been a meticulous artist, paying extraordinary attention to details until the people in his paintings looked so real, they could have walked off the canvas.
She saw that quality now. She saw it in the finely crafted Aztec jewelry spread out on the colorful blankets, in the merchants’ faces as they sat in the shade of the arcades and in the sun-baked roughness of the unpaved village square.
Conflicted and uncertain, she let her fingertips trail over the painting. How could such exquisite work be the product of a forger?
Thirteen
F rom as far as Matt could remember, Pat’s Pub, on the corner of Main and East Mechanic Streets, had always enjoyed a busy clientele, especially after five, when local contractors and factory workers stopped by to unwind.
Eddie O’Hara, now forty-one, had taken over for his father more than a decade ago. Like Pat, he knew how to keep his customers happy while making sure that friendly discussions didn’t get out of hand. He and Matt had played ball together as kids. Both had shown great promise, but Eddie was the one whose pitching arm had caught the attention of the pros.
Six months before graduating from college, he was recruited by the Reading Phillies to be their starting pitcher. He’d had ten great years with the minor league team before an injury had ended his career.
He was behind the bar, serving cold drafts to half a dozen hard hats when Matt walked in. He was almost as tall as Matt and although he no longer ran bases the way he used to, he could still throw a curveball faster than anyone in the county.
“Matt!” He waved him over. “Come over here and let me take a closer look at that ugly mug of yours.”
The two men reached over the bar for a quick hug and a pat on the back. “How’s everything, Eddie?” Matt asked. “How’s your old man?”
“Cranky as ever. He drives my mother crazy, so every now and then she sends him here so he can drive me crazy.” Suddenly serious, he squeezed Matt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Fred. For the record, I think those charges are completely bogus.”
“Thanks, Eddie. That’s good to hear.”
“Hell, the entire town feels that way.” He placed a bottle of ice-cold Heineken in front of Matt. “I hear you’re investigating the case.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Got any leads yet?”
Roaring laughter broke out behind him. Matt turned around to see the Badger brothers, sitting at a table, stealing glances in his direction and having a grand time. “A couple,” he said, moving toward the two men.
Although they were a year apart, Cal and Lou Badger resembled each other enough to pass for twins. Both had shaved heads the shape of bowling balls, bellies that hung over their belts, and arms covered with tattoos. Cal favored topless mermaids while Lou was into snakes and motorcycles. Born and raised in Hunterdon County, their nasty pranks had spread across the county line and kept the authorities on both sides busy. Both now worked for Hawkins Construction, and routinely stopped at Pat’s Pub before going home.
“Hello, boys. Having fun?” Matt asked.
Lou snickered. “Hello, bureau man. Caught any spies lately?”
“Hey, Matt.” Cal’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Let me see you talk to your watch.”
Matt rested his hands on the table and brought his face inches away from Cal’s. “I’m not in the mood to listen to your half-witted jokes, Calvin.” He kept his voice low and flat. “So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut that dumb trap of yours and just listen. You got that?”
“I’m shakin’ in my boots, bureau man.” The words were tough, but Cal sounded a lot less confident than he had a moment ago.
Across the table, Lou shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What do you want with us?”
“I have a few questions about the night Steven Hatfield was killed.”
Cal and Lou exchanged glances. Those two jerks weren’t even smart enough to control
She saw that quality now. She saw it in the finely crafted Aztec jewelry spread out on the colorful blankets, in the merchants’ faces as they sat in the shade of the arcades and in the sun-baked roughness of the unpaved village square.
Conflicted and uncertain, she let her fingertips trail over the painting. How could such exquisite work be the product of a forger?
Thirteen
F rom as far as Matt could remember, Pat’s Pub, on the corner of Main and East Mechanic Streets, had always enjoyed a busy clientele, especially after five, when local contractors and factory workers stopped by to unwind.
Eddie O’Hara, now forty-one, had taken over for his father more than a decade ago. Like Pat, he knew how to keep his customers happy while making sure that friendly discussions didn’t get out of hand. He and Matt had played ball together as kids. Both had shown great promise, but Eddie was the one whose pitching arm had caught the attention of the pros.
Six months before graduating from college, he was recruited by the Reading Phillies to be their starting pitcher. He’d had ten great years with the minor league team before an injury had ended his career.
He was behind the bar, serving cold drafts to half a dozen hard hats when Matt walked in. He was almost as tall as Matt and although he no longer ran bases the way he used to, he could still throw a curveball faster than anyone in the county.
“Matt!” He waved him over. “Come over here and let me take a closer look at that ugly mug of yours.”
The two men reached over the bar for a quick hug and a pat on the back. “How’s everything, Eddie?” Matt asked. “How’s your old man?”
“Cranky as ever. He drives my mother crazy, so every now and then she sends him here so he can drive me crazy.” Suddenly serious, he squeezed Matt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Fred. For the record, I think those charges are completely bogus.”
“Thanks, Eddie. That’s good to hear.”
“Hell, the entire town feels that way.” He placed a bottle of ice-cold Heineken in front of Matt. “I hear you’re investigating the case.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Got any leads yet?”
Roaring laughter broke out behind him. Matt turned around to see the Badger brothers, sitting at a table, stealing glances in his direction and having a grand time. “A couple,” he said, moving toward the two men.
Although they were a year apart, Cal and Lou Badger resembled each other enough to pass for twins. Both had shaved heads the shape of bowling balls, bellies that hung over their belts, and arms covered with tattoos. Cal favored topless mermaids while Lou was into snakes and motorcycles. Born and raised in Hunterdon County, their nasty pranks had spread across the county line and kept the authorities on both sides busy. Both now worked for Hawkins Construction, and routinely stopped at Pat’s Pub before going home.
“Hello, boys. Having fun?” Matt asked.
Lou snickered. “Hello, bureau man. Caught any spies lately?”
“Hey, Matt.” Cal’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Let me see you talk to your watch.”
Matt rested his hands on the table and brought his face inches away from Cal’s. “I’m not in the mood to listen to your half-witted jokes, Calvin.” He kept his voice low and flat. “So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut that dumb trap of yours and just listen. You got that?”
“I’m shakin’ in my boots, bureau man.” The words were tough, but Cal sounded a lot less confident than he had a moment ago.
Across the table, Lou shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What do you want with us?”
“I have a few questions about the night Steven Hatfield was killed.”
Cal and Lou exchanged glances. Those two jerks weren’t even smart enough to control
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