Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 6, June, 1994

The Provenance of Death by D. L. Richardson

The bullets hit her squarely in the chest in a rapid succession that shoved her backward into metal garbage cans. The pain that shot up her spine was inconsequential compared to the weight crushing her chest. She felt as if she were plummeting into a smothering abyss.

From somewhere above, far above, she heard Nick. The tenor of his voice indicated he was yelling.

“McGillis? Talk to me, McGillis!”

Tumbling deeper, she tried to indentify the next sound. Material ripping? Feather-light hands on her.

“Open your eyes, McGillis!”

Warm breath on her face.

“Dammit, McGillis, open your eyes!”

She struggled to answer, to tell him to stop cursing and get the agonizing weight off her chest. But he was slipping away from her.

God, her chest hurt.

Was this what is was like to die?

The lawn glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Mylar balloons bobbed in clutches at the corners of the striped canvas pavilion. Its smaller, matching cousin, corners also tugged at by impatient balloons, stood at right angles. White tables and chairs were strewn across the green expanse with a careful air of spontaneity.

The people wandering the lawn gave off most of the glitter. Clothes tastefully screamed designer. Wrists, fingers, and necklines flashed enough gold and gems to keep a fair-sized jewelry store in business for a year. Even the laughter and floating particles of conversation resonated with an assurance backed by significant bank accounts.

“So this is how the other half lives,” Nick mused, eyes hidden behind Ray-Ban aviators, hands in trouser pockets.

“Some of them anyway.” Liz surveyed the scene from the shade of a large-brimmed straw hat that perfectly matched the navy polka-dotted sheath skimming her body.

“You come to many of these, McGillis?”

“No more than absolutely necessary.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his left elbow. “Let’s see if we can find Mother.”

“Mind if we swing by the food tent?” He indicated the smaller pavilion. “I’d like to see how the rich and richer eat.” They started across the lawn.

“They put their food in their mouths, chew, and swallow just like everyone else.”

He pressed her hand against his side. “Quit frowning, McGillis. You know I think you’re okay. For a rich kid, that is.”

“This is my punishment, isn’t it, for getting you into this?”

Nick laughed.

A spare man of an age somewhere between twenty-five and forty blocked their path. At five feet eight inches tall, he managed to look down his aquiline nose at Nick, who was six four, and Liz, at five eleven. “Mr. Fitzpatrick will see you now.” He walked away, back ramrod straight in a charcoal gray suit.

“And he is?” Nick asked as they followed.

“Emerson. Resident toady.”

As they wove their way around laughing conversations and champagne-filled tulip glasses, Liz paused to chat with people who exclaimed over her or pressed cheeks with her or smiled slyly at Nick. Emerson tapped his foot at the edge of the lawn, a boundary marked by manicured sections of hedge.

“Since this a highly confidential matter, Ms. McGillis, it would be prudent not to call attention to yourself.”

“Emerson, these people are my friends. Not speaking to them would be the best way to call attention to myself.” She leveled gray-blue eyes at him.

A muscle in his left jaw twitched. “Mr. Fitzpatrick is waiting.” He wheeled and headed for the house, a sprawling, two story brick affair.

“That Lady of the Manor tone could make refrigerators obsolete,” Nick teased, his voice low.

“Comes in handy now and then.”

The interior of the house was chilly. Emerson preceded them through double carved doors into a room dominated by a mahogany desk. The man standing behind it made no move to cross the Oriental rug to greet them. After closing the doors, Emerson positioned himself at the end of the desk. “Nick Ransom,” Liz said, her voice as cool as the air in the room, “this is Hanley Fitzpatrick.”

Hanley Fitzpatrick moved away from the light spilling through the french doors. His silver hair was immaculately trimmed and combed. The Armani suit would have fit no other body. Though the corners of his mouth curled up slightly, no sign of humor touched the green eyes. “You don’t look like a bounty hunter,” he said.

Nick shrugged broad shoulders. “Liz made me leave the chains and leather at home.”

Liz sat in one of the two Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk and laid her small beaded purse on the edge of the smooth mahogany. Nick took the other chair, stretched one long leg out along the Oriental rug, propped his elbows on the chair arms. Fitzpatrick glanced at the purse, glittering crimson against the dark wood, before sharing his near smile. “Every time I see you, Lisbon, I’m more struck by the idea of you and your mother as two sides of the same coin. Dark and light. Yin and yang.”

“Laurel and Hardy,” Nick added.

The smile disappeared. “I have heard you’re as quick with your tongue as you are with your fists and your guns, Mr. Ransom.”

Only Liz noticed the tensing muscles. Nick’s smile was lazy. “Everyone has to be good at something.”

Emerson cleared his throat. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, may I suggest that it would be prudent to return to the party before you’re missed?”

With blunt-ended fingers, Fitzpatrick pushed a nine by twelve manila envelope across the desktop. “Two weeks ago a painting of mine, a fairly valuable painting, was stolen. The thieves have offered to return it for a fair percentage of its market value. I want the two of you to make the exchange.”

“What exactly is a ‘fair percentage of its market value’?” Nick asked as Liz fingered the envelope toward her and then opened it.

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

Liz extracted a photograph and a typed sheet of paper. “I assume the insurance company agrees with your assessment of the ransom as fair.”

“This doesn’t concern the insurance company.”

Liz lifted her head so that her eyes just were visible under the brim of the hat. “Insurance companies pay ransoms on stolen artwork all the time. They consider it good economics, since thieves rarely ask for anything close to the insured value.”

“My reasons for choosing to pay the ransom and handling the exchange myself are of no concern to you.”

“If you want the exchange to go smoothly,” Nick said, “we should decide that.”

“The instructions are in the envelope. The thieves have made it very clear they are only interested in the money. If the two of you do your job correctly, there will be no problems.”

“Then you don’t need me.” Nick’s voice was level. “The insurance company Liz freelances for has entrusted her with far more than a hundred thousand dollars.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Ransom. I’m not in the habit of hiring just anyone, even if she is the daughter of one of the state’s wealthiest families. When your name appeared in conjunction with hers, I continued my inquiries. What I learned is the reason you’re here.”

