Homeport (43 page)

“Three and a half years! Jesus Christ, Ry.”

“Concentrate on international flights, to and from Italy in particular. Ready for the names?”

“Look, Ry, I love you like a brother. This kind of thing'll take days, maybe weeks, and it's dicey. You don't just punch a few buttons and get that kind of info. Airlines aren't supposed to give it out.”

It was a song and dance he'd heard before. “I've got season tickets to the Yankees. VIP lounge with locker room passes.”

There was a short silence. “Give me the names.”

“I knew I could count on you, Joey.”

When he was done, he kicked back in his chair. He took the ring he'd given Miranda out of his pocket, watched it shine in the light coming through the filtered glass at his back.

He thought he would have his friend the jeweler pop the stones and make them into earrings for her. Earrings were
safer than a ring. Women, even bright, practical women, could get the wrong idea about a ring.

She'd appreciate the gesture, he thought. And he was going to owe her something, after all. He'd have the earrings made, then have them shipped to her when he—and the bronzes—were a comfortable distance away.

He imagined, once she had a chance to think it through, she'd conclude that he'd acted in the only logical fashion. No one could expect him to come out of his last job empty-handed.

He put the ring back in his pocket so he'd stop imagining what it had looked like on her hand.

She was going to get what she needed, he reminded himself, and when he rose his fingers were still toying with the ring. They would prove her bronze had been genuine, they'd uncover a forger, a murderer, and she'd be haloed in the spotlight with her reputation glinting like gold.

He had several clients who would pay a delightful fee for a prize like
The Dark Lady.
He had only to choose the lucky winner. And that fee would cover his time, his expenses, his aggravation, with a nice little bonus like cream over the top.

Unless he decided to keep it for himself. She would be, without question, the prize of his private collection.

But . . . business was business. If he found the right client—and gained the right fee—he could start a new gallery in Chicago or Atlanta or . . . Maine.

No, he'd have to stay clear of Maine after this was done.

A pity, he thought. He'd come to love it there, near the sea, near the cliffs, catching scents of water and pine. He'd miss it.

He'd miss her.

It couldn't be helped, he told himself. He had to neatly close out one area of his life and start a new one. As a completely legitimate art broker. He'd keep his word to his family, and he'd have kept his word to Miranda. More or less.

Everyone would go back where they belonged.

It was his own fault if he'd let his feelings get a little
too tangled up. Most of that, he was sure, was due to the fact they'd been virtually living together for weeks now.

He liked waking up beside her, a little too much. He enjoyed standing with her on the cliffs, listening to that husky voice, nudging one of those rare smiles out of her. The ones that reached her eyes and took that sad look out of them.

The fact was—the very worrying fact was—there was nothing about her that didn't appeal to him.

It was a good thing they had their own spaces back for a while. They would put it all back in perspective with a little distance.

But he wondered why, as he nearly convinced himself this was true, he felt a nasty little ache around his heart.

 

She tried not to think about him. To wonder if he thought of her. It was more productive, she told herself, to focus entirely, exclusively, on her work.

It would very likely be all she had left before much longer.

She nearly succeeded. Through most of the day she had dozens of details demanding her skill and attention. If her mind wandered once or twice, she was disciplined enough to steer it back to the task at hand.

If a new level of loneliness had been reached in only a single day, she would learn to adjust.

She would have to.

Miranda was about to shut down for the day and take the rest of her work home when her computer signaled an incoming e-mail. She finished her long, detailed post to the decorator she'd contracted regarding the lengths of fabrics required, copying both Andrew and the proper procurement clerk in requisitions.

She scanned the post, made a few minor adjustments, then clicked to both send and receive. Her incoming mail flashed on-screen under the header
A DEATH IN THE FAMILY
.

Uneasy, she clicked on read.

You have the False Lady. There's blood on her hands. She wants it to be yours. Admit your mistake, pay the price
and live. Go on as you are, and nothing will stop her.

Killing becomes her.

