Neither of them said anything.
Sometimes a summer internship was just undercover practice—three months spent answering to a new name, creating a new self, maybe seducing a target or two. But this was New York City, and I was already blooded.
“Don’t tell me this is a dry run,” I said.
“You don’t always have to be a prodigy,” Arabella said. “We might just need you around to put out fires.”
I didn’t react—was she referring to Halcyon Hall? Maybe the Lindqvists were making noise.
She waved a hand. “I thought you had booze to buy, because Garrett’s ‘pedestrian white wine’ was beneath you.”
I sipped my tea before answering. Aunt Arabella had been blooded six years early, the youngest Morton this century. She was proud of that, but in a prickly and uncertain way. She hadn’t delivered the death blow to Uncle Max, and there were rumors that her first assignments hadn’t gone well.
What if she’d never really killed anyone?
“I’ll stock the bar,” I said. “But I want to know what my assignment is.”
Garrett looked at Arabella. She nodded her assent.
“The gallery isn’t just about money,” he said. “A gallerist must be on intimate terms with the wealthy. We hear their dreams. We sit at their dining tables. We tell them which Van Gogh goes with the couch.”
Arabella sighed. “You’ve never sold a Van Gogh, Garrett.”
“An obvious example, for Jessica’s benefit.”
“I audited Art History 101,” I said.
Arabella looked at me with dismay. “Audited?”
“No, she’s perfect like this,” Garrett said. “Part of the Morton mystique is that we never quite fit in.”
“Tell me the assignment,” I said.
“We’re interested in one of my collectors, but we can’t get his attention. When we push him, he doesn’t wobble.”
I smiled. Faraday had wobbled so easily.
“His weakness is jealousy—a need to dominate and control. He’s an obsessive, and he’s obsessed with the art of Hiromi Kennedy.”
“You want me to seduce his favorite artist? That’s a very Garrett strategy.”
“Favoritelivingartist—he owns three Kandinskys. Your job is to get close to her.”
“But why do we care abouthim?”
“Dr. Lyon is a psychiatrist,” Garrett said. “But he collects art like a billionaire. His clients buy it for him. Millions of dollars’ worth.”
“Why?”
Garrett looked at Arabella, who put down her teacup with a littleclick.
“He doesn’t run a psychiatrist practice,” she said. “It’s more like a cult.”
24
We opened the gallery doors at six.
First through was a gaggle of art students. They came straight to my bar, dressed in all black, in bright colors, in chunky shoes, in skinny ties, in thrift-store clothes. My blue hair felt suddenly unremarkable; my lack of tattoos, unforgivable.
