Hidden Riches

as he delicately removed more of the primer. “Pay dirt,” he murmured. “Son of a bitch.”
    “What?” Refusing to be put off, Dora nudged him untilshe could crouch close to the corner. “Monet.” She whispered the name, as though in church. “Claude Monet. Oh my God, I bought a Monet for fifty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
    “I bought a Monet,” Jed reminded her. “For eighty.”
    “Children.” Brent laid a hand on each of their backs. “I’m not much of an art buff, but even I know who this guy is, and I don’t think anybody would have painted that abstract crap over the real thing.”
    “Unless it was being smuggled,” Jed finished.
    “Exactly. I’ll run a check, see if there’ve been any art thefts in the last few months that included our friend here.”
    “It might have been in a private collection.” Dora let her fingers hover over Monet’s signature, but didn’t touch. “Don’t take off any more, Jed. You could damage it.”
    She was right. Jed stemmed his impatience and set the rag aside. “I know somebody who does some restoration work. She could probably handle this, and she’d keep quiet about it.”
    “The old girlfriend?” Dora asked.
    “She isn’t old.” In an unconscious move he skimmed a hand over Dora’s hair, resting his fingers on the nape of her neck as he looked over at Brent.
    “You’re going to have to take this to Goldman.”
    “That’s the next step.”
    Jed looked down at the artist’s signature against a deep misty green. “I shouldn’t ask you, but I’m going to.”
    “How much time do you want?” Brent asked, anticipating him.
    “Time enough to check out this auction house in Virginia and find the trail.” He kept his voice even.
    Brent nodded and picked up his coat. “I’ve got enough on my plate checking out DiCarlo. NYPD reports that he hasn’t been seen at his apartment for a few days. Between that and trying to keep Philadelphia safe for women and children, I could let certain details slip my mind. You’d be doing me a favor if you could pull together what a chinastatue of a dog and a painting have in common. Keep in touch.”
    “I will.”
    “And watch your back. See you, Dora.”
    “Bye, Brent.” She stayed where she was a moment. “How high a limb did he just go out on for you?”
    “High enough.”
    “Then we’d better be sure we can pull a net under him.”
    “We?” He grabbed her hand as she got to her feet. “I don’t remember anything about we.”
    “Then your memory’s faulty. Why don’t you call your friend the artist, then book us a flight for Virginia? I’ll be packed in ten minutes.”
    “There’s not a woman alive who can pack for a trip in ten minutes.”
    “Skimmerhorn.” She spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the bedroom. “I was born on the road. Nobody packs faster than an actor ducking an opening-night bomb.”
    “I don’t want you with me. It could be dangerous.”
    “Fine, I’ll book my own flight.”
    “Goddamn, you’re a pain in the ass.”
    “So I’ve been told. Oh, and make sure it’s first-class, will you? I never travel coach.”
     
    Winesap knocked lightly on Finley’s office door. He knew his employer had just completed a forty-five-minute conference call, and wasn’t sure of his mood. Gingerly, he poked his head inside. Finley was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
    “Sir?”
    “Abel. It’s a fine day, isn’t it? A fine day.”
    The trepidation curdling Winesap’s stomach smoothed out like lake water. “Yes, sir, it is.”
    “I’m a fortunate man, Abel. Of course, I’ve made my own fortune, which makes it all the sweeter. How many of those people down there enjoy their work, do you suppose?How many go home at the end of the business day fulfilled? Yes, Abel, I am a fortunate man.” He turned back, his face wreathed in smiles. “And what can I do for you?”
    “I have a dossier on Isadora Conroy.”
    “Excellent work. Excellent.” He beckoned Winesap forward. “You are of great value to me, Abel.” As he reached for the file, Finley squeezed Winesap’s bony shoulder with his free hand. “Of great value. I would like to demonstrate my appreciation.” Opening his top desk drawer, Finley took out a velvet box.
    “Thank you, sir.” Humbled and touched, Winesap opened the box. “Oh, Mr. Finley,” he said in a choked voice. Choked because he didn’t have a clue what he was looking at.
    It seemed to be a spoon of