Comic Con Artist Read online

  While my brother and our friend discussed the merits of the famous comic book artists, I noticed a pretty girl staring at us. Immediately I felt a familiar tingle. Not the tingle I get that alerts me to danger. No, this was the embarrassing tingle of a blush beginning to creep across my face.

  What is it about a pretty girl that gets me so tripped up? I’ve faced down evildoers of all types with a cool that makes me proud. But put a teenage girl in my path and I’ll fall over my own feet. Well, maybe not literally, but it certainly feels that way.

  “Why don’t we go in and check it out,” I suggested, turning away from the girl. Luckily, Joe hadn’t noticed her. Otherwise he’d be trying to charm her into joining us.

  “Excellent.” Chet and Joe turned to head into the store. I followed.

  “Excuse me,” a girl’s voice said behind me.

  I froze.

  “You dropped this.”

  I turned around to discover the girl holding a brand-new CD out to me.

  “Not mine,” I said, turning away again.

  “Well, hello,” Joe said.

  Great.

  The girl took a step closer. “This is yours. Take it.” Her eyes locked onto mine. But not in a flirty, don’t you want to ask me out kind of way. It was more of a don’t be a dolt, take the stupid CD.

  It suddenly dawned on me. This wasn’t a typical teenage mall rat, and that wasn’t some artist’s latest release. She was from ATAC, and that CD contained our next assignment.

  “That was really nice of you to return it to him,” Joe said, still trying to get a conversation started with the girl.

  “Uh, yeah,” the girl replied.

  “So, Frank,” asked Joe. “What’s the CD?”

  “Nothing important.” I took the CD from the girl and slipped it into my jacket pocket. The girl vanished into the crowd. ATAC agents excel at that.

  “You get some new tunes?” Chet asked me. “Or is it a movie?’

  “Yeah, Frank, quit holding out,” Joe added.

  I gave my brother my best shut-up glare. “Really, it’s nothing.”

  “Oh, right,” Joe said, finally getting it. “So, Chet, let’s check out those new comics.”

  Chet looked from Joe to me then back to Joe again. He knew something was up. How was I going to avoid showing him the CD? He’d probably want to play it as soon as we got back home.

  Then his face brightened. “I get it, guys. It’s for my birthday.”

  Chet’s birthday! It was this weekend. I had totally forgotten about it. Luckily, he had not only given me a timely reminder—he also gave me an easy cover.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “You caught us,” said Joe, playing along.

  Chet grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t spoil the surprise by trying to interrogate you.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said, giving Chet a light punch on the arm.

  “You know, maybe we should head for home,” I suggested. If this was our next case, we shouldn’t waste any time finding out what it was. “It’s later than I realized.”

  “You’re right,” said Joe.

  “But we just got here,” Chet complained.

  “Uh, well, Aunt Trudy was on the warpath this morning about cleaning our rooms,” Joe explained.

  “Yeah,” I added. “She was throwing around threats like grounding us until the rooms sparkled. . . .”

  “Okay, okay,” said Chet. “If you don’t mind, I’ll hang here. I’ve been waiting forever for Fierce to come in.”

  “Catch you later,” I called. Then we jogged out of the mall.

  Up in my room I pulled the CD out of my pocket. “Comic Con Artist,” I read from the side of the box.

  Joe laughed. “That really could be a birthday CD for Chet.”

  It was true—Chet has comics fever. Even more than me or Joe. And we’re pretty big fans.

  I slipped the CD into the player. A montage of comic-book covers whipped across the screen. Superheroes, supervillains, comic-book characters from movies, books, and TV shows zoomed by.

  “Cool!” Joe plopped in front of the screen. “There’s Shyla! And the monster from World’s End. Awesome! Check out the Maverick!”

  “Get out of the way!” I ordered. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Sheesh,” Joe grumbled, scooting to the side of the TV. “Don’t go ballistic.”