Miranda stared at the message, reading each word over and over until she realized she was curled in the chair, rocking.

They wanted her to be afraid, to be terrified. And oh God, she was.

They knew she had the forgery. It could only mean someone had seen her with Giovanni, or that he had told someone. Someone who had killed him, and wished her dead.

Struggling for control, she studied the return address. Lost1. Who was Lost1? The url was the standard route all Standjo organizations used for electronic mail. She did a quick name search, but found nothing, then hit the reply button.

Who are you?

She left it at that and sent. In took only seconds for the message to flash across her screen denying her. Not a known user.

He'd been quick, she decided. But he had taken a chance sending her the post. What could be sent could surely be traced. She printed out a hard copy, saved the post to a file.

A glance at her watch told her it was nearly six. There was no one to help her now. No one was waiting for her.

She was alone.

twenty-five

“S
o, have you
heard from Ryan?”

Miranda checked off items on the list fixed to her clipboard as she supervised the maintenance crew in the removal of selected paintings from the wall in the South Gallery.

“Yes, his office faxed the details of the transportation schedule. All items will arrive next Wednesday. I'm having a team of our security meet their security at the airport.”

Andrew studied her profile for another moment, then shrugged. They both knew that wasn't what he'd meant. Ryan had already been gone a week.

He dug into the bag of pretzels he'd taken to eating by the pound. They made him thirsty, and when he was thirsty he drank gallons of water. Then he had to piss like a racehorse.

He'd worked it out in his mind that all the liquid was flushing toxins out of his system.

“Ms. Purdue and Clara are dealing with the caterer,” he told her. “We don't have a final count for attendees, but they'd like the menu approved. I'd like you to take a look
at it before we sign the final contract. It's really your show.”

“It's
our
show,” Miranda corrected, still checking off her list. She wanted both the paintings and the frames cleaned before the opening, and had sent a memo to restoration giving them priority.

“It better be a good one. Closing off this gallery has a lot of the visitors grumbling.”

“If they come back in a couple of weeks, they'll get more than their money's worth.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

“You've been putting in a lot of hours on this.”

“There's a lot to do, and not much time to do it. Anyway, I like being busy.”

“Yeah.” He rattled his pretzels. “Neither one of us is looking for loose time right now.”

“You're doing okay?”

“Is that the code for are you drinking?” It came out with an edge he hadn't intended. “Sorry.” His fingers dived into the bag again. “No, I'm not drinking.”

“I know you're not. It wasn't code.”

“I'm dealing with it.”

“I'm glad you came back home, but I don't want you to feel you have to be there with me if you'd rather be with Annie.”

“The fact that I've figured out I want to be with Annie makes it a little rough to stay there sleeping on her couch. If you get the picture.”

“Yeah, I get the picture.” She crossed over to dip into the pretzels herself.

“Any idea when Ryan's getting back?”

“Not exactly.”

They stood for a moment, each crunching pretzels and contemplating the annoyance of sexual frustration. “Wanna go out and get drunk later?” Andrew grinned at her. “Just a little recovery humor.”

“Ha ha.” She dug into the bag, came up with a few grains of salt, sighed. “Got any more of these?”

• • •

Ryan's first stop in San Francisco was the gallery. He'd chosen the old warehouse in the waterfront district because he'd wanted a lot of space, and had decided to separate his business from the dozens of galleries downtown.

It had worked, making Boldari's more exclusive, unique, and allowing him to provide fledgling artists with a chance to show their work in a top-flight gallery.

He'd decided on a casual ambiance rather than the elegance he'd created in New York. Here, paintings might be spotlighted against raw brick or wood, and sculpture often stood on rough metal columns. Wide, unframed windows provided a view of the bay and the busy tourist traffic.

A second-floor cafe provided artists and art lovers with foamy cappuccino and lattes at tiny tables reminiscent of a sidewalk trattoria while they looked down on the main gallery, or gazed up at the third-floor studios.

