“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.”