“Seems a waste of money to me.”

The almost smile materialized. “One of the many advantages of having wealth, Mr. Ransom, is being able to dispose of it any way I choose.”

Liz folded the sheet of instructions and put it, the snapshot, and a check into her purse. Standing, she tossed the empty envelope back onto the desk and handed Nick a check. “We will need the money at least three hours before the exchange is to take place. You can expect us no later than one hour after the designated time. Since secrecy seems so important to you, we’ll use the service entrance.”

Emerson’s nose lifted another quarter inch. “We prefer to think of it as discretion.” Liz’s eyes never left Fitzpatrick’s face. “I assume you have no interest in catching and prosecuting the thieves.”

“You assume correctly. Now I must return to my daughter’s engagement party. Emerson will show you out.”

“We can find our way back.” Liz smiled. “I don’t think it would be wise to leave all those people who saw us come in here wondering why we didn’t return to the party.”

Once they were in the hallway Liz’s smile became a frown. “Tell me again why we’re doing this.”

Nick linked his arm through hers. “As a favor for your mother, whose friendship with Mrs. Fitzpatrick goes back to their art school days in Paris.”

“Every time I do a favor for one of my mother’s friends, I end up regretting it,” she grumbled.

“Now you tell me.”

“I should have told him what he could do with that envelope.” Liz watched a bag boy round up stray shopping carts.

“Look at it this way,” Nick said. “We’ve both dealt with jerks before, none of whom ever paid so well for such an easy job.”

“I’m a rich kid, remember? The money doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Nick grinned. “Your consideration of us less fortunate folk is appreciated.”

They were in Nick’s black Blazer, a vehicle that usually managed to look as if it had just come from an off-road race. The instructions had enumerated all the specifics of the exchange except the exact location, offering instead two points where they could position themselves to wait for the final communication. Fitzpatrick would relay the message via the portable cellular phone at Liz’s sneakered feet. They would have ten minutes to make the rendezvous.

“Why would Fitzpatrick have an uninsured painting?” Nick’s gaze took in the supermarket’s half-filled parking lot.

“Questionable provenance.”

“Questionable what?”

“Provenance. A painting’s pedigree, if you will. Who painted it when. Whom you bought it from. Whom they bought it from, and so on.”

“So we’re talking hot art.”

“Or it could have been smuggled out of a country with strict laws governing the removal of artworks. Or the art world might be unaware of the existence of such a painting, and if you can’t prove provenance, it still doesn’t exist, in a manner of speaking.”

“One less thing us normal people have to worry about.”

“No one who knows you would ever consider you normal, Nicholas Ransom.” The phone at her feet chirped, and she answered it. “Yes?” She nodded at Nick, who started the Blazer. “Got it.” She replaced the receiver. “An alley on Memphis, between Third and Fourth.”

Nick wheeled the Blazer out of the parking lot. “Nice neighborhood.” He nodded toward the back seat. “That Kevlar might come in handy.”

“You never did explain how you came to possess two bulletproof vests,” Liz said.

Nick made a quick lane change despite the protests of another motorist. “The body-guarding gig I just finished. Another rich guy with too much money and too little imagination when it came to spending it.”

“Why did his body need guarding?”

“He was messing around with the mechanic’s wife.” Nick grinned. “Big guy with a bad temper until I suggested any emotional suffering he had experienced might be alleviated by a generous cash settlement.”

“Nick!”

“Hey. Everybody’s happy, and I’ve done my share to keep down rising medical costs and crime statistics.” He pulled the Blazer to the curb and cut the engine.

The street felt deserted in the early afternoon. The bulk of its real estate had been left to the rats, the homeless, the druggies, and the wrecking ball. First come, first served.

Liz slid on sunglasses and surveyed the length of Memphis Street while Nick extracted a black aluminum briefcase from behind the driver’s seat. They jaywalked across the street and into an alley that would have been wide enough for a pickup truck had it not been for the dumpster at either end.

With the sun almost directly overhead, the alley was well-lit. After skirting the dumpster, Nick kept close to the right wall, and Liz kept the left wall within easy reach. They stopped midway between the two openings of the alley. A breeze skittered through, snatching a candy wrapper along with it.

“L‘exactitude est la politesse des rois.” The voice was clear and cheerful. Its owner stepped from a recessed doorway. “Or as they say on this side of the big pond, ‘Punctuality is the politeness of kings.’ ”

He was a lean six feet. The tenor of his voice, the way he moved, put him closer to twenty than thirty years of age. The blue chambray shirt wasn’t tucked into the faded bluejeans, and the plain white tennis shoes looked new. A black ski mask exposed only eyes, nose, and mouth. Even so, the smirk was unmistakable.

He stood, hands on slim hips, about fifteen feet from them. “I’d be flattered that Fitzpatrick thought it necessary to send two if I didn’t think he might be trying to pull one of his famous end runs.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. There’s a man behind you and another—” he grinned “—well, you’ll just have to wonder. They’re armed, by the way.”

“Where’s the painting?” Nick asked.

The ski-masked head jerked in his direction. “I like to see a person’s eyes when I do business with him. Why don’t you take off the sunglasses?”

“I like to see a person’s face,” Liz said. “Why don’t you take off the ski mask?”

He chuckled. “Touché. Open your jackets.”

“We’re both armed.” Liz spread her blazer so that the shoulder-hostered Beretta under her right arm was visible.

With his free hand, Nick moved his bomber-style jacket to expose the .38 clipped to his belt. “My time is too valuable to waste it playing games. Either you have the painting or you don’t. Either way, we’re just about out of here.”

“And what makes you think you’re in a position to make demands?”

Nick’s grin was lazy. “You’d be surprised.”

“You want one hundred thousand dollars,” Liz said. “Mr. Fitzpatrick wants his painting. I don’t think you want to spend too much time standing around in a ski mask.”

He angled his head backward. “Bring the painting!”