  Now the screen was filled with the image of a cover from the 1940s, introducing one of the most famous characters of all time: Trevor Knightly—aka Dark Hawk. The camera pulled back, and we could see that the cover was in a frame on an easel in an art gallery. An attractive, dark-haired woman came into view. She looked nervous—as if speaking into a camera wasn’t something she was used to.

  “Hello, I’m Julia Campbell,” she said. “I hope you’ll be able to help me. I didn’t know what to do until a friend of mine who’s with ATAC suggested you. It is really important that this problem be handled very discreetly.”

  “I wonder what happened,” Joe said.

  “And what it has to do with comics,” I added.

  Now the video moved outside, showing a neon sign flashing POPCULTURE GALLERY.

  “I’ve just begun a business that I’m very excited about,” Julia narrated. “I am half owner of the PopCulture Gallery. We sell art—paintings, lithographs, prints, you name it. But for the first time, we’re going to sell original comic-book art. Well . . .” Here she gave a slightly sheepish smile. “I am. My partner, Jasper Scranton, isn’t so into it. But I believe comic art should get the same respect and attention as other kinds of art.”

  “Me too,” Joe said.

  “Your opinion isn’t the one that matters right now,” I told him. “So shut it.”

  “Till now,” Julia continued, “the artists themselves have handled the transactions—they don’t usually use reps. So this is new territory. I think this is going to be huge—and I want to get a jump on the competition.” She gave a little laugh.

  “Only . . .” She glanced down at her hands, lacing and unlacing her fingers. She looked back up at the camera, slightly panicked. “To get attention for the gallery, I was going to auction a major piece of comic art on the last day of the upcoming convention here in San Francisco: the Dark Hawk cover. There has already been publicity about it—and I’ve even been contacted by a number of potential buyers.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” said Joe.

  “But now . . . ,” Julia went on.

  Joe shot me a smug look. I just rolled my eyes.

  “I just found out that the piece . . .” She glanced around and leaned toward the camera. “It’s a forgery.”

  “Whoa. That’s not good,” Joe said.

  “No joke,” I agreed.

  Julia’s worried face was replaced by a close-up of the Dark Hawk cover. The forgery. Man, it was good. Right down to the fake signature in the shadow of the hawk’s wings.

  Julia’s voice continued. “If anyone finds out, it would ruin my business before it even gets started. And not just my goal to represent comic-book art. Everything that we’ve ever sold would be called into question. It would destroy us. I’ve put everything I have into this gallery. Jasper has too. If it goes under . . .” Her voice broke and Q, our boss at ATAC, took over the narration.

  “Forgery is a dangerous business,” Q’s voice said. “Forgery of this skill means experience. This may only be the tip of the iceberg. You will go to San Francisco for the upcoming comic-book convention, where the piece was to be sold. Find the forger and bring him or her to justice. And, if possible, get the original art back.”

  Joe leaped into the air, pumping his fists. “Awesome! We get to check out the con!”

  “As usual, this CD will self-erase in five seconds.” The screen went blank.

  “This will practically be a vacation!” Joe cheered.

  “You thought the circus gig was going to be a party too,” I reminded him, “until we got there.”

  “Man, do you have to be suc
h a buzz kill?” asked Joe.

  Okay, he was right. I was psyched too—especially when I found the all-access passes, plane tickets, and hotel info in the sleeve of the CD.

  Joe flopped onto my bed. “Uh-oh.”

  “Now who’s the downer?” I said.

  “How are we going to get by Mom? And Aunt Trudy?” Joe asked. “We’ve been away a lot.”

  “I know just how to get them both to agree,” I said, turning down the volume on the CD. It was now blaring beach music—to get us into the California mood, I guessed.

  “In fact,” I continued, “we can kill two birds with the swoop of a single light saber.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Joe.

  I grinned. “What would be a better birthday present for Chet than a trip to the San Francisco ComicCon?”

  Joe stood and applauded. “Pure genius,” he said. “Dude, it’s times like these when I’m actually proud to share your DNA.”

