“Think of it as international planning.”
Brody watched the two of them vanish down the hall. “You know that you’re doomed.”
“Huh?” Lacey said.
“She’s already planning your wedding. Even before you got here, she asked me if I still could get into the tux I wore for—”
“No!” Lacey held up her hand. “Don’t go there.”
She stalked off after Ian and her mother, afraid to leave the two of them alone.
Palm Springs
Sunday night
56
It’s awfully nice of you to see us after-hours,” Lacey said, smiling her best Pasadena socialite smile. Why not? she thought. It goes with everything I’m wearing, including my mother’s carnivorous shoes.
The tanned, trim, middle-aged man smiled, showing teeth as white as his silk shirt and slacks. “Any friend of Mrs. Roberts-Worthington is a friend of ours. She’s done an absolutely fabulous job of raising AIDS awareness.”
Mrs. Roberts-Worthington was a friend of Dottie’s sorority sister, not of Lacey’s, but she didn’t feel any need to clarify the relationship. It was enough that they’d found an entrée into the Palm Springs plein air art circuit.
“This is my client, Ian Lapstrake,” Lacey said. “Ian, Chad Oliver.”
Oliver waited for Ian to show the veiled hostility or contempt of the frankly heterosexual male for a frankly homosexual male.
“A pleasure, Mr. Oliver,” Ian said, holding out his hand.
Oliver relaxed and shookIan’s hand. “Come in. My partner isn’t here right now, but he should be backsoon. Until then, perhaps I can help you.”
Ian followed Lacey into the home that was also a gallery. Furniture, sculpture, paintings, everything was artfully coordinated in feel if not in era or medium. The fact that, like their host, the color scheme consisted of shades of white took a few moments to get used to. Even the art was executed in shades of pale, no matter what the subject.
“Coffee, wine, beer, a cocktail?” Oliver asked.
“Nothing, thanks,” Lacey said. “It’s enough that you’ve agreed to talk to us. We don’t expect to be entertained.”
“I insist,” Oliver said. “I’ve been experimenting with canapé recipes. Anthony will be so pleased not to be the only beta tester.”
Ian laughed. “In that case, make mine coffee.”
The kitchen was the open sort, so Oliver could cook and entertain guests at the same time. Ian, who could always eat, set aside his computer case, sat on a bar stool overlooking the kitchen, and watched Oliver gather food and plates. He moved with the efficiency and grace of someone doing a familiar, enjoyable job.
Lacey, whose interest in the kitchen was minimal, wandered off to look at the landscapes. She recognized a name here and there, but mostly she recognized money. This wasn’t decorator art. All the paintings were technically superior, a few were excellent, and one she would have loved for her own collection.
None of them were remotely like her grandfather’s work.
She went back and sat by Ian. In answer to his raised eyebrow, she shook her head slightly.
Oliver pulled a plate of warm canapés from the microwave, set it on the counter near Ian, and handed over a cup of coffee. The plates were white except for a pale, ghostly ribbon of blue just off-center.
Ian popped in a miniature quiche, closed his eyes, and chewed with obvious pleasure. When he swallowed, he said, “Wow,” and reached for more.
Oliver grinned, poured himself a glass of wine, and went to nuke another plate of canapés.
“Better dive in,” Ian said to Lacey, “or all that’s left will be a well-licked plate.” Then Ian asked Oliver, “Don’t suppose you’d want to share this recipe?”
“You cook?” he replied, startled.
“A man who lives alone and likes good food learns to cook real quick,” Ian said. “And a man who’s going to marry an artist who’s mostly thumbs in the kitchen knows he’ll be doing the cooking.”
“I’m not mostly thumbs,” Lacey said.
“Yeah?” Ian said hopefully.
“I’m all thumbs.”
Oliver was still laughing when the front door opened.
Anthony Milhaven was twenty years older and six inches taller than his partner, and had the bearing of a man who had spent a lot of time in the military. Though surprised to find guests, he was as gracious as Oliver had been. Soon everyone was sitting on one side or another of the bar, eating and talking.
“You’ve been in the gallery business thirty years?” Ian asked Milhaven.
“Thirty-three, but who’s counting?” He picked up his scotch and took a healthy swallow. “Damn, I needed that. Been a bitch of a day. Hate inventory. Hate taxes. Love these egg-thingies.” He popped three into his mouth at once and looked at Ian. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re trying to trace an artist,” Lacey said before Ian could answer. “He might have been buying or selling paintings.”
“When?” Milhaven asked, reaching for more canapés.
“On and off for the last thirty years, at least,” she said.
“How old is he?”