Ryan settled himself at one of the tables and grinned across at his brother Michael. “So, how's business?”

“Remember that metal sculpture you told me looked like a train wreck?”

“I think my opinion was it looked like the wreck of a circus train.”

“Yeah, that was it. We sold it yesterday for twenty thousand and change.”

“A lot of people have more money than taste. How's the family?”

“See for yourself. You're expected for dinner.”

“I'll be there.” He leaned back, studying his brother as Michael ordered coffee for both of them.

“It suits you,” Ryan commented. “Marriage, family, the house in the burbs.”

“It better, I'm in for the duration. And a good thing for you. It helps keep Mama off
your
ass.”

“It doesn't help much. I saw her yesterday. I'm supposed to tell you she needs new pictures of the kids. How is she supposed to remember what they look like if you don't send pictures?”

“We sent her ten pounds of pictures last month.”

“You can deliver the next batch in person. I want you
and the family to come in for the exhibit and fund-raiser at the Institute. You got the memo on that, right?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Any problem with the scheduling?”

Michael considered as their coffee was served. “None that I can think of. We should be able to make it. The kids always love a chance to go into New York and see the family, fight with their cousins, have Papa sneak them candy. And it'll give me a chance to see this Ph.D. Mama told us about. What's she like?”

“Miranda? Smart, very smart. Capable.”

“Smart and capable?” Michael sipped his coffee, noting the way his brother's fingers lightly tapped the table. Ryan wasn't often given to restless or wasted motion, he thought. The smart, capable woman was on his mind—and his nerves. “Mama said she's a looker, lots of red hair.”

“Yeah, she's a redhead.”

“You usually go for blondes.” When Ryan only arched an eyebrow, Michael laughed. “Come on, Ry, spill it. What's the story?”

“She's beautiful. She's complicated. It's complicated,” he decided, and finally realized he was tapping his fingers. “We're doing business together on a couple of levels.”

This time Michael's brow lifted. “Oh really?”

“I don't want to get into that right now.” Missing her was like a fire in his gut. “Let's just say we're working together on a couple of projects, this exhibit for one. And we have a personal relationship. We're enjoying each other. That's all.”

“If that were all, you wouldn't look so worried.”

“I'm not worried.” Or he hadn't been until she'd sneaked into his head again. “It's just complicated.”

Michael made a “hmm” of agreement and decided he was going to enjoy telling his wife that Ryan was well and truly hooked on a redheaded Ph.D. from Maine. “You've always been able to work your way out of complications.”

“Yeah.” Since it made him feel better to think so, Ryan nodded. “In any case, that's only part of the reason I'm here. I'm looking for a young artist. I've got an address,
but I thought I'd see if you knew him. Harrison Mathers? Sculptor.”

“Mathers.” Michael's forehead creased. “Doesn't ring a bell right off. I can check, look through the files to see if we've taken any of his work.”

“We'll do that. I don't know if he's still at this address.”

“If he's in San Francisco and looking to sell art, we'll find him. Have you seen his work?”

“I believe I have,” Ryan murmured, thinking of the bronze
David.

 

Mathers's last known address was a third-floor walk-up apartment on the wrong side of downtown. Light rain was falling as Ryan approached Mathers's building. A small group of young men huddled in a doorway, their eyes scanning the street, looking for trouble.

On the line of pitifully narrow mailboxes built into the wall of the dank foyer, Ryan saw “H. Mathers” in 3B.

He headed up the stairs into the faint smell of urine and stale vomit.

On the door of 3B someone had painted an excellent study of a medieval castle, complete with turrets and drawbridge. It resembled a fairy tale, a dark one, Ryan thought, when you noticed the single face in the top window gazing out in screaming horror.

Harry, he mused, had talent and an excellent sense of his current circumstances. His home might be his castle, but he was a terrified prisoner in it.

He knocked and waited. Almost immediately the door behind him opened. Ryan shifted to the balls of his feet, and turned.

