Read Die in Plain Sight Online
Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
Die in Plain Sight (31 page)
T
he 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.”
Her mouth went suddenly dry. She’d really hoped she was weaving smoke. “Of what?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong on this, but up until the charity benefit, your grandfather’s art was out of public sight.”
“Yes.”
“The art goes public, everyone goes nuts, someone tries to buy it and someone else tries to burn it. When that doesn’t work, it’s stolen. Then a whole new stash of the art is found. I’ll bet that put somebody’s gonads in a twist.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Whoever doesn’t want David Quinn’s history or his art out in public.”
Too many deaths. Not enough police work. Ain’t nothing changed. Stay away from it, boy.
He should have taken his great-uncle’s advice, but he hadn’t. Now the woman he loved was in danger.
Too many deaths.
U
sually Lacey thrived on art galleries, but at the moment she was suffering overload. She and Ian had both agreed that it would be smart to plow through as many galleries as possible before the caller had a chance to track her down.
Anybody who wanted to find her would have to move fast. Eleven galleries so far today, starting with two in Palm Desert, followed by four in San Diego, two in La Jolla, and three in Laguna Beach. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d seen a mind-boggling amount of pretty good art, some very good art, and a few paintings that made her realize all over again just how far she had to go as an artist. One of the latter had been Susa’s.
They had discovered that four of the galleries were too new to have been used by David Quinn. Another three of them had only been in business for eight to fifteen years. The rest were old enough, but had
changed management and/or ownership too many times for anyone to remember anything useful.
No one had seen anything like the Death Suite before, or if they had, they weren’t talking about it. Everybody wanted to buy the landscapes.
The twelfth gallery on their list was also in Laguna. The business was crammed into an old, much-remodeled Victorian on the inland side of Pacific Coast Highway. Just enough had been spent on ambiance that the walk-in customers knew they weren’t in a frame shop; the rest of the overhead was in location and stock. Franz Bischoff, Sam Hyde Harris, Paul Lauritz, Granville Redmond, Hanson Puthuff, Guy Rose, George Brandhoff, Edgar Payne, William Wendt, Maurice Braun—Lacey read the signatures aloud in a kind of a daze.
“You okay?” Ian asked, wondering if the pressure of the death threat had finally gotten to her.
“Yes. No. This is incredible. Museum-quality southern California plein air artists all over the place. Only a few of the paintings are major, of course, but all of the artists are.”
“Whatever you say,” Ian muttered. “They’re all beginning to look alike to me.”
“Then you need a break.”
“We’ll get something to eat as soon as we’re through here.”
“More hamburgers,” Lacey said.
“Afraid so. They’re easier to eat on the road than fancy food, and we’ve got a couple more galleries in Newport Beach to hit before they close.”
Lacey stifled a groan. She was used to fast food, but she was also used to having some green stuff from time to time.
“I’ll buy you a big salad before we go to bed,” Ian said.
“Are you a mind reader?”
“Nope. Just a guy who’s tired of so-so beef, bad cheese, and worse fries. We haven’t had anything decent to eat since Oliver’s quiches.”
“Did Milhaven ever call?”
“Not since I last checked.”
“When was that?” she asked.
“While you were asleep in my truck.”
“Don’t give me that long-suffering voice,” she said, determined to act
like everything was normal. “Whose fault is it that I haven’t been getting my full eight hours of sleep at night?”
He gave her a dark, sideways look. “I wasn’t complaining.”
She licked her lips. “Neither was I.”
“Feeling real frisky after that nap, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Wanna fight?”
“I’d rather f—” Ian cut off the rest of the word and smiled over Lacey’s head at the clerk, an under-thirty woman with a power suit, one-of-a-kind jewelry, and expensive red-gold hair. “Hi,” he said, “are you Mrs. Katz?”
“No, I’m Julia York. May I help you?”
Ian smiled. “We talked to Mrs. Katz earlier today. We’re a little late for our appointment, but we’re hoping not too late.”
Julia took in the smile and the rest of the package, and loosened up considerably. “Mr. Lapstrake?”
