Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

The old man was a pistol, no doubt about it. He might drive them all crazy, but he hadn’t lost a step to the years.
    Ward shoved the door open and stared at the three paintings. “I’ll be a son of a bitch. You were right, Savvy.” He whipped reading glasses out of his suit coat and checked for a signature on the dark painting. “What the hell is this? He didn’t sign it?”
    “That’s why I brought you. You have a better eye than I do,” Savoy said evenly. It was only the truth. “Is this a Marten?”
    Ward lifted the painting and flipped it over, peering along the thin edge where canvas wrapped around stretcher. He grunted. “Number twenty-seven. Jesus, how many did he paint before he died?”
    “So it’s a Marten?” Savoy asked.
    “Marten or Santa Claus, signed or unsigned, I’m buying it.”
    “We have nineteen already,” Savoy said. “Burning house, burning car, drowning woman. Sixteen are signed. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
    “The thing about collecting is that you ain’t finished until you have it all.” Ward set the painting down. “Buy it.”
    “I told you,” Savoy said patiently, “it’s not for sale.”
    “Bullshit. Everything’s for sale. Just a matter of finding out the price.”
    “That could be difficult.”
    “Why?”
    Savoy bit back his rising temper. He knew very well that his father’s memory was better than a computer’s. The old man was just doing what he did best—pushing his son’s buttons. So Savoy reached into his sports coat, pulled out his cell phone, and pushed some buttons of his own. After a few moments the screen showed what it had been showing ever since the first e-mail: no response from the elusive Ms. Marsh.
    “She’s not answering my e-mails.”
    “So call her.”
    “No phone number,” Savoy said through his teeth. “Remember? No address, either. Remember?”
    A flush of temper appeared on Ward’s cheekbones. “I’m not senile.”
    “Then don’t act like it,” Savoy shot back. “We’ve been over this ground five times since I first told you about the painting. Now, I’d love to get it for your birthday—or rather, the company would—but I can’t buy what’s not for sale.”
    Ward turned to Rory. “Find her.”
    “A description would help,” the sheriff said mildly.
    “Goodman saw her,” Savoy said. “Talk to him.”
    Rory flicked a sideways glance at Savoy and waited for Ward to speak.
    “Do it,” Ward said.
    “When I find her, what then?” Rory asked.
    “Savvy will take it from there.”
    Rory sighed. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to wait until Saturday? She’s bound to show up for the auction.”
    “Maybe, but I’m not counting on it,” Ward said.
    “Why not?” Savoy said. “It’s only logical.”
    Ward turned on his son. “Christ Jesus, haven’t you learned anything? Logic isn’t what turns people’s screws. Find her.”

Newport Beach
    Wednesday evening
16
    N ow I remember why I left,” Susa said, waving a hand at the rush-hour mess on Pacific Coast Highway. “So many people, so few places to put them.”
    Lacey looked at the traffic stacked up in all directions, waiting for a light to change so that the idiot in the intersection who was blocking everyone could move on through.
    “Aren’t there laws against that?” Ian asked, looking at a Jaguar crouched across traffic lanes with no place to go.
    “Stupidity?” Lacey asked. “Last time I checked, intelligence was the endangered species.”
    “There are streets in D.C. where pushing a light like that will cost you four hundred bucks,” Ian said.
    “Voice of experience?” Lacey asked.
    He gave her a dark glance in the rearview mirror. “Nope. That’s why they give cops sirens.”
    “Doesn’t work in Manhattan,” Susa said. “Any emergency vehicle caught in rush-hour traffic doesn’t get a break from the other drivers.”
    “No wonder people get shot,” Ian muttered. “Stupid bastards. What if they were the one who needed help?”
    “It always happens to the other guy,” Susa said. “First article of faith in cities.”
    “Water-hole theory of risk,” Ian said, smiling slightly.
    “What’s that?” Lacey asked.
    “Every animal has to drink, so predators lie in wait at water holes. When thirsty time comes, someone’s going to get eaten, but everyone figures it will be someone else.”
    “Wow, that’s a cheery outlook,” Lacey said. “Turn right at the next street and I’ll show you a back way to my