The woman was young, and might have been attractive if she hadn't already dressed her face for the night's work. It was a whore's makeup, heavy on the lips and eyes. The eyes, under the weight of shadow and lashes, were hard as Arctic ice. Her hair was plain brown and cut short as a boy's. He imagined she used a wig during working hours.

Though he took all this in, as well as the lush body carelessly displayed in a short, flowered robe, his attention
centered on the big, black .45 in her hand. Its muzzle was as wide as the Pacific and pointed dead-center at his chest.

He decided it was best to keep his eyes on hers, his hands in plain view, and his explanation simple.

“I'm not a cop. I'm not selling anything. I'm just looking for Harry.”

“I thought you were the other guy.” Her voice was straight out of the Bronx, but didn't make him feel any more secure.

“Let me just say, under the circumstances, I'm glad I'm not. Could you point that cannon somewhere else?”

She studied him another moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” She lowered it, and leaned against the doorjamb. “I didn't like the look of the other guy. Didn't like his attitude neither.”

“As long as you're holding that gun, I'll adjust my attitude any way you like.”

She grinned at that, a quick flash that nearly overcame the sex doll makeup. “You're okay, Slick. What do you want with Rembrandt?”

“A conversation.”

“Well, he ain't there, and ain't been around for a few days. That's what I told the other guy.”

“I see. Do you know where Harry is?”

“I mind my own business.”

“I'm sure you do.” Ryan held one hand palm out, moved the other slowly to his wallet. He saw her lips purse in consideration as he took out a fifty. “Got a few minutes?”

“I might. Another fifty'd buy you an hour.” But she shook her head. “Slick, you don't look like the type who pays to party.”

“Conversation,” he said again, and held out the fifty.

It only took her three seconds to reach out, nip the bill with the lethal tips of bloodred fingernails. “Okay, come on in.”

The room held a bed, a single chair, two flea market tables, and a metal clothes rack crowded with bright, eye-catching colors and cheap fabrics. He'd been right about
the wig, he noted. Two of them, a long, curly blond and a sleek raven-black, sat on plastic foam heads.

A little desk held a dressing room mirror and a department store array of cosmetics.

While distressingly bare, the room was tidy as an accountant's spread sheet.

“For fifty,” she told him, “you can have a beer.”

“Appreciate it.” While she moved toward the two-burner stove and midget refrigerator that constituted her kitchen, Ryan stepped up to a bronze dragon that guarded one of her flimsy tables.

“This is a very nice piece.”

“Yeah, it's real art. Rembrandt did it.”

“He has talent.”

“I guess.” She moved her shoulders, didn't bother to tug her robe back together. He was entitled to look at the merchandise, she thought, in case he wanted to invest another fifty. “I said how I liked it, and we worked out a trade.” She smiled as she handed him a bottle of Budweiser.

“You're friendly with Mathers?”

“He's okay. Doesn't try to scam me for freebies. Once I had a john up here who wanted to use me for a punching bag instead of a mattress. Kid comes banging on the door when he heard I was in trouble. Yelled out how he was the cops.” She snickered into her beer. “Asshole went out my window with his pants around his ankles. Rembrandt's okay. Gets a little down, smokes a lot of grass. That's an artist's thing, I guess.”

“He have many friends?”

“Slick, nobody in this building has many friends. He's been here a couple years now, and this is the first time I've seen two people come around to his door in one day.”

“Tell me about the other guy.”

She fingered the fifty in the pocket of her robe. “Big. Ugly face. Looked like meat to me, somebody's arm, you know. And you could tell he liked breaking legs. Said how he wanted to buy one of Rembrandt's statues, but that creep
wasn't no art lover. Gave me grief when I said he wasn't around, and I didn't know where he was.”

She hesitated a moment, then moved her shoulders again. “He was carrying. Had a bulge under his jacket. I shut the door in his fat face, and got out my friend there.” She jerked her head toward the pie-plate-sized kitchen counter where she'd laid the .45. “You only missed him by a few minutes, that's why I thought you was him.”