From behind the dumpster at the far end, a figure appeared, a cloth-covered burden held in front of him. He was dressed exactly like his cohort.

The spokesman jerked his head toward Nick. “Put your hands on your head. The woman brings the money.”

Liz reached back, and Nick handed her the briefcase before interlacing his fingers atop his head. Liz stopped midway between the spokesman and Nick. She set the briefcase down. “This is as far as I come.”

“Fair enough.” The spokesman nodded to his partner.

The second man was the same height as the first but of slighter build. His electric blue eyes darted around the alley, jerked away from Liz, looked at Nick.

Liz took the painting from him, its weight surprising her. Very carefully she set it on its edge and squatted. Easing the old sheet away, she discovered an ornate gilt frame that just missed dwarfing the still life. Even in the alley, the flowers in the blue pitcher looked freshly cut.

The young man opposite her opened the briefcase and checked the money with thin, shaking fingers. The end of the index finger on his right hand was unnaturally squared off. Still avoiding eye contact with her, he snapped the case shut, stood, and nodded. Satisfied, Liz rewrapped the painting, hefted it, and straightened.

When his partner stood next to him with the briefcase, the spokesman reached under the chambray shirt and pulled out a .38. “Time to say goodbye.”

Liz stiffened. Nick unlaced his fingers.

The one with the briefcase said quietly, “We got what we came for.” He glanced at Liz, then dropped his voice. “The time limit.” His shoulders jerked at the sound of a motorcycle roaring past on the street behind him.

The spokesman was still for a long, beating second. Then he relaxed. “My men will make certain you aren’t ambushed on the way back to your car.”

Liz backed up until she was even with Nick. Only then did she turn and head for the end of the alley. Nick backed his way after her until he reached the dumpster. A third man stood next to it.

“You guys get a good deal on those matching outfits?”

The ski-masked man, bulkier than his counterparts, pointed to the Blazer across the street.

Nick helped Liz secure the painting on the back seat. “What’s wrong?”

Her face was grim. “I know why Fitzpatrick didn’t want to involve his insurance company.”

“That envelope contains the second half of your fee.” With his back to the rest of the room, Hanley Fitzpatrick studied the painting he had propped up on a settee.

Liz snatched the envelope from the desk and handed it to Nick. “Why didn’t you tell us you knew who had stolen the painting?” Her words snapped with restrained anger.

Emerson stiffened.

Without turning, Fitzpatrick murmured, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about Blair. Your son.”

Emerson squared his shoulders. “I’m not certain what you hope to gain by making such an inflammatory accusation.”

Fitzpatrick turned slowly, lifting a hand to forestall anything else Emerson might say. “You said they wore ski masks.” The indifference in his voice did not match the calculation in his eyes.

“Dammit, Hanley, what if something had gone wrong?”

“That’s why the two of you were hired.” Fitzpatrick might have been discussing a dinner menu. “Mr. Ransom to handle anything unexpected. You, Lisbon, to insure Blair’s safety.”

“You knew I’d recognize him.”

Emerson’s chin lifted slightly. “If there was any basis to your reputation.”

Liz unclenched her fists and asked quietly, “How many other people have Blair and his friends ripped off?”

“This was simply a rebellious prank designed to get my attention.”

“This was no one-time prank,” Nick said. “It was too well-executed.”

“Blair was thumbing his nose at my wealth, at this way of life.” Fitzpatrick’s near smile was offered to Liz. “Certainly you can identify with that, Lisbon.”

Her fingers clenched themselves into fists as tight as her voice. “I don’t steal artwork and hold it for ransom.”

Nick moved to stand directly behind her right shoulder. “Mr. Fitzpatrick, your son is playing a dangerous game with at least one very dangerous playmate. Indulging his pranks, as you call them, could get him killed.”

“I’m sure I don’t need any advice on how to take care of my family from a bounty hunter with questionable ethics.”

“Come on, Liz,” Nick snapped. “Our business is finished, and I need some fresh air.”

When they reached the door, Fitzpatrick’s voice stopped them. “I trust you understand that by accepting my payment you have agreed to keep this matter confidential. Any violation of that would be viewed as a breach of contract and dealt with as such.”

Liz put her hand on the tense muscles in Nick’s upper arm and leveled her gaze across the room. Emerson’s chin lifted another fraction of an inch. Fitzpatrick almost smiled.

“Throw your weight at someone who gives a damn, Hanley.” Liz’s voice was ice water.

Margaret Fitzpatrick had brushed the maid aside to admit them herself. Now she sat curled up in the corner of a floral chintz loveseat in a long narrow room flooded by morning sunlight. A wheat-colored silk blouse and slacks complemented her short blonde hair and trim figure. With her delicate features she could easily pass for someone ten years younger, but she looked for all the world like a spring wound too tight and ready to snap.

“I’m not sure what it is you want us to do, Margaret.” Liz was dressed in turquoise cotton cashmere, a shortsleeved tunic over a slim skirt that hit her at mid-calf.

“Frankly, Lisbon, neither do I.” Margaret’s electric blue eyes were undeniably worried. “But I know my son’s in the sort of trouble that neither Hanley nor I is capable of dealing with.”

“I don’t think your husband would agree with that.” Nick, dressed in jeans and a blue polo shirt, sat next to Liz on the twin to the love seat Margaret Fitzpatrick occupied. His nearly black hair was still damp from the shower.

Margaret’s smile held a trace of bitterness. “Hanley is one of those people who need to be in control of any situation.”

“Does he know about this?” Liz’s vague hand gesture included the three of them.

“He and Emerson will be tied up with business all morning. I’m sure, however, that once they return they’ll learn of your visit.” The sigh was small, but no less heartfelt. “There are times when I feel more like a prisoner in this house than the mistress of it. But it doesn’t matter.” Her voice gained an edge. “My son is in serious trouble, and I’m afraid it will only get worse unless something is done quickly.”

“Mother told me that Blair still lives here in the house,” Liz said.

“He passes through on occasion, and the answer to your next question is yes. I have tried to talk to him. He puts me off by saying he has no idea what I’m talking about. A mother knows when her children are trying to hide something from her.”

