Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

not the violence. What’s his name?”
    “David Quinn,” Lacey said.
    Silence, pursed lips, and finally a shake of his head. “Never heard of him.”
    “You ever heard of Lewis Marten?” Ian asked casually.
    “Marten, Marten. Wait.” He held up a hand to keep anyone from prompting him. “It’s coming back. Painted fifty-sixty years ago, ran with Savoy Ranch artists. Died young. Of course, they all seem young when you’re almost seventy.” Milhaven looked closely at the computer screen, which had cycled back to the first landscape. “You thinking about selling these Martens?”
    “The paintings aren’t signed,” she said carefully. “All I really want is—”
    “Unsigned?” Milhaven sighed. “Too bad. Takes a real hit in value that way. You get a confident collector, though, and you’ve got a sale. Maybe ten, twenty thousand. Maybe more, depending on how in love with the painting the client is.”
    “I’ve had offers a lot bigger than twenty thousand,” she said, remembering Savoy Forrest.
    “Must have been a client. A gallery can’t afford to go any higher and still turn a profit on resale.”
    “Do you own any Martens?” Ian asked.
    “Personally or professionally?”
    “I’m not fussy.”
    Milhaven looked at the computer screen. “You want to tell me what this is really about?”
    “It’s about finding out if you’ve been offered similar art by the man in the photo,” Ian said.
    For a long time Milhaven was silent. “I’ll have to think about it. Check my records. I’ve got a hot list of clients who are interested in various styles of art or individual artists. So does every other gallery worthy of the name. It’s called taking care of business. You have a card?”
    Ian knew a here’s-your-hat-what’s-your-hurry when it was shoved in his face. He stood, took a business card from his wallet, and handed it to Milhaven.
    “Rarities Unlimited,” Milhaven said, reading the card. He gave Ian a look from shrewd gray eyes. “They have quite a reputation.”
    Ian’s smile was all teeth. “Lacey remembers people who help her. I remember people who don’t. Check your records and call us.”

San Diego
    Monday morning
57
    T he weather had turned around again, back to brisk winds off the sea and a layer of clouds piling up against the inland mountains. Ian and Lacey pulled their jackets close as they ran from the upscale gallery to his truck. Shivering, Lacey leaped inside and slammed the door.
    “Well, that was another waste of time,” she said. “Everybody coos over the landscapes and recoils at the Death Suite, hasn’t seen anything like any of it before, and would I like to sell?”
    “Welcome to the wonderful world of investigation,” Ian said. “I offered to take you home.”
    “My home is a sooty, soggy mess,” she said. “I can’t paint at the hotel and—”
    “Why not? Susa left you enough paraphernalia for a whole platoon of—”
    “I’d rather be with you,” Lacey cut in. “Are you saying you’d rather be alone?”
    He leaned over and hauled her close for a slow, steamy kiss.
    “I’m not complaining about having you close enough to taste from time to time,” he said when he finally lifted his head. “I’m just feeling guilty about keeping you from your work. Susa wasn’t fooling when she said she was a picky bitch. She’ll run you ragged.” He bent down to kiss her again.
    His cell phone rang. He wanted to ignore it.
    So did Lacey, but…“It might be Milhaven,” she said reluctantly.
    “You’re reading my mind again.”
    He pulled out his cell phone, didn’t recognize the caller ID number, and took the call anyway.
    “Ian Lapstrake,” he said curtly.
    The person on the other end of the line spoke with the muffled intonations of a disguised voice. “Tell her to stop asking questions about David Quinn or she’ll die.”
    “The connection is bad,” Ian said, automatically hitting the record button. “Could you repeat that?”
    The sound changed. The man—or possibly woman—had hung up. He hit two buttons and the phone connected with the last call made. It rang twelve times. Someone picked it up and confirmed what Ian had already guessed. “This is a public phone, asshole.” The line went dead.
    Lacey saw the stillness in Ian’s body, the coldness in the line of his mouth, the intensity in his eyes.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “Somebody doesn’t like you asking questions about your grandfather.” Ian thought quickly. “I