Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  All the same, she felt a tingle at sight of his scruffy two-day beard and the hair curling over his collar. Even the open plaid shirt and the faded t-shirt inside it were welcome and familiar.

  She had missed it all.

  Gen slid into the bench across from him and pointed at the sunglasses hooked into his breast pocket. “I see you took my advice, Detective.”

  Mack’s lips turned up and he tapped his finger against one dark lens. “I had a minor scuffle with a guy in an alley and my regulation pair got broken.” He put them on. “Bought ‘em at a gas station. How’d I do?”

  Gen angled her head this way and that, taking him in. “They look good on you. How much?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  She smiled. “You got a deal.”

  He took them off and dropped them on the Formica next to his faded ball cap, then stood and went behind the counter and returned with a cup and a pot of coffee. He poured for them both and put the carafe back. When he sat down again, he added fake sugar and low-fat milk to his mug.

  He didn’t need to watch calories.

  Mack’s body was lean and his shoulders were wide from whatever exercise routine he preferred. For a moment she wondered if it was of the bedroom persuasion, but shook the thought away before she got a visual. It could be true, though.

  He was a looker, no doubt about it.

  “You cut your hair,” he said.

  “I did.” Gen felt her cheeks pink. She’d had her thick brown locks trimmed into a long, shoulder-brushing bob with a fringe of bangs brushed to the side. Something about breaking up with Ryan had made her want to alter a lot of things, as if big adjustments should come in groups of at least three. When one thing changed, everything else felt like it should be different, as well.

  So she’d finally let Oliver take her shopping for new clothes, and she’d started walking around the city every day. Doing a little work with hand weights. Sit-ups in her living room, stuff like that. She’d trimmed down. Her energy was high and her stamina was better. Livvie said she could even keep up with him in a department store now.

  Not an easy thing to do.

  “I like it. It suits you.”

  “I needed a change.”

  “Looks like more than one.” He smiled again and reached inside his shirt to rub the ever-present dog tags that hung on a chain around his neck. Stroking his brother’s tags was his tell. Gen had figured out long ago that he went to them for reassurance. On the surface Mack was nearly always calm as a windless sea, but apparently something about sitting across from her today had him off balance.

  “Hungry?” She reached for one of the laminated menus stuck behind the catsup bottle.

  “I know what I want. Take your time.”

  The shotgun-style dive was Mack’s favorite breakfast spot, and pancakes with a side of everything was his standard order. When the waitress approached, Gen asked for poached eggs and sausage and dry wheat toast and home fries. When she’d gone, Gen took a turn with the coffee pot and topped off their mugs.

  Right from the start, the two of them had been easy together. Silences were seldom awkward. Even after these weeks without contact, there was not an air of unasked questions that many would feel the need to mask with other words.

  Gen liked that about him. Mack didn’t push.

  “How’s Garcia?” she asked.

  “He’s good.”

  “How’s he like his new job?”

  Mack’s former partner, Eric Garcia, was Bree’s boyfriend. She’d emailed Gen when Garcia was invited to join the Special Investigation Section. They responded to bomb threat calls, hate crimes, and gang violence. Garcia spoke fluent Spanish. They’d needed his skills with the gang issue.

  “He says it’s a good fit.”

  “You miss him?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Breaking in a new partner takes time.”

  “So who’d you end up with?”

  “Older guy. Looks like Abe Vigoda. Good cop.”

  “How’re you two doing?”

  “It’ll work out. I like his manner. He’s been around the block. Doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder. How ‘bout you? I bet you mind Miss Cambria being gone so much.”

  “Oliver and I both do. But she’s so happy, it’s selfish to complain.”

  Mack studied her. He looked pensive, but she couldn’t read his thoughts.

  “People come and go,” he said. “We have to let them move on and live their life. If we care about them and they come back in, that’s a good thing.”

  Gen held his gaze.

  “So,” he said. It was time to get to business. “You need something.”

  She glanced away and pretended to check out the room, dealing with a rush of self-consciousness. It wasn’t her nature to avoid people until she needed their help, but that’s how this had played out.

  “I don’t mind, Genny. You’re a friend, it’s great to see you, and I’m happy to help if I can.”

  Her eyes slid back to his. He was regarding her, his expression hooded. Mack was the king at blocking his moods from emotional hackers, so there was no way to tell if that was the extent of his feelings for her now.

  Gen blew out her cheeks, then let out the air and dove in. “A client wants me to find her long-lost sister. The woman went missing from New York twenty years ago.”

  Mack’s eyebrows went up, but he waited.

  “It gets touchy, so this is not an official inquiry I’m making here. It seems the sister allegedly committed suicide after her purported involvement in a murder. The suicide was not substantiated. She left a note, but the body was never found.”

  “Allegedly? Purported? I haven’t heard so many big words since the last time I was in court. Any friends or family ever hear from her again?”

  “No.”

  “Including the sister?”

  Gen shook her head.

  “Why the interest then, after all this time?”

