Free Pack of Strays (The Fangborn Series Book 2) by Dana Cameron

file; she indicated the lab table, where she met us.
    She spread out the contents of the file: passports, driver’s licenses , birth certificates. “I used the information you gave me, assuming you did your homework in getting the names and places correct. And I managed to make something tolerable of those head shots you sent me. What did you use, a disposable cell phone?”
    Adam tilted his head and frowned. There was no need for her attitude.
    Jean continued. “I double- and tripled-checked the paper and engraving for the certificate; the passports are one of my better efforts.”
    Adam picked up the passport, began to scrutinize it.
    “Please, feel free to examine it,” Jean said. Who was showing temper now?
    “Where did you get the stamp?” Adam asked, squinting at it.
    Jean only smiled.
    Adam finally, reluctantly, put down the passport and pulled out a fat padded envelope of his own, sliding it over to Jean.
    Jean took it to the workbench on the side and turned on a small machine. She flipped through the bundled hundred-dollar bills and stopped suddenly. She pulled a bill out of the bundle and held it under the machine. She grunted, turning off the machine.
    “Like I don’t check them all myself,” Adam said.
    “Never hurts to be careful,” Jean responded. “As you know.” She locked the machine and the cash away. Turned back to us. “Who’s for tea?”
    “No time,” Adam said, impatient. He caught himself. “Thank you anyway. Next time, we’ll plan on it.”
    This time, we took the stairs down to the first floor. I’m almost sure it was so I’d have a chance to admire the many framed paintings on the painted walls. Nothing too flashy, no great masters—but all of obvious quality and excellent examples of genre and period . Jean pretended to be casual about them but was preening all the way down.
    Adam was staring at one picture. As I reached it, I paused on the stairway for a moment.
    The penny dropped. I caught my breath, then composed myself .
    “So. Are they all forgeries?”
    Jean clapped her hands softly. “Very good. But points off for imprecision. Some of them would be forgeries, if I tried to pass them off as genuine. They are, at the moment, merely excellent copies. Most of them are, anyway. What made you draw that conclusion ?”
    I hesitated, wondering about the propriety of saying that the father of a friend of mine had dealt in antiquities and art forgeries. “Well, if they were real, I sure as hell wouldn’t be hanging them in a stairway. I’d have them out where people could see them.”
    She gave a small frown at the casual vulgarity of “hell,” and then an almost-smirk, which I presumed was at the notion that I’d ever have paintings, a house in which to hang them, or friends to admire them.
    Adam jumped in before my temper could get the better of me. “The pastoral scene with the cows. A friend of mine has the original in her office at the Smithsonian.” He paused. “Doesn’t she?”
    “Maybe she does, maybe she does,” Jean mused. She held out her hand. “Zoe, a pleasure to meet you. Adam, as always.”
    Once we were out on the street, I asked Adam. “So how do you know her?”
    “We went to college together. She’s the best in the business.”
    “Okay.” I looked up. “How do you know? I mean, how do you know where to find forgers?”
    “I don’t know forgers . I know Jean. Virtues of an expensive liberal arts education, like I said.”
    I found myself getting prickly again. I’d had a college education , a lot of it, by some counts, and although parts of it were private, I knew it wasn’t what Adam was talking about. Mine was the kind where you make good grades to try and get a job afterward. His was the kind where you go to swanky parties to make connections, because you already have a job waiting for you in the family firm. Two different animals entirely.
    New York was bringing out the worst in me. My nerves were frayed, and I had to get my attitude