Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

gate opened. No alarm bells went off. No backup lights came on. He hadn’t expected any. People who had real valuables kept them in safes, not storage units made of heavy tinfoil and light security.
    The same bolt cutters and a lot more effort got him through the padlock on the outside of unit 120. He pulled up slowly, expecting a squeal of metal on metal. Nothing but a rumble of oiled wheels. He rolled up the door just enough to get under and pull it down behind him so no light would show. It was utterly dark inside.
    He reached inside his coat. The cold and damp made his fingers clumsy. It took a few moments before he got the big flashlight on. Eagerly he swept the cone of light around the room.
    Empty racks. A lot of them. Three—no, four—fire extinguishers. Some freestanding shelves that still held goods. He raked the light over lamp bases and vases and Depression glass, South American weavings based on Escher’s skewed fantasies, flutes made of exotic woods and decorated with magic symbols, costume jewelry shaped like Egyptian gods, old photo frames of silver and gilt, and dolls with smiles painted on their precious faces.
    The flashlight picked up the gleam of hinges across the room. He went quickly to the closed cabinets. Fingers trembling, he yanked the first one open. Then the next. And the next and the next until every door was agape.
    There wasn’t anything inside.
    Not one painting.
    Not one
    “Nothing but fucking junk!”
    With a guttural noise he spun around and shoved the nearest rack over, sending it crashing into another rack and then another, huge metal dominoes falling and scattering everything on their shelves in a raucous cascade of breakage and ruin. What didn’t break in the fall he stamped on until it lay in pieces and he was panting hard and fast, a runner who hadn’t meant to race at all.
    He forced his breath to steady and deepen until his heart was no longer a savage fist beating against his chest. Losing his temper didn’t make him any safer.
    Killing her would.
    He could hardly wait. This was one death he would enjoy.
    Smiling, thinking about her fear, he smashed several of the empty wooden racks, scattered chunks of paraffin and sawdust over them, and reached into his coat for a glass bottle of kerosene. He emptied most of iton the ragged pile of wood. He pulled a colorful pack of birthday candles from his pocket, arranged them, and made a trail of oily liquid between candles and the pile of kerosene-soaked wood. Folding a matchbook open, he tore off one match, propped the matchbook against the candles, and lit the single match. A tiny, bright flame bit into the cardboard matchbook.
    By the time the flame reached the rest of the matches, touched off the candles, and snaked over to the pile of wood, the man had already vanished into the rain.

Savoy Hotel
    Monday night
63
    I an licked garlicky grease off Lacey’s fingers until she giggled in spite of the shadows in her eyes. So did he.
    “That’s better,” he said.
    “Clean fingers? I could have used my napkin.”
    “Your smile. Did you know you think better when you’re smiling? True medical fact.”
    She started to question the origin of that “true medical fact” when she saw the gentleness in his eyes and in the curve of his lips. She liked seeing him relax too much to poke holes in the moment. And then she realized that he felt the same way about her. Even as they sat there trying to figure out who might benefit from murdering her, he was trying to make it easier on her by teasing out smiles.
    “You really are good for me,” she said.
    “Works both ways.”
    Her smile wasn’t big, but it was real. She let out a long breath. “Okay, I’m ready to tackle it again.”
    “This time let’s keep track. Find a pencil and paper while I do dishes.”
    “Dishes?” she asked.
    He swept up trash and food debris and crammed it into the sitting room wastebasket. “See? Dishes done.”
    Lacey went to the supplies Susa had left her, pulled out a sketch pad and pencil, and returned to the sitting room. Ian had moved to the sofa. He patted the cushion beside him and kept his hands to himself. Much as he wanted to take off her clothes and sink into her until they were both breathless and blind with pleasure, he didn’t. Right now she needed to make lists more than she needed to get laid.
    And so did he.
    She sat down, flipped open the sketchbook, and printed: NEW PEOPLE SINCE THE PAINTINGS APPEARED
    Ian looked at it,