Hidden Riches

he worked and shivered. And there were no vehicles in the graveled lot, which meant no one was home. Despite the complications, he could still be in New York by morning. He’d sleep the entire day, then catch a late flight to the coast. Once he’dhanded over Finley’s toys, accepted the gratitude and a generous bonus, he’d fly back to New York for a rollicking New Year’s Eve.
    DiCarlo shivered as the cold snuck under his collar like frigid little ants.
    When the final tumbler fell, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction.
    In less than fifteen minutes he was certain that the painting was not in the storeroom. Using self-control, he curbed the urge to wreck the place. If the painting was going to cause a problem, it would be best if no one knew there’d been a break-in.
    He did another thorough tour of the shop, automatically picking up a few small trinkets as he went, including the jade Foo dog Terri had tried to sell him.
    Resigned, DiCarlo headed upstairs. He cursed, but without much heat when he encountered the lock on the door at the top of the steps. This one was basically for looks, and he was through it quickly.
    He listened, heard nothing. No radio, television, conversation. Still, he moved silently down the hall, peering out the door to be certain the parking lot was still empty.
    Three minutes later he was inside Jed’s apartment. That search was over almost before it had begun. There were no paintings on the wall, none tucked into the closets. He found nothing under the bed but a dog-eared paperback copy of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and a balled-up sock.
    He did find the .38 in the nightstand of some interest, but after a brief examination, replaced it. Until he’d found the painting, he couldn’t afford to steal anything noticeable. He gave the bench press and weights in the living room a quick glance on his way out.
    He was in Dora’s apartment in a matter of seconds. She hadn’t bothered to lock it.
    The search here was a different matter. Where Jed’s apartment had held a minimum of furniture, Dora’s waspacked. The clutter in Jed’s came from carelessness. In Dora’s it was a lifestyle.
    There were several paintings. A watercolor still life, two oval portraits, one of a stern-faced man in starched collar, one of an equally stern-faced woman. Other art ranged from signed lithographs, advertising posters, and pen-and-ink sketches to the finger paintings stuck to the refrigerator. But the abstract wasn’t on the wall.
    He moved into the bedroom to search the closet. Because he, too, had left the door unlocked, he barely had time to react when he heard it open. By the time it slammed, DiCarlo was deep in the closet hidden behind a colorful assortment of outfits that smelled erotically of woman.
    “I have to be crazy,” Dora told herself. “Absolutely crazy.” She peeled out of her coat, laid it over the back of a chair and yawned hugely. How did she let her parents talk her into it? Why had she let them talk her into it?
    Still muttering to herself, she walked straight to the bedroom. Her plans for the evening had been so simple, she thought. A nice, solitary meal of grilled chicken and wild rice; a long, fragrant bath with a glass of chardonnay as a companion. She’d intended to top it all off with a good book by the bedroom fire.
    But no, she thought, and switched on the Tiffany lamp beside the bed. Oh, no, she had to fall into that old family trap of the show must go on.
    Was it her fault that three stagehands had come down with the flu? Was it her fault she’d let her father badger her into joining the union?
    “Absolutely not,” she decided, tugging her tight-fitting black cashmere sweater over her head. “I didn’t give them the damn flu. I didn’t have to feel obligated to jump into the void just because I have an IATSE card.”
    Sighing, she bent over to unlace her black Chucks. Instead of a quiet, relaxing evening at home, she’d answered her mother’s frantic call for help and had spent hours handling props and hauling scenery.
    She’d even reluctantly enjoyed it. Standing backstage and listening to the voices echo, rushing out when the lights dimmed to make a scenery change, feeling a vicarious pride when the cast took their curtain calls.
    After all, Dora thought with a yawn, what’s bred in the bone . . .
    Through the two-inch crack in the closet door, DiCarlo had an excellent view. The more he saw, the more his annoyance at being