  Gen smiled. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Someone who works with my client bought a painting in a thrift shop in the Castro last week and brought it to her. It’s a picture of a woman standing on a cliff above the sea. It was done a few years back, and the subject looks an awful lot like the sister. Her name was Shannon Keene.”

  “Okay.” He stretched the word out like you do when you don’t really think it’s okay. “That’s all you got?”

  “Yeah.”

  The waitress swung confidently down the aisle with their plates, then plunked them on the table and patted Mack’s shoulder. “Will that do it for now, kids?”

  His eyes swung to Gen, then up. “Looks like we’re good for now, Rita.”

  “Give me a shout if that changes.” She winked. “I know you’ll help yourself to coffee, but just raise a hand if there’s anything else.”

  “Will do.”

  Mack reached for the syrup and doused his hotcakes, then dug in, keeping his elbows off the table while he ate. He’d been raised by a mother who insisted on table manners. He chewed with his mouth closed. He didn’t speak until he swallowed his food.

  Gen’s own mom would have been impressed.

  “You want me to call back to the East Coast and see what I can dig up about the investigation,” Mack said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’d hoped I could talk you into that.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’m guessing you want it to be low-key. I can’t use the story about the painting, the boys back there would laugh me off the phone. And I’m betting because of the murder rap you don’t want anyone to think there’s a possibility the girl might’ve surfaced.”

  Gen nodded.

  “I’ll think of something. But you know if in some outrageous turn of events she is alive, I have to be a cop.”

  “I know. I don’t think it’s possible, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

  “So what’s your take on it?”

  “She worked as a model. I think somebody
found a picture of her and reproduced it. But I have to look.”

  “Fair enough.” He sliced a forkful of the butter-clogged pancakes and placed them neatly on the side of her plate. “I know you want that,” he said.

  “How’d you know?” She stabbed a syrupy piece and ate it. “I was dying over the smell.”

  Mack angled his head, his face a question mark. “What do you mean, how?” His eyes dropped to his plate as he cut another bite. “You act like I don’t know you like the back of my hand.”

  Gen’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She lowered it and watched him, feeling more than a little amazed on one hand, and not at all startled on the other. It’d been a while since a man had surprised her. It had been Ryan, in fact, when he told her he was leaving.

  “What, no witty comeback? No snarky remark?” He forked in a bite of eggs and gave her a grin.

  “God, you had me going,” she replied.

  “Just a reminder of what you’ve been missing.”

  She laughed out loud and had to grab a napkin to cover her mouth.

  “Welcome back,” he said.

  “Thanks, Mack. It’s nice to be here with you.”

  He frowned. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me, now.”

  Chapter Nine

  The gallery was in Russian Hill, housed in a remodeled building with soaring ceilings and loads of refracted light. Gen and Liv stood in the doorway and scanned the crowd. The sparkle of bejeweled ears and necks and fingers screamed money.

  It also told Gen that she was underdressed.

  Oliver had nixed the dress and gone with wide satin palazzo pants and a silk shirt. His wig said Veronica Lake. His makeup was Lady Gaga on a demure day.

  Gen opted for snug jeans topped with a tank and a blood-red Lauren jacket from one of her old courtroom suits. You can’t go wrong with high-end denim. She’d thought the stilettos would jazz the outfit up just right.

  She should have wrestled Liv for his outfit instead.

  The pair drew a few glances from the gathering but no wide-eyed stares. Livvie was tame for what one saw on a typical day in the Castro, and Gen, though a bit too casual to compete with the sequined throng, had hit close enough to the mark to avoid being shunned. Who knew a local artist could command this large a group of diamond owners?

  Oliver hitched his thumb across the room toward a gaggle of shimmering women surrounding a central figure. “That’s Damian,” he said. “The one with the glittery entourage.”

  He led the way, zigzagging here and there to introduce Gen and say hello to friends. Then they made their way across the floor to the bar and ordered up a glass of champagne apiece. Next they moved on to inspect the hors d’oeuvres. Gen could tell Oliver was pleased. When he downed two of the little cups of lobster bisque, he looked like a cat with a bird. Gulp.

  They nodded and grazed and strolled around the perimeter walls, admiring the works on display. Damian Fleur had mastered several mediums, and the works exhibited included oils and charcoal drawings and watercolors.

  This was not his virgin show. Gen didn’t think his name was his first, either. It was just a little too clever, like an actor. Actors were never named Horace Kramden, only the characters they played were. Maybe it was the same with artists.

  They were nearing the end of the tasteful exhibit when Damian Fleur came up behind them.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Brilliant, as always.” Oliver turned around and they did the buss-both-cheeks routine. “Damian, this is my friend, Genevieve Delacourt.”

  Gen stuck out her palm quickly to spare herself; she’d never gotten the air-kiss thing right. Fleur’s grip was strong enough and long enough to suggest he was straight, but she’d been wrong before. The dimpled come-hither look he offered next backed up her first impression.

  When he beamed with pleasure and subtly checked out her assets, she smiled in return. “You’re very good,” she said.

  “Thank you, Genevieve. We haven’t met before.”

  “No, I don’t think we have. Call me Gen.”

  “Genny is a private detective,” Oliver said. He seemed proud of that.

