Hidden Riches

you shot a police officer.”
    “It was necessary. He was watching the building.”
    “Mmm. And why do you suppose he was doing that?”
    “I can’t be sure.” Sincerity in every pore, DiCarlo leaned forward. “I left absolutely no sign of forced entry. I did overhear an argument between the Conroy woman and her tenant. He was violent. It might be that she asked for police protection.”
    “Interesting that she simply didn’t have him evicted,” Finley commented—very, very pleasantly. “You did say the tenant was the one who battered your face.”
    DiCarlo stiffened with wounded pride. “It was probably a lovers’ quarrel. I figure the guy was getting more than a roof over his head out of her.”
    “Do you?” Finley let the crudeness of the remark pass.“We will have to discuss this further, Mr. DiCarlo. After lunch, perhaps.”
    “Sure.” Relieved, DiCarlo settled back. “I’ll run through all the details with you.”
    “That will be fine. Well, shall we dine, gentlemen?”
    They enjoyed the pheasant salad along with a chilled Pouilly-Fumé in the formal dining room with its Victorian furniture and sun-swept garden view. Throughout, Finley kept the conversation away from business. It interfered with the palate, as he explained to DiCarlo. He spent an hour playing jovial host, generously refilling DiCarlo’s glass himself.
    When the last drop of wine and the final morsel of trifle had been consumed, Finley pushed back from the table.
    “I hope you’ll forgive us, Abel, but as much as I regret it, Mr. DiCarlo and I should conclude our business. Perhaps a walk around the grounds, through the garden?” he said to DiCarlo.
    Pleasantly buzzed on wine, rich food and success, DiCarlo patted his stomach. “I could use a walk after that meal.”
    “Good, good. I’m a bit of a fanatic about exercise. I’d enjoy the company. We won’t be long, Abel.”
    Finley led DiCarlo out into a solarium complete with potted palms and a musical fountain, through the atrium doors and into the garden.
    “I want to tell you how much I admire you, Mr. Finley,” DiCarlo began. “Running your business, having a home like this. You sure cut a wide path for yourself.”
    “I like to think so.” Finley’s shoes crunched lightly over the smooth white stones on the garden path. “Do you know flowers, Mr. DiCarlo?”
    “Just that women are usually suckers for them.”
    Laughing appreciatively, Finley led him through the garden, finally stopping to admire the view. Finley stood looking out over the Los Angeles basin, drawing deeply of the fragrances around him. Flowers—early roses, jasmine. The tang of freshly watered mulch and clipped grass.
    “Your plans, Mr. DiCarlo?” Finley said abruptly.
    “What? Oh. It’s all simple. I put my man on it. He’ll take care of the Conroy woman. Believe me, after he gets through with her, she’ll tell him anything.” His lips thinned a moment as he grudgingly accepted he wouldn’t have the pleasure of beating the painting’s location out of her. “Like I said, he might have to wait a week or two, until things cool off. But he’ll snatch her, put on the pressure until she leads him to the painting.”
    “And then.”
    “He’ll whack her, don’t worry.” DiCarlo smiled a little, professional man to professional man. “He won’t leave any loose ends.”
    “Ah, yes, loose ends. Most inconvenient. And yourself?”
    “Me, I figured I’d take a few months in Mexico. Odds are they got a look at me. It was dark, sure, but I don’t like to take those kind of chances. If they manage to make me, I’d rather be across the border.”
    “Wise, I’m sure.” Finley bent over a rosebush, sniffed delicately at a pale pink bud just beginning to part its tender petals. “It occurs to me, Mr. DiCarlo, that if they make you, they may involve me—however indirectly.”
    “No way. No possible way. Rest easy, Mr. Finley, they’d never tie a man like you with a couple of break-ins in a Philadelphia junk shop.”
    “Loose ends,” Finley said with a sigh. When he straightened, he held a pearl-handled revolver in his hand. And he was smiling again, charmingly. “It’s best to snip them off.”
    He fired, aiming just above DiCarlo’s belt buckle. The sound echoed over the hills and sent terrified birds screaming skyward.
    DiCarlo’s eyes widened with surprise, then glazed with pain. The unbelievable fire of the pain. Dully, he looked down at his belly, pressing a hand