Sanderson was livid, his jaw clamped shut in his round face until he found enough control to speak. "You stupid bastard," he hissed. "You think you're smart enough to set Ginny up and blackmail me? You don't know what league you're playing in, Smith. Where did you get these? Where is my daughter?" He crushed the earrings in his shaking hand.
"Ask Grice," I said. "Get my paintings back. And who knows? Maybe you can talk your daughter into coming home."
"You bastard," he repeated. His eyes shone with a molten rage.
"Sanderson," I said softly, tapped my finger on Ginny's picture, "you threw it away."
"Get out of here!" Sanderson screamed, apoplectic. Lydia looked at me. I nodded. She straightened up, walked unhurriedly before me out Sanderson's office door.
"That was exciting," Lydia said as we left the plant. "But you didn't tell him you'd seen her."
"It wouldn't have helped. Actually, I think it would have made things worse. That I was so close, but I didn't bring her home."
Lydia nodded. "There's something peculiar."
"All of this is peculiar. What do you have in mind?"
"Well, Jimmy said Grice didn't want anything to do with Ginny. Why wouldn't he? And if Jimmy was right, what made Grice change his mind?"
"Maybe he didn't. There are lots of guys tougher than Jimmy."
"But the earrings—?"
"I'm not sure. But this should loosen things up."
"You think Sanderson will go straight to Grice?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I've never been anyone's father." She looked up at me quickly, said, "God, Bill, I'm sorry."
I didn't look at her, shook my head. "You don't have to tiptoe."
"I'm sorry," she said again.
Now I met her gaze. Usually, Lydia's eyes are a hard, pure black, like polished ebony or basalt; but sometimes, unpredictably, they soften to an infinite liquid depth. They were that way now, and I thought of the quarry, Jimmy's shack next to the wide black water deep with secrets, like Lydia's eyes.
I said nothing, and she understood.
We'd reached the car. I'd put it close to the building, in a "Reserved" space in the Executive Parking area around the back. I unlocked her side, went around to mine; but I didn't get a chance to get in.
A big blue Ford was parked nose to nose with my Acura. Three of its four doors sprang open together, three figures jumped out, and in three hands guns glinted, even in the dullness of the day.
Lydia, halfway into the car, froze. I did the same. "Tell her to get out!" Otis snarled. "And to keep her hands where I can see em!"
"She speaks English," I said evenly. Lydia stepped out of the car, her hands raised. "Lydia," I said, "this is Otis and Arnold and Ted. They're creeps." To Arnold I said, "You guys must be running out of cars. You used that one already." It was the one they’d been in Monday night at Antonelli's, Grice and Arnold and Wally Gould, and I should have spotted it the minute we walked into this lot.
"Shut up!" Otis ordered. Ted came over and frisked me. "This time he ain't even got a holster, Otis," he complained. "Do the girl," Otis said in disgust. Ted crossed to Lydia's side of the car. Otis jerked his head at Arnold, who came and went over me again, more expertly and roughly than Ted had. Arnold stepped away, shook his head. Ted, meanwhile, pocketed Lydia's .38. He didn't bother to search my car, so he didn't even come close to the .22 I'd strapped back under the dash between the visit to Grice's place, where I'd thought I might need it, and here, where I hadn't.
"Who's the gook?" Otis demanded. Lydia's cheeks flared hotly but she said nothing.
"She's a friend of mine."
"Your friends all carry guns?"
"Yours do."
"Yeah? And where's your goddamn rod this time?"
"This time the sheriff has it. Can you really shoot lefty?"
"Fuckin-A right I can! You wanna see, just keep flappin' your yap!"
Lydia spoke. "Who writes his dialogue?" she asked me.
"Mike Tyson. So what now, fellas? You shoot us here in the parking lot in the middle of the day and drive away?"
"You see anyone around who'd care if we did?" Otis snickered. The secluded area was empty except for us. "But I'm not supposed to shoot you till after Frank talks to you."
I shook my head. "I don't get Frank. I've been looking for him since yesterday. I even dropped by his place this morning. How come every time he wants me he thinks he has to send armed assholes to pick me up? And which of you assholes shot Tony Antonelli?"
Arnold growled, started toward me, but Otis said, "Uh- uh. Not here. Get in the car." He waved his gun around. Ted echoed gleefully, "Get in the car."
Lydia and I got in the car, in the places where they told us, Lydia in the middle of the back seat, me next to her. Arnold climbed in behind Ted, who was driving, Otis having been put on the Disabled List.
Otis waved his gun at me. "Turn around." I shifted in the seat. Arnold pulled out a set of handcuffs, leaned across Lydia. Ratchets clicked as steel closed tight around my wrists.
Otis put the gun about two inches from the end of Lydia's nose. "Now, we got no cuffs for you, cutie pie," he said. "But we also got no use for you. So if you or smartass here do anything dumb, even once, I'm gonna blow your pretty face off, and no one's gonna care. Got it?"
Lydia said, "I've got it." Her voice was clear and steady.
Ted threw the Ford into gear and we started down the road.
It took us half an hour to climb to the green house through hills heavy with the weight of the sky. Maple trees shimmered with the shiny red-brown of buds waiting to open. A pair of hawks wheeled low against the clouds. In the heaviness of the day even the snowdrops seemed dulled, subdued.
From the corner of my eye I watched Lydia concentrate on the road, the turns and the miles we covered. Otis smoked. Every cell in my body begged for a cigarette, but I didn't give Otis the satisfaction of turning me down.
I knew where we were going; I had no need to do what Lydia was doing. I stared out the window, saw other things. I saw Eve Colgate's eyes, tiny jewels glowing in them; I saw blood from her heart spread across six paintings, blood which was still, after all this time, too fresh for the world to see. I saw Tony's blood, and Tony's face, backlit in red neon, trying to find a way to tell me something he needed me to know. I saw Jimmy as I'd seen him last night, filthy, exhausted, scared, but his eyes full of the same mixture of bravado and belief that had been there, years ago, when he'd followed me onto a wobbly rope bridge across a swollen creek because I'd said it was safe. And I saw a little girl with those same eyes.
And I heard voices, words: Lydia's; MacGregor's; Brinkman's, at the hospital.
And suddenly I knew.
A late-model Buick Regal was parked between Otis's black truck and a dark green Aries in the spongy place next to the house when we got there. The Aries had a triple-A sticker above the left tail light and cracks spiderwebbing out from a small hole in the rear window.
The air as we crossed to the decrepit porch was sharp, bringing on it the scents of pine and water; but that was only outside. I saw Lydia's nose wrinkle with distaste as we walked through the door.
Grice stood in the living room opening. "Well," he said. "It's about time. Nice of you to come, Smith."
"I've been looking for you. You didn't need this."
"Yeah, I heard you wanted to see me. I didn't like the way you put it."
"How'd I put it?"
He shrugged, smirked at Lydia. "Who's this?"
"A friend of mine."
"She got a name?"
"Lydia Chin," said Lydia, looking steadily at Grice.
"Cute," Grice said. He reached to touch her cheek. She slammed his hand aside. Her eyes blazed. "Grice!" I said sharply. My arms tugged uselessly against the cuffs. "You want to deal, leave her alone."
Grice stopped, open mouthed, eyes on Lydia. Then he laughed. "Well," he said, "maybe later." He looked at me. "Deal? I don't think so." Smiling, he asked Otis, "Where'd you find them?"