“That’s me. This is Lacey Quinn.”
Julia nodded but didn’t look away from Ian. “Mrs. Katz told me to expect you. She’s up in the storage room.”
Lacey wondered if she suddenly had gone invisible. Then she felt Ian’s hand tucking loose curls behind her ears before settling on her nape in a gesture of intimacy that was as telling as it was casual.
“Lead the way,” Ian said, caressing Lacey’s nape.
Julia got the message. She smiled at Lacey. “Ms. Quinn, Mrs. Katz is looking forward to meeting you. Follow me.”
The assistant had a nice pair of hips and she used them to advantage climbing the stairway to what had once been an attic and now was a storage room for art. She passed Ian and Lacey over to Katz by calling out brief introductions into the interior of the attic.
“Be out in a minute,” Katz called from behind a rack of paintings.
Julia nodded to Lacey, gave Ian a predatory smile, and left without a word.
“Whew,” Lacey said under her breath, watching Julia descend the stairs. “I was wondering if you were going to have to pull your gun to defend your honor.”
“Guns probably turn her on.”
“Scary thought.”
“
You
think it’s scary—what about
me
?”
“I think you’re scary, too.”
Ian smiled despite the gnawing tension in his shoulders and the echo of that voice in his mind.
Stop asking questions.
Or she’ll die.
Stop asking.
She’ll die.
Die.
I
t was five minutes later when Mrs. Katz finally bustled out from behind a screen and into the small cleared area of the attic. Her hair was short and improbably dark, framing a face that looked every bit of seven decades old. She reminded Lacey of a sparrow at nesting time—small, dark-eyed, nondescript, energetic, bristling with purpose.
“Hello excuse the mess I’m getting ready for a new show and what is this about some mysterious man?” Katz said.
Lacey sorted out the flood of words and said, “We understand you’ve owned this gallery for forty years.”
“And worked in it for twenty more,” Katz agreed. “My parents owned it and my grandmother was a painter back when women artists were rare enough to stop traffic. None of it came down to me but an eye for good art, which made me crazy because I can’t paint worth spit. What can I do for you?”
Ian handed the photos over to Lacey and set his computer on a work-table.
“I was wondering if this man ever came to your gallery to buy or sell art,” Lacey said, laying out a series of enhanced photos of her grandfather.
Katz picked up the photos and held them about two inches from her nose, peering at them. Ian saw the cataracts clouding her left eye and didn’t have much hope for the outcome.
“Clean shaven, middle-aged or older, not handsome, not ugly, wallpaper clothes.” Katz shrugged and handed back the photos. “It could be any one of a hundred men.”
“‘Wallpaper clothes?’” Ian asked.
“Ordinary,” Lacey guessed. “Unremarkable.”
“Wallpaper,” Katz agreed.
“Gotcha.” Ian reached into his computer case and pulled out the backup photos, the ones where Quinn had more or less hair, a hat or no hat, glasses or no glasses. “What about these?”
Katz went through the first three without a pause, then stopped on the fourth.
Lacey looked over the woman’s shoulder. The photo was a reworked wedding picture. It showed her grandfather with a short beard and mustache, glasses, and a leather cap with a bill. The facial hair was dark, making him look younger than the forty years he’d been when the picture was taken. The digital trickery still intrigued Lacey because she’d never seen her grandfather with anything on his face but his skin. Neither had her father.
“I recognize him. I know I’ve seen him.” Katz frowned. “But I can’t remember if it was here or somewhere else.”
“Do you remember when?” Ian asked.
“Oh, years and years ago, forty, maybe even fifty, maybe even more. Never was much good at dates and numbers and things, but I know I’ve seen him.”
Ian reined in his impatience and fired up the computer.
“Was he buying paintings?” Lacey asked.
Silence, then a sigh. “Too long ago for me to remember.”
“How about this?” Ian said, pointing to the computer screen.
Katz bent over and got close enough to the screen for her eyes to cross. She backed up an inch or two and looked at six landscapes as Ian
clicked through the file. When the Death Suite appeared, she blinked, tilted her head, and said what everyone else had. “Good but tough to sell. The landscapes, now…” She clicked back to them.