“Mine always did,” Nick said.

Margaret’s laugh was small, but she uncurled from the protective nest she’d made for herself and put her feet on the floor. “This all started when Hanley gave our future son-in-law a position in one of his companies.” She took a deep breath. “A position he’d promised to Blair.”

“Nothing like a vote of confidence from your father,” Nick said.

“Blair still has a year of college left. By the time he graduates, the position will be open again.”

“And his brother-in-law will always be one step ahead of him,” Liz pointed out.

Margaret looked at her hands in her lap. “Hanley doesn’t understand Blair.”

“What you mean is Blair was not created in Hanley’s image.”

“I know that what Blair is doing is just his way of hurting Hanley. But I’m afraid the only one who’ll end up hurt is Blair.” Margaret’s eyes pleaded. “Lisbon, you know what it’s like to watch helplessly while someone you love destroys himself. Please. I have nowhere else to turn.”

“If I do this,” Liz said, “I have to handle it without interference. And I have to know I won’t suddenly have the rug pulled out from under me.”

Margaret leaned forward. “You have my word.”

“What’s all this ‘me’ and ‘I’ business?” Nick wanted to know. “What happened to ‘we’ and ‘us’?”

“I meant what I said, Nick.” Liz fastened the shoulder restraint with a decisive snap as the Blazer rolled down the tree-lined driveway. “You don’t have to do this.”

Nick paused at the gate of the Fitzpatrick estate and then wheeled the Blazer onto the street. “That overeducated, overindulged brat pulled a gun on us for the hell of it, McGillis. Call me petty, but that ticks me off.”

“So you don’t agree with Margaret’s theory.”

“That her son fell in with bad company he met at some dive? I don’t know too many guys who frequent places like that who speak French like a native.” Nick glanced across at her. “Did you recognize him?”

“No. He’s too young to have been among my circle of friends, and I quit going to the parties and the country club a long time ago. I don’t think he had any idea who I was.”

“He does now.” Nick braked for a stoplight.

“Only if Blair told him.”

Nick shook his head. “They went right on with Blair’s sister’s engagement party like nothing was wrong.”

“That’s the way it’s done. Appearance is everything.”

The light changed, and Nick accelerated through the intersection. “I heard that same tone in your voice when you were talking about Blair’s not being made in his father’s image. What was that all about?”

“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to live with a father who thinks offspring were created as monuments to himself.”

Nick’s head snapped around, but Liz’s face was averted. He returned his attention to driving. “What about the list of Blair’s friends his mother gave us?”

Liz cleared her throat. “I recognize some of the surnames. Mother can help out there. I think this bar is probably our best bet.” She fingered a plain white matchbook with “Randy’s Beer and Billiards” printed on it.

“Could be a dead end.”

“Maybe. Turn right at the next corner. We might as well see Mother now.”

Nick made the right-hand turn. “How’s it going with your brother’s therapy?”

“Two steps forward, one step back.” Her voice was quiet.

“Gambling is a tough addiction to kick.”

She nodded wordlessly, her jawline tight, and didn’t speak again until Nick had parked the Blazer in the circle drive in front of an imposing fieldstone house with mullioned windows. “Nick, there’s one other thing you need to consider before you get into this.”

“I might have to dress up and go to another party?”

“I’m serious. Hanley Fitzpatrick is not going to like our involvement. He can’t do much to me. He wouldn’t dare. But he could make a lot of trouble for you.”

“Trouble is my middle name.”

“This isn’t funny, Nick. Fitzpatrick isn’t a nice man.”

Nick met her eyes squarely. “I’m not nice either when I’m pushed,” he said, “and that man has pushed too far already. He’s pushed his son into some serious jail time, and if we don’t do something quick, he may push him into an early grave.”

A smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Don’t ever get on my case about rescuing strays again, Nicholas Ransom.” She shook her head. “You’re such a fraud.”

Physically, Daphne McGillis and her daughter were nearly carbon copies. Same blue eyes, same delicate mouth, same firm jawline. Daphne was a couple of inches shorter than her daughter and, because she didn’t exercise as much, had rounder curves. Whereas Liz’s shoulder-length hair was dark brown, Daphne’s was wheat-colored. Her usually mischievous eyes were sober.

“There’s a club tennis tournament starting today,” she said, her voice husky due to a damaged larynx. “That’s where you’ll probably find most of these people this afternoon.” She handed the list across a glass coffee table to her daughter. “Blair and Carey Lewis always play doubles.”

Liz glanced at the list. “What can you tell me about these people?”

Daphne settled into the cushioned rattan settee and rearranged her pastel caftan. “Keegan Matthias’s father is an international banker. He was in the middle of the South African controversy.”

“I remember,” Liz said.

“Keegan started working for his father just after he graduated this spring, but he’s more interested in body building than banking. He wants to open his own gym, I hear.” Daphne noted the glance that Nick and Liz exchanged and continued. “Treynor Russett is a spoiled brat in every sense of the phrase. He’s totaled four cars in the three years he’s had his driver’s license. At the last tennis tournament he broke three very expensive rackets during separate temper tantrums. And if he’s not an alcoholic yet, he’s well on his way to being one.”

“What does his father do?” Nick asked.

“Stockbroker.”

“What about Carey Lewis?” Liz asked.

A tiny frown unsmoothed Daphne’s brow. “Are these boys involved in the thefts, too?”

“What about Carey, Mother?”

“A couple of years older than Blair. The family money is very old. As far as I know, Carey has never worked a day in his life. He’s very bright and has an extraordinary gift for languages. Very charming.”

“And?”

Daphne fingered a leaf of the red geranium at her elbow. “Rumor has it he likes to rough up girls. He was engaged to Ashleigh Youngston, and then suddenly he wasn’t, and Ashleigh transferred to the University of Colorado. There was even talk that he nearly beat a prostitute to death.”

“Just another group of well-rounded, well-adjusted young Americans trying to make the world a better place.” The smile on Nick’s face had a bitter twist to it.

