The Sikh looked at Megan, who nodded to him. Only then did the taxi driver comply. Then she handed the Sikh the cat carrier and said, “Arjan, please wait just outside the door with Cuddles. I’ll be in here no more than fifteen minutes.”
The Sikh nodded again and left the gallery, taking Cuddles with him. Nigel could see him through the gallery window, standing on the pavement with the pet carrier firmly in his grasp.
Nigel gave Megan a lopsided smile and said, “Yes, I see that you are well protected. But you have nothing to fear from me. Not anymore. In many ways you have done me a favor.”
“By eliminating your partner?”
He didn’t respond to that but said, “Let’s go back to my office to complete our business.”
Nigel picked up a wrapped painting in each hand, and Megan followed him to his office, and this time she did not feel frightened when he closed the door.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a client chair in front of his desk.
She sat and put her suitcase flat on the floor and opened it. He looked at the suitcase and said, “I’m afraid I can’t fill up a bag that big, but I have your entire bonus as requested. Although first I’d like to examine my merchandise.”
He opened a door from his office that led to a storage room with a large sliding door leading from there to the alley. The cargo van was parked inside the storage room, and there were gallery supplies on shelves and benches. Nigel Wickland entered and turned on a light over one of the benches. He cut the duct tape and unwrapped the largest bundle. He lifted the painting and held it under the light, inspecting it closely. Megan stood in the doorway of the storage room and watched him.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “The Woman by the Water. Isn’t she lovely?” He carefully rewrapped the painting and then unwrapped the second one, holding it under the light, and nodded with a smile on his face.
“Satisfied?” Megan said.
Nigel said, “I am, indeed.”
He rewrapped Flowers on the Hillside and opened the side door of the van, putting both bundled paintings inside on the floor. Then he closed the door of the van and said, “Now let’s complete our business before your turbaned friend comes in here and dispatches me with his dagger.”
They went back to Nigel’s desk, where he opened a deep bottom drawer and removed a shipping carton without a lid. He placed it on his desk and said, “Go ahead and count it. I already have.”
Megan picked up a packet of hundred-dollar bills, her heart beating in her ears, and counted. When she got to fifty, she stopped and fanned through the rest of the packet. Then she fanned through each of the other packets without counting. It was too staggering an amount of money. She said, “It looks okay. I trust you, Mr. Wickland.”
Nigel emitted a burst of nervous laughter at that, and even Megan had to giggle. Then she put each packet into her large suitcase among a jumble of underwear, jeans, two books, T-shirts, and tank tops. When she was finished, she closed and locked the suitcase with a small luggage key.
“Yes, that should get through an airport baggage scanner with no problem,” Nigel said. “I’ll bet you’ll be waiting anxiously for it to come down the carousel when you reach your destination, wherever that is.”
Megan smiled without comment. Then she simply picked up the suitcase, opened the door of his office, and walked across the display room of the gallery to the Wilshire Boulevard door.
Before she opened it, Nigel called to her, saying, “Have a good life, Valerie. Your ambition has been for me a blessing in disguise.”
She didn’t respond but wiggled her fingers at him in a final farewell. When she got outside, the Sikh took her suitcase, and she carried the pet carrier to the taxi for the ride to LAX. Megan Burke was so overjoyed that she decided to increase Arjan’s tip to $200.
And on that ride to the airport, with her hand inside the pet carrier stroking her cat, Megan Burke tried to take with her something positive from her two years away from home. But the addiction that had resulted in her physical, emotional, and moral decline had obliterated all positives. And then she thought, no, there was one gift that Hollywood, California, had given her. It came when she had walked into the animal rescue facility fourteen months ago. Hollywood had given her Cuddles the calico cat.
TWENTY-FIVE
Raleigh Dibble had taken the longest shower of his life. He never wanted to leave the hot water. When he did, he went to the bathroom sink and shaved with a new blade and did as good a job as he could in combing his thinning hair. He laid out his best sport shirt and newest chinos. He even brushed the lint from his best blazer and ran a cloth over his old loafers. He’d seen movies of men who were facing momentous events in their lives who took such care, sometimes before putting a gun to their heads and pulling the trigger.
By 4 P.M., he was across the street from the Wickland Gallery, having first ascertained that the lights were on inside and the gallery was open for business.
Jonas Claymore was on a meth ride that he hadn’t been on in more than a year. He was driving in frenzy from east Hollywood to Beverly Hills through rush-hour traffic. His central nervous system had come unwired and his hands were out of control. He kept touching the instruments in the VW bug. He’d make sure the headlights were not on and the emergency brake was not on and the radio controls were working and the heater switch was off. Every time he finished he’d do it all over again. His hands didn’t belong to him anymore. They just kept fiddling and fretting in perpetual motion.
He knew how much he needed some ox to get himself under control, but there was no time to waste. He fantasized that Megan Burke might be there when he arrived. He would deal with her if he found her there. Oh yes, he would. They were laughing at him, Megan and that gallery guy who had his paintings. She’d stolen them from him. They’d been his to dispose of as he chose, but she’d clowned him. Now they were both laughing at him.
He had to remind himself to slow down and obey the traffic laws. He couldn’t afford to get stopped by the cops again. It was bizarre, but everyone he saw on the streets looked like an undercover cop, and they all seemed to be watching him. But they couldn’t stop him from doing what he had to do. Nobody could.
Jonas only wished he’d had time to talk to Wilbur to see if he could sell him a burner. He’d never had one before, but he was sure he’d handle one okay. Maybe a pistol like all the cops carried on CSI. But he hadn’t had time to strap up. All he had was the large carving knife that was riding inside his waistband, the handle of it digging into his sunken belly. It would be enough because he was starting to feel invincible.
Five minutes before its scheduled closing, Raleigh Dibble crossed Wilshire Boulevard and entered the Wickland Gallery. He didn’t see the woman at her desk, so he walked back to Nigel’s office just as Nigel was coming out of the little restroom.
“Surprise,” Raleigh said, and sat in the client chair, trying to stay cool.
Nigel frowned and said, “I didn’t hear you come in. What’re you doing here? You should know better than to come here again.”
“Oh, your assistant told you I was here the other day?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call me to complain about that, Nigel?”
Nigel sat on the corner of his desk and said, “What good would that have done? I’ve tried everything in my power to persuade you to be patient until the thieves contact us. What more can I do?”
“I’ve forgotten your employee’s name,” Raleigh said.
“Ruth is her name. You look tense, Raleigh. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea, perhaps?”
Raleigh said, “Did Ruth tell you what we talked about when I came looking for you yesterday?”
“Yes, she said you inquired whether a man came here asking to talk to me personally.”