Die in Plain Sight (19 page)

Lacey hesitated, then smiled wanly. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

“Good. While you talk to your parents, think about this—I still want Rarities to look at the paintings.”

“Why?”

“I believe they are Lewis Marten’s work. They must have survived the studio fire or been painted before his death. Don’t you see? If your grandfather was a copyist, he had to have some templates to work from, and those templates would have been
true
Lewis Marten paintings. Those paintings still exist somewhere. They belong to the generations, Lacey.”

Ian started to ask a question, but a look from Susa shut him up.

Too heartsick to argue, finally believing what she didn’t want to believe, Lacey said, “Fine. Whatever. Nothing will change the fact that Grandpa Rainbow was a forger.” A tear slid from the corner of her eye. “All I wanted to do was get my grandfather’s painting the recognition it deserves. Now my father’s reputation is on the brink of ruin and my grandfather will soon be infamous as a forger and a crook.” She laughed oddly. “The road to hell really is paved with good intentions, isn’t it?”

Newport Beach

Early Friday afternoon

W
earing the dressy slacks and pullover sweater her parents had brought, plus a head-to-toe coverall borrowed from hotel maintenance and her own beat-up sandals, Lacey stood on the sidewalk looking at the front of her shop. Except for the
CLOSED
sign on the door during what should have been prime business hours, some puddles here and there, and the burned wreckage next door, last night could have been a bad dream.

“It doesn’t look like anything happened to my shop,” she said. “After all the hoses and fire axes and tramping around last night, I expected to see an ungodly mess.”

“You will,” Ian said. He’d spent time at enough fire scenes to know what waited inside.
An ungodly mess
just about covered it. “You sure you don’t want me to take care of this for you? I could bring all your paintings out and—”

“No,” she interrupted firmly. “My shop, my responsibility.”

Saying nothing, he stroked his palm over her curly hair. Behind her brave front, he knew that she was running on adrenaline, emotions, and old-fashioned grit. He also knew that seeing the extent of the damage from the fire and firemen would feel like a fist to the gut.

He glanced over at the small woman standing on Lacey’s other side. “You tamed those sleeves yet, Susa?”

“I’m working on it.” Like Ian and Lacey, Susa was wearing borrowed coveralls. None of the hotel maintenance crew had been remotely close to her size, so she’d rolled everything up at the ankles and wrists, and then rolled them up some more.

“You don’t have to do this,” Lacey said. “I can sort through my own paintings. The rest of the stuff…” Her voice trailed off. She drew herself up sharply.
I’m not going there. It’s just things. Crying over them won’t do a damn bit of good.

Chin high, shoulders squared, Lacey walked toward the tranquil front of her shop, opened the door she’d locked again before going to the hotel last night, and stepped inside. The smell was an overpowering mix of cold smoke and wet everything. She flipped a switch. Miraculously, the lights came on.

She wished they hadn’t. Gloom had been friendly to the shop, concealing the fallen plaster, water, and just plain gunk that covered every surface. The farther into the shop she walked, the worse everything looked.

“Stay here while I check out the upstairs,” Ian said. “The firemen told me there wasn’t any structural damage, but I want to be sure. Then I’ll take photos and board up the broken windows.”

Numbly, Lacey nodded.
The shop didn’t burn down, so just suck it up and stop sniveling. It can’t be as bad as it looks.

Susa put her arm around Lacey’s waist and hugged her like she was one of her own daughters, silently telling the younger woman that she wasn’t alone.

Ian came back down the stairs with a carefully neutral expression. “Okay, it’s safe up there. Are you sure your paintings aren’t covered by insurance?”

“According to the IRS, I haven’t sold enough to move from the hobby category,” Lacey said matter-of-factly. “Galleries don’t want you until you sell, and you can’t sell until you’re in galleries.” She shrugged and
started for the stairs. “Which is a long way of saying I’m sure my paintings aren’t insured because they have no market value.”

Susa stared at Lacey’s back. It had never occurred to her that an artist of Lacey’s talent wasn’t represented in galleries. “Well,” Susa said distinctly, “that’s going to change. You’ll be exhibiting in galleries up and down the coast.”

Lacey stumbled on one of the steps. She looked back over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I won’t have talent like yours hidden in the loft of a secondhand shop.” Susa walked briskly toward the stairs. “Your first exhibit will be called From the Ashes. It will open in the Visions Gallery in Seattle on Thanksgiving and run through Christmas.”

“What are you talking about?” Lacey asked.

“A gallery exhibit, what else?” Susa passed her on the stairway. “Put a boogie on it, girl. We only have an hour or so before we have to change and go painting. This gallery owner is one picky bitch. She’ll only want your best work, so you have a lot of painting to do in the next few months.”

Lacey just stared after Susa.

“Better hustle,” Ian said, grinning. “Susa on a mission is something to see.”