“In his eighties. He’s been dead for two years.” As always, Lacey had to swallow hard. The image of the empty truck, the easel set up a hundred yards away, and desert silence made her want to cry. He’d been so alone when he died.
Milhaven saw the sadness in her eyes and wondered, but he didn’t say anything.
Ian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out photos. With the Quinns’ help, he had “aged” the best photos to represent ten-year spans of David Quinn’s life. If these didn’t ring any bells, he had a backup set with different hair, beard, and mustache styles to aid in jogging someone’s memory.
“He was about five feet ten inches,” Ian said, handing over the photos, “lean body, brown eyes, brown hair and beard that went gray from the chin up. Probably had paint-stained hands. Eyeteeth partially overlapped his front two teeth. No accent. No limp. No missing digits. No obvious scars. Somewhat stooped bearing.”
“Were you a cop before or after you were a soldier?” Milhaven asked without looking up from the photos.
“After,” Ian said without missing a beat.
Milhaven nodded. “Military shows in the posture. Cop in the eye and the gun under your jacket.”
“Did you get your twenty years before you got out of the military?” Ian asked.
Milhaven nodded. “Retirement kept me alive until the gallery began to pay its way,” he said, but his attention was on the third photo. It showed the face of a man who could have been between fifty and seventy years old. “I might have seen him, but it was at least ten years ago. Hard to say. I’ve got a head full of faces. Part of the business.”
“Was he buying paintings?” Lacey asked.
With a frown, Milhaven stared at the photo. “He didn’t buy any from me. I remember people who buy.”
“How about selling?” Ian asked.
“You have any idea how many times a day someone comes in and tries to sell me something?” Milhaven asked.
Ian opened his computer, booted up, and opened a file of landscape paintings. “How about this?” he asked, turning the computer screen toward Milhaven.
“Fabulous,” Oliver said, staring at stark desert mountains blushing pink with dawn and a foreground of skeletal shrubs as dark as fear.
Milhaven pinched his lips together and studied the image. Even when translated into pixels and put on a computer screen, the quality came through. “Hell of a painting. Is it for sale?”
“Not at this time,” Lacey said.
“When it is, give me a call.”
“I will.”
He looked up, measuring her.
“I mean it,” she said. “You remember faces and I remember people who help me.”
With a brief nod, he went back to looking at the screen. The landscapes clicked by. Then came a painting from each aspect of the Death Suite.
“Have you ever seen any like these before?” Lacey asked.
He shrugged. “I keep thinking I’ve seen this artist before. The landscapes, not the violence. What’s his name?”
“David Quinn,” Lacey said.
Silence, pursed lips, and finally a shake of his head. “Never heard of him.”
“You ever heard of Lewis Marten?” Ian asked casually.
“Marten, Marten. Wait.” He held up a hand to keep anyone from prompting him. “It’s coming back. Painted fifty-sixty years ago, ran with Savoy Ranch artists. Died young. Of course, they all seem young when you’re almost seventy.” Milhaven looked closely at the computer screen, which had cycled back to the first landscape. “You thinking about selling these Martens?”
“The paintings aren’t signed,” she said carefully. “All I really want is—”
“Unsigned?” Milhaven sighed. “Too bad. Takes a real hit in value that way. You get a confident collector, though, and you’ve got a sale. Maybe ten, twenty thousand. Maybe more, depending on how in love with the painting the client is.”
“I’ve had offers a lot bigger than twenty thousand,” she said, remembering Savoy Forrest.
“Must have been a client. A gallery can’t afford to go any higher and still turn a profit on resale.”
“Do you own any Martens?” Ian asked.
“Personally or professionally?”
“I’m not fussy.”
Milhaven looked at the computer screen. “You want to tell me what this is really about?”
“It’s about finding out if you’ve been offered similar art by the man in the photo,” Ian said.
For a long time Milhaven was silent. “I’ll have to think about it. Check my records. I’ve got a hot list of clients who are interested in various styles of art or individual artists. So does every other gallery worthy of the name. It’s called taking care of business. You have a card?”
Ian knew a here’s-your-hat-what’s-your-hurry when it was shoved in his face. He stood, took a business card from his wallet, and handed it to Milhaven.
“Rarities Unlimited,” Milhaven said, reading the card. He gave Ian a look from shrewd gray eyes. “They have quite a reputation.”
Ian’s smile was all teeth. “Lacey remembers people who help her. I remember people who don’t. Check your records and call us.”
San Diego
Monday morning
57
The weather had turned around again, back to brisk winds off the sea and a layer of clouds piling up against the inland mountains. Ian and Lacey pulled their jackets close as they ran from the upscale gallery to his truck. Shivering, Lacey leaped inside and slammed the door.