Daphne directed her gaze at him. “Not all children of wealth are maladjusted brats. I think my children turned out okay.” Her laugh was humorless. “Well, two out of three isn’t bad, I guess.”

“Anyone else on this list we should be interested in?” Liz’s words were rushed.

“Sydney Wise. She’s Blair’s girlfriend. According to Margaret, she’s a good influence on him.”

“Unfortunately, she’s outnumbered,” Liz said.

“Blair’s in over his head, isn’t he?” Daphne, her blue eyes concerned, looked first at her daughter, then at Nick.

“Five robberies in four months. Expensive artwork.” Nick leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “That alone is enough to get him serious prison time. I can understand Fitzpatrick’s actions, but why didn’t anyone else report the thefts?”

“Everyone who was robbed is passionate about art.”

“And their favorite pieces were stolen,” Liz offered.

Daphne nodded. “They were told that if they contacted the police or didn’t follow instructions, their treasures would be returned in pieces.”

“You and Mrs. Fitzpatrick know a lot about what’s been going on,” Nick said.

“It’s a very small, very insular community, Nick.”

“Did you know two pieces of art were stolen each time,” Liz asked, “and the owners were forced to choose which one they wanted back?”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “What on earth for?”

“Power,” Nick said, the word short and decisive.

“That’s—” Daphne began.

“Twisted,” Liz finished.

“I was going to say that’s not like Blair.”

“He’s not in this alone, Mother.”

Daphne regarded her daughter intently. “These are very powerful people, Lisbon. Some would even call them ruthless.”

“You know how much that impresses me, Mother.”

“They’ll stop at nothing to protect their children.”

“And in the process they’re destroying them.” Liz’s jaw was tight. “I’d like to try to salvage one if I can.”

“Can you keep the police out of this?”

“Not entirely,” Nick said.

“Hanley would disown Blair if he went to jail.”

“That’s the least of Blair’s problems,” Liz said.

Randy’s Beer and Billiards was a good place to develop eye-strain and lung cancer. Cigarette and cigar smoke saturated the air and dimmed the low wattage bulbs. Four pool tables were little oases of brighter light. Beer and sweat competed with the smoke for King of the Odors honors.

The bartender, Benny, who looked like a Hell’s Angel whose Harley had been retired, handed the snapshot back to Liz and resumed drying beer steins. “He and his buddies have been comin’ in here at least once a week for four or five months.” His voice was an imposing grumble.

“Hear any names?” Liz asked.

He pointed to the photo in her hand. “That one they call Fitz. There’s another they call Louie. Big guy named Keg. Little banty rooster called Rusty. Rich kids out slummin’.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “For the most part, they don’t cause trouble, and their money spends as good as anybody else’s.”

“How’d you know they were rich kids?” Nick leaned against his right forearm atop the bar.

The bartender looked at Liz and then back at Nick. A grin appeared between his sandy mustache and beard. “Same way I know she’s out of your league.”

After leaving her mother’s, Liz had had Nick run her by her apartment so she could change into a plain gray T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans with a rip across the left knee, courtesy of an off-balance scramble over a fence during a case.

Nick cocked an eyebrow in her direction and then looked back at the bartender. “I think I’m offended, Benny.”

The bartender laughed. A sharp crack marked the start of a new game of pool, and the jukebox in the far corner cranked out Willie Nelson’s graveled tones.

“What kind of trouble did they cause?” Liz asked.

Benny winked at Nick. “She doesn’t miss much, does she?”

“Not much.”

Benny put aside the towel and glass, spread his arms, and pressed his palms against the top of the bar. “It was the one they call Louie. If that rich boy’s parents have been sendin’ him to a shrink, they need to get a refund.”

“What do you mean?” Nick asked.

“The boy’s got a twist in his personality.”

A voice from the farthest pool table cut across the room. “Hey, Benny! We need another round over here!”

“Somebody broke your legs since you walked in?” Benny bellowed back. “Come get ’em yourself.” He whisked four long-necked bottles out of an under-the-counter refrigerator, deftly popped off the tops, and left them huddled atop the bar.

“How twisted?” Liz asked.

Benny squinted. “I’ve seen plenty of hard cases in my time, but ain’t nothin’ scarier than one who’s all soft and smiling on the outside.”

“This kid’s scary?” Nick asked.

“If I was a religious man, I’d say he was the direct offspring of Lucifer himself.”

“What happened?” Liz asked.

“Don’t get me wrong. Most of the fellas come in here have a better than passing acquaintance with the inside of a jail or two. And fights are a fairly regular thing. But they don’t last longer than it takes someone to blow off a little steam.

“The one called Louie had a hooker in here with ’em one night. He’d been treatin’ her pretty rough, but then he hauls off and busts her lip. Lolita’s just a little slip of a thing, and one of the guys called him on it. Louie got up and walked over to him and proceeded to beat the crap out of him. The one called Fitz pulled him off. Thing is, Louie was smiling the whole time, like he enjoyed it. And when he went back to the table, he hit Lolita again just for the hell of it. That’s when I told them they could clear out.”

“How did Louie take that?” Nick wanted to know.

“He just smiled that cold smile of his. yanked little Lolita up by the arm, and him and his buddies left. They were back in here the next week. Bought two rounds for the house.”

“What about Lolita?” Liz asked.

“Showed up on the street with a broken arm and a black eye.”

Nick straightened. “What do they talk about when they’re here?”

Benny shrugged. “Keep to themselves mostly. Play a little pool. I once heard the little one, Rusty, bragging about makin’ some powerful guy sit up and beg. Louie shut him up real fast.”

“They ever ask about a place to fence stolen property?” Nick asked.

Benny managed to look offended. “Nobody in here would know anything about fencing stolen goods.”

“I bet nobody in here has a tattoo either,” Liz smiled.

Benny laughed. “What kind of stuff are we talkin’ about?”

“Art,” Nick said. “Paintings. Two small sculptures.”

Benny shook his head. “These guys’ idea of art is what’s bolted to the wall in a cheap motel.”