“But Visions is one of the most famous galleries in the United States for debuting new plein air artists. She can’t just…”

“Sure she can. She owns the place.”

Lacey’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

He leaned over and kissed her swiftly. “You’re good, darling. Your parents might never get it, but it’s way past time that you do. Now go help that picky bitch do triage on your paintings.”

She blinked back sudden tears. “Grandpa’s the only one who ever believed in me.”

“Now there are three.”

She looked questioningly at him.

“Susa, me, and your grandpa.” He kissed her again. “Get going before I indulge in a new fantasy of mine.”

“Which one?”

“Sex in the mud.”

She looked around. “It’s plaster.”

“Okay. I’m easy.”

She gave him a shaky smile and a big hug. “I’m glad you’re here, Ian. Really, really glad. You make everything better.”

Before he could respond, she was hurrying up the stairway. He watched her freeze at the top, when she got her first look at what had been her apartment and studio. For a long moment he thought she was going to fold. Then her head came up and she walked into the ungodly mess to see what could be salvaged.

Savoy Hotel

Late Friday afternoon

T
he bellman pushed a large covered cart into the elevator, put in the override key for the top floor, and waited. Several large floral pieces crowded the top of the cart.

When he got to the top floor he pushed the cart down to the corner suite. Ignoring the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign, he knocked three times, and said, “Bellman.”

No one answered.

He knocked and called out again.

Silence.

He pulled a passkey from his uniform pocket and slid it into the slot. A green light blinked, the lock released, and he walked in. As soon as the door closed behind him, he went rapidly through the rooms, including the adjoining suite, making sure they were empty. Then he went through again, collecting paintings. He chose seven rectangles of varying sizes. Any more wouldn’t fit beneath the cart’s stylish rose linen covering with
the hotel’s name embroidered in gold around the edges. He checked to make sure nothing showed, picked up one bouquet, and set it on a bedside table.

As he went to the elevator, he kept the gigantic floral arrays on the cart between himself and whatever security cameras were in the vicinity. He did the same across the lobby and out through the employee elevator into the valet parking lot below the building. There he loaded the paintings into a white van whose only ID was a magnetic sign attached to the side. The words advertised locksmiths available at any hour of the day or night. A temporary license plate was taped to the back window. There were no other plates on the vehicle.

Inside the van, beyond the reach of the security cameras, he changed back into the workman’s coveralls and cowboy hat he’d worn to drive into the garage, stripped off the exam gloves that had covered his hands, put on huge sunglasses and some dark face fur, and started the van.

Beneath the unblinking eyes of the video cameras, the van backed out of its space, turned right, and headed south on Pacific Coast Highway along with about fifty thousand other commuters.

Savoy Hotel

8
P.M.
Friday evening

I
an keyed open the door to Susa’s suite and waved in the bellman pushing a luggage cart stacked with painting gear. The message light on the phone was blinking impatiently. He swallowed a curse. While the women painted, he’d spent most of the time draining his patience and the battery of his cell phone on various public servants wearing badges and attitudes of one kind or another.

“Probably my insurance company,” Lacey said unhappily. “I left this number because the phone next door wasn’t working.”

“I plugged it in,” Ian said. “Works fine now.”

“Oops. Details. I’m not good at them.”

“What do you mean?” Susa said. “You gave the insurers an inventory printout before we went painting. They won’t do anything meaningful until their adjuster goes through your shop and sees what’s what, and she won’t be there until Monday afternoon.”

Lacey’s lips flattened. “My insurers heard the word ‘arson’ and ran like bunnies.”

“It’s called ‘use of the money,’” Ian said. “You give it to them and they use it until you can prove they have to give some back.”

Lacey swiped back a curl with paint-stained fingers. “They didn’t say anything outright, but reading between the lines, you’d think I set fire to the place myself.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said. “Arson for insurance money is a favorite scam. You get burned often enough, you get real testy on the subject. In fact, you get real—Whoa, look at those flowers!”

“Where?” Susa and Lacey said.

He gestured at a wall mirror in the sitting room. Reflected in it was an array of flowers standing like a frozen fountain of color on Susa’s bedside table. Someone had given her the kind of floral arrangement that made headstones look small.

“You and the Donovan have a fight?” he asked Susa.

“No. Besides, he knows everything but orchids make me sneeze.”

Lacey looked at the silent explosion of flowers. “I’ll be happy to help you out with these. Looks like they came from the same florist who did the display at the concierge desk. Must turn them out like clones.”

“Take them,” Susa said, waving her hand. “Please. And put them in a distant corner of your bedroom.”

Ian reached for the flowers.

“Wait,” Lacey said. “There must be a card saying who they came from.”

“Don’t see one.”

Lacey pawed delicately through the petals. “Me, either. Maybe the desk knows.”

