Hidden Riches

Shot in his office right before Christmas. You might want to call the locals here for details.”
    “I’ve got it.”
    “Ashworth, Thomas, local antique dealer, killed during a burglary about the same time Porter bought it. He’d been at the auction with Dora, bought a porcelain figurine.” Jed consulted his list. “A man and a woman, about two feet high, in period dress. Antebellum. He didn’t keep it long.”
    “Value?”
    “Negligible. I’ve got a rundown here of what else was in the shipment, and who bought what.”
    “You’ve been busy, Captain. Read it off, but take it slow. My shorthand’s rusty.”
    When he’d finished the list, Jed crushed out his cigarette. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put a rush on running these people down.”
    “You don’t have to ask.”
    “The shipment came down from New York, supposed to be from some estate sale, but the woman in charge seemed to think the stuff was yard-sale junk—not exactly what she’d been expecting. I’ve got the name of the guy who sent it down. I’m going to check him out tomorrow, in person.”
    “Let me have the name. We’ll run a make on him just in case.”
    “Franklin Flowers, Brooklyn address. Any more on Mrs. Lyle?”
    “Her condition seems to be stabilizing. She doesn’t remember any more than what she told us.”
    “The painting?”
    “Your old girlfriend’s still working on it. Nice thought to have her working in your grandmother’s place.” A hint of amusement lightened Brent’s voice. “Your grandmother told me, in no uncertain terms, that the process wouldn’t be rushed.”
    “You’ve got a man on her?”
    “Twenty-four hours. I’ve had to blow a little smoke in Goldman’s direction, call in a few favors. Reports are the duty includes petits fours and café au lait. I wouldn’t mind pulling it myself. Give me your number in case I come up with anything tonight.”
    Jed read it off the phone. “Are you taking any heat on this?”
    “Nothing I can’t handle. Goldman decided to take an interest in Trainor’s shooter. Did a standup in front of the courthouse. You know: ‘When one of my men is killed, I won’t rest until the perpetrator is brought to justice.’ Film at eleven.”
    “We’ll dump DiCarlo right in his lap.”
    The disgust in Jed’s voice gave Brent hope. “If we can find him. Our boy seems to have gone underground.”
    “Then we’ll dig him up. I’ll call you from New York.”
    He hung up, leaned back against the headboard and smoked another cigarette. The water had stopped running. He hoped she was lying back in the tub, her eyes closed and her mind blank.
    Dora was lying back. She did have her eyes closed while the hot water and bath salts slowly relaxed her body. It was more difficult to relax her mind. She kept seeing the way Helen Owings’s eyes had filled and overflowed. She kept hearing the way Thomas Ashworth III’s voice had thickened when he’d spoken of his grandfather. She keptremembering how pale and fragile Mrs. Lyle had looked lying in a hospital bed surrounded by machines.
    Even in the warmth of the bath she could feel the memory of the cool barrel of a gun pressed against her breast.
    Worse, she could still hear Jed’s flat, dispassionate voice questioning the victims, and see his eyes, so gorgeously blue, blank out all emotion. No heat, no ice, no sympathy.
    Wasn’t that its own kind of death? she wondered. Not to feel—no, she corrected, not to allow yourself to feel. And that was so much worse. To have the capacity to permit yourself to stand to the side and observe and dissect without any of the grief touching you.
    Perhaps she’d been wrong about him all along. Perhaps nothing really touched him, nothing got through all those carefully constructed layers of disinterest and frigid objectivity.
    He was simply doing a job, putting together a puzzle, yet none of the pieces meant any more than a step taken toward a solution.
    She stayed in the water until it began to cool. Postponing the moment when she would have to face him again, Dora dried off carefully, soothed herself by slowly creaming her skin. She let the towel drop, then reached for her robe.
    Her hand hesitated, then brushed over the vivid green terrycloth. She’d let herself forget that side of him, she realized. The gentle side, the perhaps reluctantly-kind-but-kind-nonetheless side.
    Sighing a little, she slipped into the robe. It was her own fault, she decided. She always seemed to look for