an unknown artist could possibly hope to yield.

      She walked to the low white desk at the front of the gallery, removed an item from the top drawer of the steel side-return, and tossed it in Jeff’s direction.

      “Nice catch.”

      He inspected the tiny thumb drive. “Self,” he said, reading the simple personalization aloud. “So what is it?”

      “Yet another piece of Schuler’s gimmick. Every buyer gets one of these stupid thumb drives. Everything you could possibly want to know about Schuler is then uploaded to the buyer’s computer.”

      She unplugged the gallery’s own computer, a slim Mac laptop, and resumed her seat next to Jeff. “I guess if customers want to know more about him, I’ll just refer them to the thumb drive and his Web site.” She pulled up a familiar bookmark.

      Jeff moved closer to get a look. They’d known each other so long that his knee against hers, his arm around her shoulder—they weren’t signs of passion or romance, but a level of familiarity and physical intimacy that remained between them regardless of where they were in their on-and-off experimentations with coupledom. “Not much of a site if that’s going to be his only venue.”

      The home page was a stark black screen with Schuler’s name in white block letters, along with three links: New Work, Galleries, and Bio. She clicked on each link so Jeff could get the idea. The New Work page featured thumbnails of the photographs now surrounding them in larger proportions. The Galleries page referred to the Highline Gallery, with a promise of “additional venues to be announced.” The bio, supposedly a short version, listed training at an art school in Germany, some group exhibitions around Europe, and even a few grants.

      “Someone gave him money to support this garbage?”

      Maybe Jeff did have some skeptical bones in his body.

      “Oh, who knows? Those grants could all be coming from our mutual benefactor, for all I care.” She gently clicked the laptop shut.

      There was a moment when neither of them filled the silence of the empty space. When his knee was still against hers. The arm still around the shoulder. Eye contact.

      “Look, I know you’ll be fine, but just be careful not to make any affirmative representations to your customers about his background. Limit your talk to his work. If anyone wants to know his credentials, steer them back to the art itself.”

      “Well, for a seven-hundred-dollar photograph, I doubt I’ll be getting the third degree about his bona fides.”

      “I just don’t want to see you get sued for fraud.”

      “Got it, counselor.”

      The moment between them had passed. She slipped the thumb drive into her jeans pocket. Retrieved their coats from the back-room. Tucked the tiny laptop into her gigantic purse. Took in the majesty of this space—her space, sort of—one last time before flicking each of a long row of light switches like dominoes, rendering the cavernous room dark but for the hints of street light fading through the front glass.

      Jeff held the door open for her. “You’re lugging that laptop around with you?”

      “It’s a hundred times faster than my dinosaur. A perk of the job.”

      “You’re excited, aren’t you?”

      “Of course.” She managed her tone of voice as if the gallery opening were no big deal, but inside she felt the same way she had as a child, clicking her knees together in the dressing room as her mother instructed her to sit still for the nice makeup lady. Something big was about to happen. And she’d be at the center of it.

      CHAPTER NINE

      Thanks to the radio station’s Two-for-Tuesday playlist, Hank lost track of time tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of “Satisfaction,” followed by “Shattered.” Sha-doo-be. Shattered, shattered.

      He was pulled back into reality as the DJ with the corny voice introduced a block of Steve Miller Band. All he needed was to have “Abracadabra”—the worst song in history, by his ear—stuck in his head for the rest of the day. He switched off the radio, looking up for a double take at the redhead cruising up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. She wore those oversize Jackie O shades women went for these days, the heavy collar on a peacock blue coat flipped up around her face. Sky-high black stiletto pumps, the kind that look French and expensive. She might be a real bow-wow beneath it all, but she was rocking a look all right. Classy but with a little edge.

      He looked at his watch. Crap. He’d been parked here for over twenty minutes, waiting with his camera for something worth photographing. Stupid. He could be spotted. Or someone downtown might wonder why he had so much solo fieldwork this week. Or, thanks to his little gas stops, Tommy in the garage might eventually notice that Hank was getting some damn good mileage out of the Crown Vics.

      Hank had told himself four days earlier that the afternoon drive to Newark was a onetime deal, a harmless peek to make sure he could find the man if necessary, just in case. But this was his fourth detour in as many days. During yesterday morning’s drive, he’d sworn it would be the final drop-in. And Hank really believed he had meant it. But then he saw the car. A BMW. As in Big Money Wagon. Granted, it was a 3-series, not one of the super-high-end ones. Still, it was a better ride than this scumbag should be sporting.

      He’d seen the guy—he didn’t like to use his name, not even mentally—walk