“Lewis Marten,” she said. There wasn’t any doubt in her voice. She might have trouble with time, but she’d worked in the plein air art business since she was ten years old, dusting and cleaning the gallery for her parents. “My father collected him, or tried to. My, that was a terrible thing losing all that art in the fire, just terrible.”
“Hard on the artist, too,” Ian said dryly. “He lost his life.”
“We all die sooner or later, but we don’t expect everything we did to die with us,” Katz said. “If it weren’t for collectors like my father no one would even know about Marten.”
“You have some of his paintings?” Lacey asked eagerly. “Signed paintings?”
Katz’s expression became cautious. “My father did.”
“You don’t have them still?” Lacey asked.
“My insurers don’t like me talking about what I do or don’t own.”
“We understand,” Ian said. He handed her a Rarities card. “We’re not thieves sizing you up for a contract robbery, Mrs. Katz.”
Katz read the card very carefully, then nodded her head once. “I had to sell five of my father’s six signed Martens in order to keep the gallery after my parents died. Since then, I’ve bought two Martens. Neither of them is signed.”
“When did you buy the unsigned ones?” Lacey asked.
“One was about thirty years ago and one was about ten, eleven years ago. I’ve heard of others coming on the market, but I’ve never seen them.”
Lacey looked at Ian and wondered if he was thinking what she was about the timing. Thirty years ago Lacey’s parents were buying a new home. About ten years ago Lacey had been trying to get enough money to study overseas. And her grandfather, despite his contempt for higher education, had given her the money to go.
“Now that you mention it,” Katz said thoughtfully, “the men who sold them to me could have been in those photos you showed me, but I couldn’t swear to it, wallpaper being pretty much wallpaper and all. Thirty years is a long time and I’d just had my first cataract surgery ten years ago so my right eye wasn’t what you’d call real sharp.”
“If Rarities contacts you directly,” Ian said, “would you be willing to let them examine your three paintings?”
“I wouldn’t have to pay anything?”
“We’ll even pick them up and deliver them back to you,” Ian said,
especially as I’ll be doing it on my vacation time
. “Rarities’ insurance carrier would cover you door to door. Plus we’d give you a hard copy file of our research and our conclusions as to the authenticity of the unsigned paintings.”
“Why?” Katz asked baldly. “Normally Rarities charges thousands and has a waiting list as long as this century.”
“We have other clients who are interested in unsigned Lewis Marten paintings. Having access to your signed painting would be worth a great deal.” Ian smiled gently at her. “As you know, museums have all kinds of internal constraints on where and why and how long they can let out their collections. Paintings by Marten—signed paintings—are real rare. We’d appreciate a chance to look at yours.”
“Young man, you’ve got a real nice smile,” Katz said.
Lacey choked back a laugh.
“Thank you, ma’am. I have to give my grandmother credit for it. I got it from her.”
“How about this?” Katz said, settling in to bargain with the relish of a person whose life’s work consisted in working on a profit margin that changed from customer to customer. “You can take those three paintings and I’ll take Rarities’ opinion as to the art.”
“And?” Ian asked warily.
“And you’ll agree to sell the six landscapes through my gallery,” she said, pointing a bony finger at the computer.
“They aren’t signed,” Lacey said, “and they’re not for sale.”
“Sooner or later everything’s for sale,” Katz said. “Trust me. I’ve been to enough estate auctions to know. Do we have a deal?”
“
If
those five paintings come on the market, it will be through your gallery,” Lacey said.
“Five? What about the sixth?”
“The desert landscape is promised to someone else.”
“Good enough.” Mrs. Katz’s grin showed teeth that were as improbably light as her hair was dark.
“How many clients do you have waiting for them?” Ian asked.
“Enough for a lot more paintings.”
Ian wasn’t surprised. Seven of the eleven galleries they’d visited had said the same thing. Apparently selling fake Martens was a thriving underground business on the collector circuit.
And somebody was willing to kill to keep it that way.