“But you know a guy who knows a guy.” Nick raised an eyebrow.

“I could ask around.”

“No offense, Benny, but you’re being awfully helpful.”

The smile vanished from the big man’s face. “I can’t prove anything, but that son of a bitch Louie set a fire out back that could have burned the place down. Then he slashed the tires on my ride.” His face reddened. “I’d be glad to help take that one down.”

“Says a lot, doesn’t it, when your thinks you’re a criminal.”

Blair Fitzgerald had his mother’s blue eyes and blond hair. What had been delicate features for her looked finely chiseled on him, as if a sculptor had purposely left the angularity. As himself, instead of as masked art thief, he was finding it easier to meet Liz’s eyes.

“She doesn’t think you’re a criminal, Blair,” Liz said quietly. “She thinks you’re in over your head, and she’s right. We’re here to get you out of this mess before it gets any worse.”

They were standing in the shade of an aged oak tree, several paces from the nearest umbrella table and with, if Liz and Nick turned around, a view of two of the country club’s tennis courts. A smattering of applause went up before the plonk — whack — plonk — whack rhythm resumed.

“Who says I’m in any kind of mess?”

“Cut the crap, Blair.” Liz had lowered the volume of her voice but not the intensity. “We were all in that alley. You know it, and I know it. Just like we both know your buddy Carey is about as stable as nitroglycerin and just as dangerous.”

Blair licked his lower lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nick asked, “How long before your buddy decides robbing empty houses isn’t a big enough thrill? How long before he sticks a gun into someone’s sleeping face? Or worse?”

Something happened in Blair’s eyes, a second thought, a waver, but then it was gone, and the gaze dropped to the ground.

“Hey, Blair, ol’ son. We’re up next.” The voice behind them was cheerful and clear. “How about a strategy session?” A wide smile beamed from a face so clean-cut it could have served as the prototype for Mr. All-American Guy. In sparkling tennis whites, he stuck a hand toward Liz. “Carey Lewis.”

“Lisbon McGillis,” she said evenly, returning the strong handshake. She indicated Nick, who had crossed his arms over his chest. “Nicholas Ransom.”

Carey nodded at him. “Mr. Ransom.” He returned his smile to Liz. “I finally get to meet Lisbon McGillis.” He leaned closer in conspirator fashion. “You’re the talk of the club, you know.”

“Life must be pretty dull for them if I’m the only thing they have to talk about.”

He moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Blair. “But you’re doing what those of them with any imagination left have only dreamed of doing.” He eyed her T-shirt and tom jeans. “You’ve thumbed your nose at their petty, unwritten rules.” An excitement came into his voice. “You’re out there living on the edge.”

“Most insurance investigators put in long, boring, repetitious hours. It’s a long way from living on the edge.”

“You’re being too modest.” The smile bordered on a smirk. “The club was abuzz for weeks after you broke that arson-for-hire ring.” He shifted his smile. “What do you do, Nick? I mean besides standing around looking imposing.”

Blair jumped nervously into the conversation. “These are the two people who handled the ransom exchange for Father.”

Carey sobered. “Terrible thing, these thefts. It has certainly shaken people up. Made them feel vulnerable, even behind all their locked gates and high-priced security systems.” He frowned slightly. “Has Hanley hired the two of you to track down these desperados? We all know how Daddy Hanley hates to be one-upped.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Nick asked. “A game of one-upmanship?”

The curve of Carey Lewis’s lips did nothing to warm the cold gray depths of his eyes. “Everybody knows life’s one big game. And the best way to win is to rewrite the rules as you go.” He grinned. “Keeps the other players off guard.”

“And what if they’re rewriting the rules, too?” Nick sounded like a man inquiring about the weather.

“Then things get really interesting.” Carey looked at Liz. “Do you have any leads on the art thefts?”

“A few.”

“I’m certain that with the two of you working on it, the problem is as good as solved.” He slapped Blair on the shoulder. “Ol’ son, if we’re going to defend our title, we’d better talk strategy. Liz, it was a pleasure to finally be formally introduced.” His hand still on Blair’s shoulder, Carey shepherded his friend toward the tennis courts. As he passed Nick, almost, but not quite, bumping him, he smiled. “Look out for dark alleys, Nick. I hear they can be treacherous.”

Nick and Liz watched them descend the gentle slope, looking more like comrades in arms than partners in crime.

“Maybe it was a mistake to tip our hand like this,” Liz murmured.

“We weren’t tipping ours so much as forcing his.” He looked over the top of his sunglasses at her. “How’s your mother’s security system?”

The paramedics had been and gone. The crime scene unit still worked, faces somber with concentration. A uniformed officer entertained Liz’s five-year-old nephew by showing him how handcuffs worked while a female detective talked to Liz’s seven-year-old niece, who, eyes wide, snuggled against her mother. Daphne McGillis stood behind the loveseat they occupied, one hand on her daughter’s shoulder, the other stroking her granddaughter’s hair. Her usually lighthearted face was grim.

Liz turned her back on the scene. “I want that slimy son of a bitch.”

“We’ll get him.” Nick leaned against the door frame, his back to the upstairs hallway where another technician worked.

“I should have known he wouldn’t go to Mother’s,” she said through clenched teeth. “It was too easy, too damn obvious.”

“Don’t take all the credit. I was there, too.”

“He’s dangerous, Nick. And we’ve given him a whole new rush. Breaking into occupied residences. Terrorizing whoever is there. Children, for God’s sake!”

“We’ll get him.”

The female detective stopped next to them. “You two. Now. In the hall.” She brushed past.

Nick and Liz exchanged glances and then followed. The detective said something to a latex-gloved technician. Moments later the three of them were alone on the upstairs landing.

“How long have you been on graveyard shift, Bettina?” Liz asked with forced casualness.

“It’s Detective Blankenship. And cut the crap.” Dark eyes snapped at them. “You know who did this. I want their names, and I want them now, or the two of you can spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell with whatever trash gets hauled in off the street.”

