Fear

SIXTEEN

Groote walked into the gallery. He surveyed the art on the walls with indifference: portraits of Navajo and cowboy, landscapes of burnished New Mexico desert and wildflower-dotted fields. He read the price tag on one landscape of a stone-choked creek. Eleven thousand dollars. He’d killed a man for less once.

He stopped and listened with care. He guessed there were two people in the gallery, from the murmur of voices. A woman, a man, talking softly from the rear of the gallery. He left his sunglasses in place – no need to be easily recognizable. He went back to the door, flipped the OPEN sign of engraved, polished metal to CLOSED, turned the dead bolt. He hoped he didn’t have to kill everyone in the building. He’d prefer to get Raymond out of the building, get him alone. But better to be prepared.

He headed for the back office, listening to the man’s voice, unsure if it was Raymond’s. He scanned the floor plan. Two exits off the hallway, a set of stairs going up to another display room of art, three more rooms to his left, a short hallway and a set of French doors to his right.

He stopped at the back office’s door. A fiftyish woman, brightly pretty, and a man in his thirties stopped talking and both smiled at him, ready to part him from his money for one of the paintings outside. They were clearly mother and son; the family resemblance was striking. There was a third desk in the corner, empty.

‘Hi, may I help you?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes, ma’am, I need to see Michael Raymond. I promised to buy a painting from him.’

The woman seemed to freeze for a second, then said in a rush: ‘Well, I’m sorry, Michael’s not here this afternoon. I’m Joy Garrison, the owner; this is my son Cinco. May we assist you?’

Groote glanced at Cinco, who opened his mouth as though to interrupt the woman, then shut it.

‘Mom-’

‘Cinco, it’s fine,’ Joy said in a tone that brooked no discussion. The phone rang; Cinco picked it up, said hello, and started answering a question about the gallery’s operating hours.

‘Which painting were you interested in?’ Joy asked.

The woman must want to scoop the commission, Groote thought. ‘The landscape by the front door. How odd. Michael told me he would be here today. But I’d like to talk to him about it, make sure he gets the commission.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry he’s not here.’

‘When’s he expected back?’

But then she snapped her fingers. ‘Oh. Wait. You’re right. He will be here today. Around six, right before we close. Picking up his paycheck. I forgot he told me.’

Groote nodded. ‘Okay, then, I was sure I’d lost my mind.’ He laughed politely. ‘I’ll check back with him around six.’

‘Did you want to leave a name, sir?’ Cinco hung up the phone.

‘Jason Brown,’ Groote lied, because to refuse a name would be suspicious.

The phone beeped and Joy Garrison punched a button. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Of course I can get you that painting, sir, yes…’ and started to nod, jot words down on a notepad.

It still seemed wrong, but he heard a rattling at the door, another customer testing the knob in surprise at the early closing, so he went back to the door, flipped the sign and opened the lock, keeping his back so Cinco and Joy couldn’t see what he’d done. He said, ‘Excuse me,’ to two turquoise-bedecked tourists, slid past them, headed for his car. Time for Plan B – go to Michael Raymond’s home address, see if he was there, and if not, search the place for an idea of who he was. Then come back around six for a private talk with Michael Raymond.

Groote was ten blocks away when he realized his mistake, and he powered the car hard around in a screeching U-turn.