“But you’re assuming that it’s related?” Max asked.
“We’re checking it out,” he answered. To me, he asked, “Who mops the floor?”
“A cleaning crew. I use an outside firm.”
“Which one?”
“Macon Cleaners.”
He made a note. “Do you know when they last mopped that section of the warehouse?”
“No, I don’t, actually.”
“I’ll check,” Alverez said.
“You said you only found partial prints. Are any of them good enough to use as evidence of anything besides shoe size?” Max asked.
“Maybe. We can trace the brand and model of the shoe from the markings and match it exactly through the tread patterns.”
“What kind of shoe is it?” I asked.
Alverez paused again before replying, “The specifics are pending. But I can tell you it’s a running shoe. Do either Gretchen or Sasha wear running shoes?”
“Not that I know of. Sasha wears sensible shoes, tie-ups or loafers, you know the kind. Gretchen wears heels. She’s a stylish dresser.”
“And you wear boots.”
“And I wear boots. Heels sometimes. But even when I wear heels, I’m not a stylish dresser.”
Alverez smiled, but didn’t speak.
“Any other questions for Josie?” Max asked after a moment.
He tapped his pencil on the notepad. “No,” he said. “That’s it.”
“Okay, then,” Max said, and pushed back his chair.
“Still no plans to leave town?” he asked me.
“No,” I answered, swallowing. “I’ll be around.”
Standing beside our cars, facing the blue-green ocean, Max surprised me by saying, “You need to be prepared for a search.”
“What?” I objected, offended.
“They found stolen goods-a Renoir-in your possession. They’ll want to find the sneakers that match the tread pattern on the footprints. Pro forma,” Max responded, his calm contrasting with my spurt of indignation.
Ignoring my protest, he asked, “Do you have anything illegal in your possession? Pornography? A gun? Cocaine? Anything?”
I stopped objecting, and focused. I thought of the gun in my bedside table. My father had taught me to shoot handguns when I was in my early teens, encouraging me to fear the people who misuse weapons, not the weapons themselves. He hadn’t been a collector, exactly, but he’d liked guns, and had respected the elegant simplicity of their design. When I was preparing to leave New York, I’d sold all but one of them, keeping only his favorite, a Browning 9-mm. I’d been meaning to get a permit for it since I’d moved, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I have a gun. No permit,” I answered.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He pulled on his earlobe and turned back to the ocean. “They’ll be searching both your home and your business.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
“It’s a funny coincidence. Here you have a gun and I’m thinking about getting one. You know that the legislature is considering allowing people to carry concealed weapons? Well, they are. If they go ahead with it, I’m going to get one for Sally, my wife, to keep in her purse. As you know, I work long hours.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” I answered, impressed at his approach, wondering if I was supposed to play a more active role in this charade.
“So, what kind of gun do you have?” he asked.
“A Browning nine-millimeter.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. Part of it is that it was my father’s. Sentimental attachment, if you will. But it fires straight, and it’s comfortable in my hand.”
“Any chance I could borrow it for a look-see?”
“You bet,” I said, not smiling, playing it straight.
“Would you get it now and bring it to my office?”
“Sure.”
I confirmed that I’d drop it off within an hour or so.
“When you report in after checking your safe, call the police station, not Alverez’s cell phone, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t ask for him. Just leave a message. All right?”
“Sure.”
“And if anything is missing,” Max said, “call me instead.”
I agreed, and thanked him for everything.
We got in our separate cars and Max waved that I should go first. I drove slowly along the coast. The sun was trying to come out from behind thick clouds, and the ocean glinted gold when it succeeded. Behind me, I saw Max signal and turn off toward the interstate, presumably to return to his office. I stayed on the back roads and got to my house just after one.
It was odd being home during work hours. The sun was brighter here, away from the coast. I ran up the narrow stairs, found the gun, and slipped it into a canvas tote bag. Half an hour later, I watched as Max put the Browning in an envelope, labeled and signed it, sealed it with heavy clear tape, and placed it in his safe.
It was a relief to get to back to work. Gretchen was in the office, her red hair glistening in the now-bright sun that slanted through the oversized window near her desk.
After greeting her, I asked, “Anything going on that I should know about?”
“Nope. Everything’s under control.”
“You are so good,” I said, meaning it.
“Thanks, but it’s not just me. It’s all of us. Any word about the Renoir?”
“Nothing definitive,” I answered. “I know this is a crazy question, but… what size shoes do you wear?”
“I wear an eight. Why?”
“It’s a long story. Another time, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, implying with her tone that she was willing to placate me.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Sasha’s at the preview. I just spoke to her and she said it’s slowed down some. Eric and the temps are almost done setting up the glassware. I think he said art prints would be next.”
I nodded. “Sounds good. I’m going to run up to my office for a sec, then I’ll be around and about. Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Sasha and I traded off lunch breaks.”
“Order me a pizza, will you? I’m starved.”
“Anything else?”
“Not now. Thanks.”
Upstairs, I dialed the combination of my floor safe and saw that everything was intact. I sat at my desk for a moment to call in to Chief Alverez, as promised. I got Cathy, the big blonde, who noted my message without apparent interest. I could picture her writing on a pink While You Were Out pad.
I opened a bottle of water from the case I kept in my office and leaned back with my eyes closed, my determination to take charge allowing me to relax in spite of the ever-present fear.
“Oh, jeez,” I said, sitting up with a start, realizing that I could begin my independent research right away, “I never checked.”
As I turned toward my computer, Gretchen called to tell me that the pizza had arrived. Hunger overpowered curiosity, and I headed downstairs to eat.
Entering the front office, I was so intent on my own thoughts, I was only vaguely aware of Gretchen. It had just occurred to me that previously I’d searched an Interpol site to see if the Renoir had been listed on the official law enforcement site as stolen. But I’d never searched for information about the painting itself. I brought up a browser and entered the painting’s title and the artist’s name.
“Can I help you with anything?” Gretchen asked.
I considered telling her. Gretchen was plenty loyal, but she was young and social. She told me once, just after she started working for me, that she loved gossip. She laughed when she said it, as if it was a rather charming quality, girlie and cute.
She didn’t exaggerate. Gossip was more than a hobby. It was almost an obsession. She spent every lunch hour at her desk, nibbling on a salad, surfing celebrity gossip Web sites, except once a week, when the trashy tabloid newspapers hit the stores. On that day, she’d dash out to pick up copies and read them, too.
About a year after she started, she pointed to a photograph on the front page of one of the tabloids. A baby, apparently a movie star’s newborn, appeared to weigh almost twenty pounds.
“Isn’t that awful?” she asked.