Detective Bettina Blankenship often referred to herself as Ms. United Nations because of the blend of nationalities that made up her heritage. Her exotic features had formed themselves into an angry scowl that, coupled with her black hair and dark complexion, made her resemble an Aztec princess whose wishes had not been obeyed.

“What we know would never stand up in court,” Liz said. “If it even made it that far.”

“And when did you get your law degree?”

“It came in the mail just this morning,” Nick quipped.

The detective shot him an angry look. “Now I know why you’re so popular with the guys downtown, Ransom.” She returned her attention to Liz. “Your mother says this is the latest in a string of thefts, which is news to the police department. That tells me we’re talking about people wealthy enough to never miss a few trinkets. I want to know which of your rich friends you’re protecting.”

“The bastard hit my sister, Blankenship, terrorized her and her children! I want his heart on a stick!”

As the two women glared at each other, the muffled voices and movements from the master bedroom they’d left drifted around them.

“Look.” Nick moved to stand next to Liz. “We saw men in ski masks. Liz identified one based on his eyes. We’ve got suspicious parents and a conversation that could be interpreted any number of ways. We’ve also got enough combined wealth and power to stonewall a court system for years.” He studied Bettina. “In legal terms, we’ve got squat.”

The police officer eyed him for a moment, then relaxed her shoulders and sighed. “They’ll do this again,” she said quietly.

“Bet on it,” Nick said.

“Unless,” Liz said, “we can get one of them to help us make a case.”

Bettina’s eyebrows lifted. “You got a likely candidate?”

“A woman and children!” Margaret Fitzpatrick stared in horrified disbelief. “Blair, how could you?”

“It was easy, Mother.” Blair’s chin lifted in defiance as his jaw set itself. “Nothing to it, really.”

They were in the same room in which Margaret had made her plea for Nick and Liz’s help, but the morning sun was losing a battle with clouds, and even the chintz upholstery could not scatter the gloom.

“Don’t get smart with me, young man.” Margaret’s voice was all flint and steel. “Wanting to strike out at your father is one thing, but using innocent people, children, is contemptible.”

Blair flinched under the cold barrage of words. He blinked rapidly and averted his gaze.

Emerson barged into the room. “What is the meaning of this? What are these people doing here?”

“This is none of your concern, Emerson,” Margaret said with quiet firmness. “I’m sure you have plenty of work to do elsewhere.”

“Mr. Fitzpatrick would not want these people in his home. And I don’t deem it prudent for Blair to be talking to anyone without a lawyer present.”

“Emerson, I didn’t ask for nor do I value your opinion,” Margaret snapped.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick...” Frowning, Emerson moved toward her.

Nick blocked his path. “Let me translate for you, Emerson. Take your skinny butt elsewhere.”

“You—” Emerson began.

Nick’s face was inches from his. “Now.”

Emerson mustered a narrow-eyed glare before spinning on his heel and stalking from the room.

“He’ll call Hanley,” Margaret said.

“Once your father and his attorneys involve themselves in this, we can’t help you,” Nick said to Blair.

The young man tried to meet the piercing gaze, failed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He blinked rapidly when Nick jabbed an index finger in his chest.

“If you’re staying quiet out of loyalty, it’s misplaced.” Nick’s voice was angry. “Carey Lewis will feed you to the wolves the first chance he gets.”

A spark flared in Blair’s eyes. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Where are you storing what you haven’t ransomed back? Whose name can be tied to that?”

A frown started on Blair’s forehead.

“Who supplied and drove whatever vehicle you used? Which of you handled what you stole without gloves?” He leaned a little closer. “I’ll lay odds the name Carey Lewis doesn’t answer any of those questions.”

“He’s smart, he’s careful.”

“One of these days he’ll trip over that big ego of his,” Nick said, “and someone will end up dead. Question is, do you want to be around when it happens?”

“We had a deal.” It came out in a rush. “Only empty houses. That way no one would get hurt.” He looked at his mother and Liz. “No one was supposed to get hurt. Ever! We agreed!”

“Blair.” Margaret’s voice was anguished.

“He said you were daring us.” He looked at Liz. “He said you’d expect us to hit your mother’s house, but never your sister’s. He spent the day learning as much as he could. He said all we had to do was prove we could outsmart you. I didn’t know anyone would get hurt. I swear.” Tears filled his eyes.

Margaret hurried across the room and put her arms around her son. Nick turned his back and walked slowly to Liz. “You okay?” She nodded.

“We’ll go to the police,” Margaret said firmly. “We’ll tell them everything. Blair can testify against Carey.”

“It won’t be enough,” Liz said. “It will be Blair’s word against Carey’s. And the other two will side with Carey. Hanley has a lot of influence, but up against the combined resources of those three families?” Liz shook her head. “Blair won’t stand a chance.”

Margaret tightened her grip around her son’s waist. “So what do we do?”

“We set Carey up.” Nick was quietly matter-of-fact. “Catch him with the stolen property.”

“I still can’t believe you convinced Blankenship to go along with this.” Nick stretched his legs on the passenger side of the generic white van.

“It wasn’t so much me as it was the assistant district attorney. He agreed with us about the merits of the case as it is. We have to put the stolen property in Carey Lewis’s larcenous little hands.” Liz sat behind the wheel of the van. With sunglasses on and her hair tucked up under an Atlanta Braves baseball cap, she was almost unrecognizable.

“I meant this.” He jabbed his index finger downward. “How did you talk her into letting us be here?”

Liz brushed away the ribbon of sweat just in front of her ear. “She owed me a favor.”

“Must have been some favor.”

“It was.”

“Can Blair pull it off?” Nick asked.

His eyes, like Liz’s, watched the street and, more specifically, the narrow cross street that bisected the block. A small jewelry store sat on the corner. Two floors containing two apartments each perched atop the store. Access was gained from an entrance on the narrow street. The building belonged to a corporation owned by Treynor Russett’s stockbroker father. The two third-floor apartments were leased to Blair, who had used his mother’s maiden name.