  3

  Fake-Out

  “This is the most amazing birthday present,” Chet said for the gazillionth time. We had just arrived at our hotel in San Francisco. “You had me totally surprised.”

  It was a surprise to us, too—until we got the assignment from ATAC. But I wasn’t going to let Chet know that his two best friends had forgotten his birthday.

  “Happy to oblige,” I said. “I’m psyched too!”

  Okay, I knew I was on a case, but we were in San Francisco! And we were going to be at the coolest convention.

  “Can we unpack later?” asked Chet. “I want to get to the convention center and register.”

  “While you do that, Joe and I will check out the neighborhood around there,” Frank said. “You know, so that we don’t waste time once the con starts looking for places to eat.”

  I knew what he really had in mind was a trip to the gallery while Chet was occupied. We had discovered that the gallery was pretty close to the convention center.

  “I won’t be able to get you tickets for any of the signings,” Chet warned.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t bring anything to autograph.”

  “And our mom warned us not to go nuts buying stuff,” added Frank. “She says we’ve run out of space already.”

  We left the bags where we had dropped them and left the hotel.

  We decided to go for the total San Francisco experience and hopped on a cable car. The breeze coming off the bay through the open sides of the car invigorated me after our long flight.

  “Hope you’re not in too much of a hurry,” I said to Chet. The cable car wasn’t exactly the fastest mode of transport. But it was seriously cool.

  Finally the cable car stopped at Powell Street, right in the heart of downtown San Francisco. A long line snaked around the spot where the cable car—with the help of the operators—would turn around and make the trip back to Fisherman’s Wharf, where our hotel was.

  “I guess no one ever feels they’ve visited San Francisco without a ride on one of the historic cable cars,” Frank said, checking out the people waiting in line.

  “According to the map, the convention center is just a few blocks that way.” Chet pointed up and over the big stores across the street.

  “We’ll check out the neighborhood,” I said. “It looks pretty slick.”

  It did. People rushed all around us, in and out of shops, down into the transit system, onto buses and onto the cable cars. The crowd was a mix of businesspeople, teenage girls shopping, and tourists wandering around. The street was packed, and it wasn’t even the weekend yet.

  We figured out a time and place to meet up, and Chet took off. Then Frank pulled out a big folding map.

  So dorky. Couldn’t he have looked up how to get to the gallery without making us look like touristy dweebs? I moved away a few feet so no one would think we were together.

  I watched the cable car operators go through the elaborate routine of getting the cable car turned around. I had no idea how much strength and coordination the job took. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “This way,” said Frank, slipping the map back into his pocket.

  The PopCulture Gallery was down a street just off Union Square. Little bells jangled as we entered.

  What immediately caught my eye were the original sketches for the Scotty Milner detective, Frank “Fierce” Stone. “I’m really glad Milner dropped the idea of giving Frank Stone a beard,” I said, studying a drawing.

  “And chucked that weird hat,” Frank agreed, looking at another early drawing for the hardboiled character.

  “May I help you?” I turned and saw Julia Campbell, the gallery owner, coming toward us.

  She looked even younger in real life than she did on the DVD. She must have started this business right out of college.

  “I’m Joe Hardy, and this is my brother Frank,” I said. I knew from the way Frank stared at the floor that he found Julia attractive. I swear, some days it’s hard to believe we’re related.

  She looked at us quizzically. “And . . . ?”

  “And we’re here to help you with your problem?” I hinted.

  She looked confused for a moment, then her brown eyes opened wide. “You—you’re with—You look so young!”

  “Our mutual friends thought that would be helpful,” explained Frank.

  “So we’d fit in and wouldn’t arouse suspicion,” I added.

  “Of course.” Now Julia smiled—a bright and winning smile. “Thank you so much! This really could ruin me.”

  “We’re not going to let that happen,” I assured her.

  Frank shot me a look that was easy to read—don’t show off. But if he was going to stand there stone-faced, I had to work double hard to make sure Julia knew we were there for her.

