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opposite him. Modesto looked much the same as the last time they had spoken — when Max wrested control of his office space from the Hull Family and threatened to expose them if anything should ever happen to him. A well-groomed, well-dressed man, Modesto's features had evolved for maximum intimidation. Max sat straight but inside he cringed.
    "What do you want?" he asked.
    Modesto pointed to the art forgery books. "John Myatt is considered by many the greatest art forger of the twentieth century. In the '90s, he was convicted for passing off his own creations as lost Renoirs, Picassos, and Modiglianis. He said he never did it for profit but out of some crazed, perfectionist's desire to create near-perfect art. After he served his time, he started painting again — his own work this time. You can buy it today for around fifty to a hundred thousand dollars a painting. Not bad for a former fraud."
    Max tossed the book aside. "Gee, thanks. Now I don't have to read that one."
    "Elmyr de Hoy was considered the number two art forger of the same time. He died in 1976, otherwise, who knows what may have happened? Orson Welles made a pretentious documentary on the man."
    "It's called 'F for Fake,' I read all about it."
    "There's a famous tale about Picasso. He is shown several paintings. He dismisses them. 'They are all fakes,' he says. His friend says, 'But Pablo, I saw you paint these.' Picasso smiles a devilish smile and says, 'I can fake a Picasso as well as anybody.'"
    Crossing his arms, Max said, "Whatever you want, I don't want a part of it."
    "And then there's Han van Meegeren — possibly the most famous art forger of all time. He was Dutch, born around 1889, and well-known for his Vermeers. He made a 'Christ at Emmaus' that sold for six million dollars. Then he sold a Vermeer fake to a German art collector by the name of Hermann Göring. Things didn't go too well for him after that."
    "Do you have a point?" Max said, knowing he sounded impetuous and wishing his stomach wasn't flipping in fear.
    Modesto leaned in and said, "All those famous forgers, and not one of them ever knew, ever spoke of, ever even heard of Howard Corkille. Do you know why? Because the truly great art forgers are like the truly great criminals. They are never known. They don't get caught. They don't go to jail. They don't get books written about them. They are ghosts."
    This caught Max. He wanted to throw some wiseass comment at Modesto just to tick off the proper man, but he couldn't say a word. Embarrassed that he hadn't come to the conclusion himself and stunned that it would come from Modesto, Max piled his books, stood, and walked towards the exit. He moved fast in hopes of getting away before his legs gave out. He really didn't want to know what Modesto was leading up to.
    "Wait, please," Modesto said, following Max into the hall. Max pushed the elevator's call button and considered the stairs, but the narrow stairwell on the right echoed the ascent of two talkative students. Modesto blocked Max's way. "I'll follow you all day, if you make me. And I do know where your office is and your home. So, why not listen to me?"
    Impatience, anger, fear — it all swirled within Max. But Modesto was right. If the Hulls wanted him to tell Max something, it would be told. So, with a curt nod, Max walked back into the warm room and sat in the first chair he came upon.
    "Thank you," Modesto said, but like everything that came out of his mouth, this sounded threatening. "First, Mr. Hull wishes you to know that he is not the one behind what you saw yesterday."
    "You mean the man you had beaten up thinking it was me?"
    "That was Mr. Gold's doing. In an eager attempt to display his loyalties, Mr. Gold over-enthusiastically interpreted his instructions. You do recall how Mr. Hull insists on his instructions being followed properly?"
    "Of course."
    "I will see that Mr. Gold understands quite clearly the error he has made. It won't happen again. Mr. Hull wants you to