“Call,” Ian said to Susa. It wasn’t a suggestion. “Be sure to tell them that the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign was on the handle and it was ignored. Some eager bellman needs his knuckles rapped. If he does it again while I’m here, he might just get shot.”

Susa lifted her eyebrows, picked up the receiver, and punched the number for the front desk. While she did, Ian took two tissues to keep from leaving fingerprints and carried the vase of flowers into the hallway.

He came back empty-handed.

“Well?” he asked.

Susa gave him a sideways glance. “They’re checking.”

Lacey looked at him. “You left the flowers out there?”

“Until we know where they came from, yes.”

“You really
are
paranoid.”

“Everybody’s good at something.”

He went into Susa’s bedroom, checked the closet, and swore silently. Without a word he went to Lacey’s side of the joined suite, checked the closet, and walked back out into the sitting area just as Susa hung up the phone.

“The concierge desk has no record of a flower delivery,” she said. “They’re checking the delivery schedule now.”

He wasn’t surprised. “Don’t suppose either of you ladies put some of your paintings under the bed or anything?”

“No,” Susa said.

“Same here,” Lacey said.

That didn’t surprise him, either. He muttered something foul under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Lacey said, her eyes wide.

“Check your closets” was all he said.

A few moments later, both women confirmed what he already knew: seven paintings were missing. Four of Susa’s, plus the paintings that had belonged to Lacey’s grandfather.

“Okay, here’s the drill,” he said. “We’re going to the restaurant.”

“What?” Lacey said in disbelief. “Our paintings are gone and you want us to eat
dinner
?”

“I want both of you out of here and in a public place. The hottest new restaurant in town is about as public as it gets.”

Lacey and Susa looked at each other, shrugged, and headed for the door.

“I think we’ve just been sent to the sandbox,” Lacey said.

“At least this sandbox has a good wine list,” Susa said.

Ian followed them out the door. As he walked down the hall, he pulled out his cell phone and did what he really hated to do when he was on a job. He called the cops. In the unincorporated resort community of Painter’s Beach, that meant Rory Turner.

Turner picked up his private number after only two rings. “What?”

“Ian Lapstrake, Sheriff. Several million bucks worth of Susa’s paintings have gone missing on your watch.”

“Christ. Anybody hurt?”

“No. We were at the ranch when the theft occurred.”

“Thank God for small favors. When did you leave the hotel to go to the ranch?”

“About two,” Ian said.

“Have you told the desk?”

“No. Most robberies like this are inside jobs.”

“Ain’t it the damned truth. I’ll be there in fifteen. After I get the security tapes and duty roster, I’ll come up.”

“I’ll meet you at the front desk,” Ian said, stepping into the elevator that had just arrived. “I’m reviewing the tapes with you.”

“You trying to say you don’t trust me?”

“Trust you? Sheriff, I don’t know you well enough to exchange Christmas cards.”

Rory laughed. “Do I need to tell you not to touch anything?”

“What do you think?”

“I’ll see you at the front desk in fifteen minutes. And send the ladies down to the restaurant or something so they won’t get in the way of my crime scene technicians.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. Paranoia quivered. Probably totally unnecessary, but there was always the long shot that made everyone cry. “The women aren’t leaving my sight.”

He cut the connection and called Rarities. He was put through to S. K. Niall very quickly. As head of Security, Niall was technically Ian’s boss, except when Dana stepped in and preempted him for one of her pet projects. When Niall answered, Ian didn’t try to put lipstick on the pig before he shoved it into the spotlight.

“I fucked up,” Ian said. “Susa’s paintings are gone.”

“Bullshit,” Susa said loud enough to carry into the cell phone. “It’s not your fault. I’m the one who insisted on leaving the damn things in the room.”

“Sounds like Susa’s intact,” Niall said. “No damage to her?”

“Underneath her gracious manner,” Ian said, “she’s mad enough to eat steel plate. Otherwise she’s fine.”

“Then you didn’t fuck up.”

Ian said something fully suited to his mood.

Niall ignored it. “You need backup?”

“To help nail shut the barn door? No, I think I can handle that all by myself.”

“Ease up, boyo. If the Donovan had wanted a lock on the paintings, he’d have asked for two of you. He knows his wife. Now quit feeling sorry for yourself and put her on. She can describe the paintings to me and I’ll send out the word right away. We’ll get the bastard when he tries to unload them.”

“Always assuming it wasn’t a commissioned theft, in which case they’ll never hit the market.” With that cheerful thought, Ian handed the phone to Susa. “Say hello to S. K. Niall. Describe missing pictures to him. Pray for the good guys.”

Susa picked up the phone. “It wasn’t Ian’s fault.”

“You know it. I know it. When he gets over his temper, he’ll know it. I’m turning on a recorder. Describe what was stolen.”

Susa started talking.