  “Come into my office,” said Julia.

  We followed her out of the main part of the gallery. As she led us down a hallway, I spotted a large storeroom and two offices. Julia took us into the smaller one.

  In the corner stood an easel with the framed cover for the very first Dark Hawk cover. You could just make out the light pencil work of the original sketch under the intense black ink. This was the stage before the color was added.

  I thought it looked even better in black-and-white. The whole cool/noir feel. It added to the intensity of the image.

  Frank let out a low whistle. “That’s a beauty.”

  My brother. He can whistle at a comic-book cover. But a pretty girl? Not so much.

  Julia made a sour face. “It would be if it was real.”

  “So how did you make the discovery?” I asked, stepping up close to the picture.

  “Bloggers.”

  “Huh?” I turned to look at her.

  “I was sending out online info about the auction and found a thread about Jeff Cohen, the artist,” Julia explained. “There was a detailed discussion of this cover. There were photos of it—with the artist standing beside it, so I know that was the original. I thought it would be cool to show in the catalog, so I blew it up. That’s when I discovered that some of the inking in this one is wrong.”

  She pointed to the lightning bolts at the top of the image. “See this? In the photo of the original these weren’t single lines but tiny little separate strokes.”

  “It must have taken forever,” Frank said.

  Julia nodded. “The person doing the forgery either didn’t have the original in front of him or was in a hurry. Other than that, though, it’s really convincing.”

  “The faces are perfect,” I said.

  “Yeah, the things that most people would notice are expertly executed,” Julia explained. “It’s just the little details the forger got wrong.”

  “Could the dealer you bought it from have sold you a fake?” asked Frank.

  Julia frowned. “Could be—but really unlikely. If he did, I would bet he had no idea. The artist originally sold it back in the seventies. Since then it’s been sold and resold. And each time a certificate of authenticity came with it.”


  “Still . . . ,” I said.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Reputation is everything in this business, and this dealer and I work together too often for him to pull something. And . . .” She broke off and looked really upset.

  “And?” I prodded. I knew there was something more, something she didn’t want to admit.

  “I can’t be sure that he didn’t sell me the original,” she confessed. “Something might have happened after I had it in my possession.”

  “Is that possible?” Frank asked.

  Julia slumped and gazed down at the floor. She obviously was embarrassed by what she was about to tell us.

  “I didn’t check it very carefully when I got it,” she admitted. “I just tore open a corner to be sure it was the correct piece, then sent it out to have it framed. So I have no idea when a switch might have happened.”

  The little bells of the front door jangled, and we followed Julia back out to the gallery. A squat bald man stood at the entrance holding a framed picture—another piece of comic-book art.

  “Julia, darling!” the man greeted.

  “Hello, Ian,” Julia said, giving him air kisses on each cheek. “I’m surprised to see you so soon! Are you looking for another panel?” She turned to Frank and me. “Ian Huntington, this is Frank and Joe Hardy. Ian is a big comic lover and just bought a page drawn by P. J. Rodriguez.”

  Now Ian looked sheepish. “Actually, Julia dear, I’m here to return the piece. Once I got it home, it just didn’t work with my decor.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Julia looked disappointed, but she was gracious. “Would you like to see something else? I know you were interested in the Milners.”

  If I had the bucks, I’d be interested in the Milners too.

  “Not today,” said Ian. “I’m in a bit of a rush. But I will certainly be back! I think you are doing a great service, my dear. Thanks to you, comic-book art is finally getting the respect it deserves.”

  Julia smiled. “Thanks, Ian. It’s great to have such a strong supporter.”

  Ian began spouting all kinds of arty theories about why comic-book art was so important. As my mind began wandering, my feet did too. I went and checked out the Milners.

  I didn’t care that comics were some kind of “new urban idiom” or about the “visual representation of a fragmented reality” that Ian was promoting. I thought the heroes were cool, the villains cooler, and the babes hot. Awesome action, great story lines—that’s what I liked about them.