  One of Damian’s eyebrows raised a notch. “Oh? Are you here this evening to detect something?”

  “You mean other than the fact that you have a lot of admirers, Mr. Fleur?”

  Livvie chuckled. “Elementary, my dear Watson.” He waved at someone and excused himself, then minced off for a tête-à-tête with another patron.

  Fleur smiled like a wealthy brat shrugging off a gaggle of adoring girls. “I’m grateful that my work has been so well received.”

  “How long have you been painting?” Gen asked.

  “All my life,” he replied. “But I’ve only been doing it well for the last dozen years. Give or take.”

  “What made the difference?”

  He gave Gen a sad face. “My heart was broken.”

  “Oh. So your muse operates on pain.”

  He regarded her. “It doesn’t sound good when you put it that way, does it. I’ll concede she came to me on a wave of despair, but she stayed on when the sun shined once again.”

  He smiled. “How was that?”

  “Well said. You sound like a poet, Damian.”

  “Beautiful women inspire that in me. I believe we could say that women have become my muse.”

  “That explains your fan club tonight.”

  Fleur angled his head and studied her. “Will you let me paint you?”

  “No.” Gen smiled as beguilingly as she knew how. “But I do have a favor to ask, if you’ll indulge me.”

  He brightened at that. “Name it.”

  “A client of mine bought an oil painting recently. We’d like to locate the artist. There is no signature on the canvas, but I just realized you might be able to tell me something about it.”

  “Shall I drop by your place to have a look? I’m free tomorrow night.”

  “That’s an interesting idea, but I just happen to have it with me now. It’s in my car. I can bring it into the front lobby. Could you tear yourself away from all this for five minutes?”

  He frowned.

  She could tell that’s not the way he’d hoped it would play out. “Please?” she said, then decided to sweeten the pot. “I could buy you dinner sometime to show my appreciation.”

  Bright smile again. “All right. I’ll refresh my drink and meet you in front in ten minutes.”

  “Perfect.” She left, only stopping long enough to whisper her plans in Oliver’s ear.

  * * *

  Fleur was lounging against the receptionist’s desk when she came back in. Two women were with him. One had a hand on his forearm and the other clearly resented the physical contact. His expression lit up when she walked through the door carrying the parcel. The women turned, spied the object of his interest, then conceded defeat and drifted back through the double doors to rejoin the party. Gen chalked up a win, feeling smug for some reason.

  Girls will be girls.

  She skinned off the paper and propped the canvas against an open easel. Someone had purchased one of Damian’s pieces that evening and taken it home, leaving the empty space. She turned to look at him. “How many have you sold tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t keep track. They’ll send the figures tomorrow.” His left hand was supporting his right elbow, and his chin was propped in the upended palm. He tapped his foot slowly, contemplating the oil.

  A few minutes passed, then he approached and examined the corner that held the date. He stepped back and scrutinized the scene again, then looked at Gen. “It’s quite good, you know.”

  “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t. I know what I like, but that’s it.”

  He reached out and circled a finger in the air over parts of the image. “The shadowing here, and here. Very well rendered. And the subject’s face is well done. Very well done, in fact. You can feel her emotion. The symmetry is lovely, the colors muted but rich. Acco
mplished.”

  “Any idea who the artist is?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing about it is familiar.”

  “And the girl?”

  “No. Should I know her?”

  Gen shook her head. “Any guess as to the area in the scene? The actual location?”

  “Are you asking if I recognize this stretch of cliff? No, I don’t. It could be California’s Central Coast. It could be farther north. I think parts of Washington and Oregon have bluffs above the ocean.”

  “How about the Eastern seaboard?”

  “Alas, I’ve not been east of Manhattan.”

  He’d moved closer during the conversation. Now he dropped his head just a bit to whisper in her ear. “Would you like to drive the coast with me? We could do our best to find the right spot.”

  Gen chuckled. “That would be a fool’s errand.”

  At first unsure how to take her comment, in the end he offered a lazy grin. “Think of the fun we could have.”

  She turned, still laughing, at the sound of the outer door opening. Her eyes nearly popped when she caught sight of the couple entering, and she struggled to cover the astonishment she knew must dominate her expression.

  “Genny. Damian.” Mack Hackett nodded, not showing any surprise at all to see Gen there. The beard was history. He was wearing a black suit with a matching shirt and tie. The last time she’d seen him in an outfit like that, they were at a funeral. And this wasn’t the same suit.

  How many did he own?

  “This is my friend Caroline,” he continued. “Caroline, meet Genevieve Delacourt and Damian Fleur.”

  The blonde clutching Mack’s arm smiled like the princess she probably was. “How nice to meet you both. Damian, I’ve been so looking forward to seeing the show.”

  Fleur shook hands with Hackett, then turned to Gen and offered a little bow. “I should be getting back. May I call you?”

  She nodded, not knowing what else to do. Words wouldn’t come. Not a single appropriate flippant comment surfaced to save her from feeling like an inept eighteen-year-old who’d just been cuckolded by an old boyfriend. Which she was not.

  So why did her mind even go there?