From the Heart

asked casually while keeping those deceptive blue eyes direct.
    “Fine. Thank you, sir.”
    “Janice is enjoying college?” He offered Slade a cigar. When it was refused, Dodson lit one for himself. Slade waited until the smoke stung the air before answering. Just how, he wondered, did Dodson know his sister was in college?
    “Yes, she likes it.”
    “How’s the writing?”
    He had to call on all of his training not to reveal surprise at the question. His eyes remained as clear and steady as his voice. “Struggling.”
    No time for small talk, Dodson thought, tapping off cigar ash. The boy’s already itching to be gone. But being commissioner gave him an advantage. He took another slow drag of the cigar, watching the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling. “I read that short story of yours in Mirror,” Dodson went on. “It was very good.”
    “Thank you.” What the hell’s the point? Slade wondered impatiently.
    “No luck with the novel?”
    Briefly, almost imperceptively, Slade’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet.”
    Sitting back, Dodson chewed on his cigar as he studied the man across from him. Had the look of his father, too, he mused. Slade had the same narrow face that was both intelligent and tough. He wondered if the son could smile with the same disarming charm as the father. Yet the eyes were like his mother’s—dark gray and thoughtful, skilled at keeping emotions hidden. Then there was his record, Dodson mused. He might not be the flashy cop his father had been, but he was thorough. And, thank God, less impulsive. After his years on the force, the last three in homicide, Slade could be considered seasoned. If an undercover cop wasn’t seasoned by thirty-two, he was dead. Slade had a reputation for being cool, perhaps a shade too cool, but his arrests were clean. Dodson didn’t need a man who looked for trouble, but one who knew what to do once he found it.
    “Slade . . .” He allowed a small smile to escape. “That’s what you’re called, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir.” The familiarity made him uncomfortable; the smile made him suspicious.
    “I’m sure you’ve heard of Justice Lawrence Winslow.”
    Curiosity came first, then a quick search through his mental file. “Presided over the New York Appellate Court before he was elected chief justice of the Connecticut Supreme Court about fifteen years ago. Died of a heart attack four, maybe five years ago.”
    Facts and figures, Dodson mused. The boy didn’t waste words. “He was also a damn fine lawyer, a judge who understood the full meaning of justice. A good man. His wife remarried two years ago and lives in southern France.”
    So what? Slade thought with fresh impatience as Dodson gazed broodingly over his shoulder.
    “I’m godfather to his daughter, Jessica.” The same question zipped through Slade’s mind as Dodson focused on him again. “She lives in the family home near Westport. Beautiful place—a stone’s throw from the beach. It’s quiet, peaceful.” He drummed his fingers against the desk. “I imagine a writer would find it very appealing.”
    There was an uncomfortable premonition which Slade pushed aside. “Possibly.” Was the old man matchmaking? Slade almost laughed out loud. No, that was too ridiculous.
    “Over the last nine months there has been a rash of thefts throughout Europe.”
    The abrupt change of subject startled Slade so much that the surprise showed clearly on his face. Quickly he controlled it and lifted a brow, saying nothing.
    “Important thefts,” Dodson continued. “Mainly from museums—gems, coins, stamps. France, England, Spain, and Italy have all been hit. The investigation has led the respective authorities to believe the stolen articles have been smuggled into the States.”
    “Smuggling’s federal,” Slade said briefly. And, he thought silently, has nothing to do with a homicide detective—or some justice’s spoiled daughter. Another uncomfortable thought came to him which he ignored.
    “Smuggling’s federal,” Dodson repeated, a bit too amiably for Slade’s taste. He placed the tips of his neat fingers together, watching the younger man over them. “I have a few connections in the Bureau. Because of this case’s . . . delicate nature, I’ve been consulted.” He paused a beat, longenough for Slade to comment if he chose to, then went on. “Some substantial leads in the investigation point to a small, well-respected antique shop. The Bureau knows there’s an