“All he has to do is tell the truth with a few embellishments. He overheard us tell his mother that we found out about the hooker at Randy’s, and we found out about the apartment from the hooker. She couldn’t remember the address, but she was pretty sure she could find it again. We can’t do that until she gets out of jail, which will probably be late today. He also overheard us say that we really don’t have anything to give to the police unless we can find the stolen art. All they have to do to stay one step ahead is move the pieces they’ve held on to.”

“Lewis might smell a trap, send the other three to do it.”

They had been over everything several times, discussing alternatives, changing and rearranging until they felt they were getting the most return with the least amount of risk.

“And catching him with the stuff is no assurance of a conviction,” Liz said, her voice tight.

“We’ve done all we can. We got Lolita arrested so Lewis can’t get to her. Blankenship will make sure her units stay out of sight as long as possible. The four boys will be kept separated once they’re picked up. Everything else is up to Blair’s acting ability, Carey Lewis’s ego, and the court system.”

“Well, that certainly makes me feel a lot better.”

Nick grinned. “And since I’m such a liberated guy, when we wrap this up, I’ll let you buy me dinner.”

“Hope you like take-out pizza. I promised Mother I’d come over tonight. My sister wouldn’t let her husband cut his business trip short. They’re staying with Mother until he gets back.” She straightened. “Play ball.”

A black Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb in front of the jewelry store. Three young men climbed out and strolled toward the entrance to the apartments. Blair Fitzpatrick slid from the driver’s side and paced back and forth on the sidewalk, finally opting to stand at the back of the Cherokee.

“Just keep cool, Blair,” Nick coached softly. “Keep cool.”

Liz pressed a button on the walkie-talkie. “Number one, bluejeans, green polo. Number two, khaki shorts, red T.”

When she released the button, static popped twice to indicate Blankenship had received and would relay the message. Carey Lewis was wearing jeans; Blair Fitzpatrick, shorts.

The heat and the tension rose. Blair studied the street anxiously. His eyes fell on the white van, lingered, and then jerked away. He had the Jeep open so his returning companions could place their burdens in the rear. A few words were exchanged, and then the three sauntered back. To the uninitiated, they looked like roommates in the process of moving.

Another load came out, and when it was stowed and the other three had retreated once more, Blair quickly checked what was in the Jeep. When his three buddies returned, he stepped aside to let the biggest of the quartet, Keegan Matthias, stow the box he carried. Blair dropped his keys, bent to retrieve them.

“Now,” Liz said into the walkie-talkie.

Blair pocketed the keys and climbed into the back of the Cherokee to reach for the lamp Treynor Russett carried. He took several moments to situate the lamp. Carey said something. Blair took the small box Treynor held under his arm and said something in return. Keegan laughed.

Treynor stepped aside, and Carey Lewis moved to the rear of the vehicle. The box he carried had a couple of cardboard tubes and what looked like rolled posters sticking out of it. He had an air of impatience. Keegan laughed again.

Suddenly, uniformed and plainclothes officers swarmed the scene, and for a moment that was at once brief and eternal everything seemed frozen. Liz held her breath. Nick’s hand went to the door handle.

Carey Lewis broke the spell. He shoved his box into the chest of a startled Keegan. Then Carey sprinted across the street, the smaller Treynor Russett right behind him. They headed toward Nick and Liz’s position.

Nick was out of the van first. “Give it up, Lewis!”

Carey hardly missed a beat and made a right-angle swerve away from the van. Treynor’s reaction wasn’t quite as quick or as agile, but he made up for it in speed.

Liz jumped from the van, glanced toward the Cherokee where officers had Blair and Keegan spread-eagled on the pavement. Blankenship shouted something, but Nick and Liz were racing after the two boys, who disappeared around a comer several lengths ahead of their pursuers. Nick reached behind him and pulled a .38 from a holster.

“We need Carey alive!” Liz shouted.

“Insurance!”

They barrelled around the comer. Carey and Treynor were racing diagonally across the street. A marked cruiser screeched to a halt at the far end of the street, blocking the intersection. Nick and Liz kept running.

“Give it up, Lewis!” Nick repeated.

Carey stopped and pivoted. Treynor matched his motion, but at the end of his outstretched arm was a gun.

“Shoot!” Carey shouted.

Treynor’s response was instantaneous. He fired off two rounds that knocked Liz backward into a gathering of metal garbage cans at curbside.

In an extended slow-motion moment, Treynor swept the gun to the right, fired off two shots that missed Nick. Nick drew a bead on him. Treynor adjusted his aim. Nick’s finger began to tighten. A loud noise whacked Treynor in the back. His face a study in disbelief, he fell to the street. The uniformed officer wheeled his aim toward Carey, whose hands were high over his head.

“Face down! On the ground!” the officer screamed. “Now!”

Carey obeyed, his face devoid of expression. Nick stooped beside Treynor to check for a pulse that didn’t exist. The officer, gun trained on Carey, was talking into the handset at his shoulder. Nick scooted the gun away from the dead boy.

“I’ve got him.” The officer nodded at Carey. “Check your friend.”

Nick raced back across the street. The empty garbage cans had been knocked aside like bowling pins. Liz was sprawled on her back, eyes closed, the baseball cap tossed from her head.

“McGillis?” he shouted. “Talk to me, McGillis!”

She didn’t respond.

He tore at her shirt. “Open your eyes, McGillis!” He put his face close to hers. “Dammit, McGillis, open your eyes!”

He finally yanked the shirt aside. He found the holes where the two bullets had slammed into her, one about three inches below her right collarbone, the other almost squarely in the chest. He fingered the Kevlar, peered closely into the holes. Then he tore at the Velcro straps on the side and lifted the front portion of the bulletproof vest. The only thing that dampened the front of the white tanktop was sweat.

He squatted back on his heels, closed his eyes, and resumed breathing. She coughed and stirred. He opened his eyes. She coughed again, opened her eyes, struggled to a sitting position.

“Oh, hell, Ransom,” she said breathlessly. “This was a good shirt.”

He grinned and tapped the Kevlar. “We’re even, McGillis. This was a good vest.”