Templar 09 - Secret of the Templars by Paul Christopher Page A

everything. This way, we may get them to panic a little.”
    Lazarus walked down the street to the corner, crossed and walked back up to the facade of Blackthorn and Cole. He went up a short flight of stepsand through the front door. The interior was an only slightly updated version of the original building. A broad set of granite stairs leading up to the mezzanine’s main auction rooms flanked a wrought-iron cage of an old-fashioned elevator. At the reception desk was an attractive woman in a maroon blazer whose name tag read “Julia Anderson.” There was a modern multiline telephone to her right. Lazarus approached her.
    â€œMy name is Peter Lazarus. I have an appointment with Rupert Sheridan.”
    Ms. Anderson picked up the telephone receiver, punched a few buttons and waited.
    â€œMr. Sheridan? I have a Mr. Peter Lazarus in reception for you.” There was a moment’s pause and she hung up. She looked up at Lazarus. “Mr. Sheridan will see you now.” She smiled. “He’s on the fifth floor. Just turn right as you get off the elevator.”
    Lazarus pushed back the scissored door to the old elevator and climbed in. He closed the door and hit the ivory button marked “Five,” then rode up with an almost majestic and equally tedious slowness. When he eventually he reached the fifth floor, he turned right down a broad modern corridor. At the far end on the left there was a small waiting room with a reproduction of Miró’s
The Farm
on one wall. Anotherreceptionist sat behind a small desk; she too wore a maroon blazer.
    â€œMay I help you?”
    â€œMy name’s Lazarus.”
    â€œYou can go right in.”
    Lazarus gave the maroon blazer a nod and went through the doorway leading to the inner office. The room was large, the floor covered with a variety of Persian and Afghan carpets. The desk was some kind of sixties Swedish thing. The man standing behind the desk was a tall, blond, narrow-faced figure with cheeks that were perfectly shaved. He wore bright blue bifocal half frames and an Armani suit. He held out a hand. There was a Harvard “Veritas” ring on his pinky finger. Lazarus shook the extended hand. Mr. Sheridan’s grip was just a little too soft for Lazarus’s taste and he held for just a little too long. Sheridan motioned toward an Eames-style chair in front of his desk. Lazarus sat.
    â€œI’m very pleased to meet you,” said the appraiser. “Might I ask which Rubens you wish to sell?”
    â€œI lied,” said Lazarus with a broad smile. “There is no Rubens.”
    Sheridan looked only slightly startled. “If there is no Rubens, then why are you here?”
    Lazarus reached into the inner pocket of hisjacket. He took out his Interpol ID wallet and flipped it open on Rupert Sheridan’s desk. “What can you tell me about your involvement with Hannah Kruger?”
    â€œWho?” Sheridan asked.
    â€œYou know,” said Lazarus. “The woman who forges Caravaggios and Da Vincis for you.”
    â€œWe haven’t handled a Da Vinci or a Caravaggio at Blackthorn and Cole for a number of years. Real or otherwise.”
    â€œYour pupils just expanded, there’s sweat at your temples, the blood is going out of your lips and your cheeks look like you’re wearing rouge,” said Lazarus.
    â€œPerhaps that’s because I find myself confronted by some sort of schizophrenic. I know of no Hannah Kruger or for that matter anyone else who forges paintings for this firm. Please leave immediately.”
    Lazarus stood, scooped up his ID and gave Sheridan another smile. “I’ll be back.”
    He found Holliday and Hannah Kruger on the third floor of the Whitney contemplating Edward Hopper’s dreamlike
Woman in the Sun
.
    â€œDid you get it?” Holliday asked.
    â€œThe cat’s among the pigeons,” said Lazarus, taking the phone-cloning device they’d used in