“Well, that was another waste of time,” she said. “Everybody coos over the landscapes and recoils at the Death Suite, hasn’t seen anything like any of it before, and would I like to sell?”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of investigation,” Ian said. “I offered to take you home.”
“My home is a sooty, soggy mess,” she said. “I can’t paint at the hotel and—”
“Why not? Susa left you enough paraphernalia for a whole platoon of—”
“I’d rather be with you,” Lacey cut in. “Are you saying you’d rather be alone?”
He leaned over and hauled her close for a slow, steamy kiss.
“I’m not complaining about having you close enough to taste from time to time,” he said when he finally lifted his head. “I’m just feeling guilty about keeping you from your work. Susa wasn’t fooling when she said she was a picky bitch. She’ll run you ragged.” He bent down to kiss her again.
His cell phone rang. He wanted to ignore it.
So did Lacey, but…“It might be Milhaven,” she said reluctantly.
“You’re reading my mind again.”
He pulled out his cell phone, didn’t recognize the caller ID number, and took the call anyway.
“Ian Lapstrake,” he said curtly.
The person on the other end of the line spoke with the muffled intonations of a disguised voice. “Tell her to stop asking questions about David Quinn or she’ll die.”
“The connection is bad,” Ian said, automatically hitting the record button. “Could you repeat that?”
The sound changed. The man—or possibly woman—had hung up. He hit two buttons and the phone connected with the last call made. It rang twelve times. Someone picked it up and confirmed what Ian had already guessed. “This is a public phone, asshole.” The line went dead.
Lacey saw the stillness in Ian’s body, the coldness in the line of his mouth, the intensity in his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Somebody doesn’t like you asking questions about your grandfather.” Ian thought quickly. “I think it’s time for you to meet the folks at Rarities. Dana loves to have smart women around and you’ll be able to paint until your eyes cross.” And there are plenty of guards to keep Lacey safe while I find out what the hell is going on. “You two will have a great time.”
Lacey just stared at him.
“Okay,” he said, switching gears, “how about catching up with Susa and talking about your upcomings how?” From what I know about that outfit, the Donovans can take care of any little thing that comes up.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The game just changed. You’re out.”
She ignored him. “Who called?”
“Public phone.” Automatically Ian checked the gun in the harness. Secure, loaded, ready to go.
The reflexive gesture told Lacey more than words, but she wanted the words, too. “And?”
Ian started the truck without answering.
“Ignorance isn’t bliss,” she said. “Especially if there’s something dangerous. That’s why they post road signs. It keeps the ignorant from driving off cliffs.”
He muttered something under his breath.
Lacey kept watching his profile, waiting.
Ian wove through San Diego traffic to the freeway and headed north.
“Let me help you with your short-term planning,” she said tightly. “I’m not going to see Susa, I’m not going to visit Rarities, and the only ‘home’ I have is a hotel where a thief has a security passkey. Next suggestion?”
Ian had already arrived at the same conclusion about the hotel. He just didn’t like it.
“Shit,” he said under his breath.
“As a suggestion, it lacks detail.”
Against his will, Ian smiled. “Okay. The guy said you should stop looking for David Quinn and that this was the only warning you’d get.”
A combination of fear and fury swept through her. She let the rage burn away the cold fear. “That’s it? Just a ‘get out of Dodge’ edict?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck him.”
He glanced sideways for an instant, then back to the brawling steel race of the freeway. He’d expected the fear he saw in her, but the anger surprised him. It shouldn’t have. Right now he was mad enough to kill, and it came from fear of her getting hurt.
“I’d rather bury him,” Ian said.
“That, too.” She blew out a hard breath, trying to think through the wild turmoil of her emotions. “Was he serious?”
“Public phone, disguised voice, untraceable. Yeah, I’d have to think he meant it. Or she. Couldn’t tell.”
“Why is he or she so worried about me asking questions?”
“If we knew that, we’d have a handle on who.”
“Is paranoia catching?” she asked after a moment.
“I don’t know. What are your symptoms?”
“Maybe I’m just having a string of bad luck—fire, theft, death threat—but I’m beginning to feel hunted.”
“The fire was an accident,” Ian said neutrally. “It said so in the report.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The theft was aimed at Susa. Common sense
says so.”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence grew. And grew.
“It’s catching,” Ian said reluctantly. “I have it, too.”
“You don’t think I’m being crazy?”
“Before that telephone call I was paranoid. Now I’m certain.”
Die in Plain Sight Page 34
