“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.”