He stepped over to a wooden gate set in the wall. It had a flip latch located about six inches from the top on the inside of the door. Anybody who stood at least five and a half feet could easily reach over, flip the latch, and allow themselves entry. Besides that, the wall itself would be easy enough to scale. The security measures protecting the backyard were deterrents to entry, not denials.
“Let’s go up,” he said.
Once again Jasmine led the way. Bosch took the steps to the studio slowly, his knees extra sore from being cramped in the airline seat for the five-hour flight.
The place where Jasmine painted was much as Bosch remembered it. An apartment living room converted into an artist’s studio. With a workbench — Jasmine stretched her own canvas — and paint and brush station on the right, and her easel and painting area at the far end of the room where there were windows that allowed the morning light to hit the surface she was painting. There was a work underway on the easel. It was in the sketch stage and was clearly going to be a portrait of a child — a girl with dark circles under her eyes. Bosch recognized Jasmine as a child.
“Do you remember being here?” Jasmine asked.
“Of course,” Bosch said. “I remember everything.”
He looked at her and waited. This was the place where she created, where she felt safest. If she wanted to reveal something, it would be now. She looked at her work in progress for a moment and then back to him.
“You asked about the money — what the painting was worth,” she said. “It’s not about the money. It’s not even about the intruder. That piece... that painting is when everything changed for me. I found my art. I found the confidence in what I was doing with my life. It’s a portrait of you but it’s also of me. Coming out of darkness. I don’t know if that makes sense to you but it—”
“It does,” Bosch said. “I understand.”
“Then you see. I have to find it. I have to get it back. I’m not sure the local police understand that. That’s why I called you.” She was silhouetted by the light coming through the windows.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“I believe you.” She came to him and put her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest. “You must be tired,” she said. “You took a red-eye. I have a room set up for you if you want to rest.”
“I just need some coffee and I’ll be fine,” he said. “I want to call Detective Stone and just tell him I’ll be poking around on this. I also thought maybe I should stay at a hotel or something. I don’t want to im—”
“Don’t be silly. I have a big house and you can have half of the top floor. You won’t be bothered... unless you want to be.” She landed the last line with a tilted smile Bosch remembered very well.
Back inside the main house, Jasmine made coffee while Bosch walked back to the living room, where he studied the wall on which the missing painting had hung. Up close he saw the smudges of fingerprint powder on the plaster. It was good to know the locals had tried but he also knew that a painting could be removed from a wall without having to touch the wall. He expected that the forensic effort had been for naught.
He turned away and looked out the large plate-glass window to the street. Anybody driving by could have seen the painting and become enthralled by it. Narrowing that down to a suspect list would be impossible. He called to Jasmine, who was still in the kitchen.
“Were there any cameras?”
“What?”
“Cameras. Here or at homes on the street. Did the police check?”
“They checked. Detective Stone said it was a bust. Cream and sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
She entered the room carrying a mug of steaming coffee. “I should’ve remembered. No cream, no sugar,” she said. “Let it cool.”
She carefully handed him the mug. He was tempted to take a gulp and get the caffeine working inside him, but he followed her directions and stood there awkwardly holding the mug. It said Girl Power on the side.
He turned and looked out the window again, his gaze carrying to the house across the street. It was another large craftsman-style house with a full porch. But he could tell it was empty. No curtains on any window. And empty rooms beyond the glass. There was a real estate sign on the lawn that said, FOR SALE.
“When did they move out?” he asked.
“A couple weeks ago,” Jasmine said.
“Did you know them?”
“Not that well. I keep to myself mostly. I know Pat and George next door. We have a drink at Christmas every year — we alternate porches. I have the odd years, they the even. But that’s about it.”
“Do Pat and George have a spare key to your house?”
“No.”
“Does anybody?”
“Just my manager.”
“I think I should talk to your manager. Where is he?”
“It’s a she. Monica Tate. She works out of the gallery on MacDill.”
Bosch took his first sip of coffee. It was good and fully charged and he thought he could feel the spark hitting his bloodstream, going to work. “This is good,” he said. “Will Monica be there today?”
“Yes. The gallery hours are eleven to three but she goes in earlier to handle the business end of it.”
“You don’t like the business end of it?”
“No, I don’t.”
Bosch took another hit of coffee. “I should go over there then,” he said. “Can I take this or do you have a to-go cup?”
“I have cups,” she said.
Bosch followed her into the kitchen and poured his coffee into a foam cup she got out of the pantry. “How long have you known Monica?” he asked.
“About fifteen years. She changed everything for me. Got my work in front of the right people, opened the gallery. This house, everything I have really, I owe it to her.”
Bosch knew that many successful artists had trouble accepting accolades and money. Many didn’t care about it and others craved it. He put Jasmine in the former category. When he thought about their past times together, he knew that all she wanted to do was be in a room by herself and paint.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “I’m sure Monica is good at what she does, but it starts with the art and that’s all you.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“What is Monica’s cut?”
“Do you really need to know that?”
“I need to know everything. Then I can tell what’s important.”
“She takes out the gallery expenses, all the shipping, and 25 percent for herself. It’s standard.”
“Do you know if Detective Stone spoke to Monica?”
“Yes, he had to speak to her so they could value the loss. The higher the loss, the higher the level of the crime, I guess.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works. What was the value?”
“Eighty thousand. But I have to tell you, I’ve never sold a painting for that much. Not even close. Monica said it was worth that because it was a seminal work and part of the artist’s personal collection.”
“Was it insured for that much?”
“I have a general policy on all my work. I won’t get that much unless I want to hire a lawyer. The insurance company is trying to say that because it was on a wall in my house, it doesn’t count under the policy for the studio. It’s part of the homeowner’s insurance and included in home furnishings. There’s a maximum payout of twenty-five thousand.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Tell it to them. I’m not going to fight it. I don’t care about the money. I just want my painting back. I haven’t been able to work since it was taken.”
Bosch nodded. He knew she wanted more assurance than I’ll do my best. She wanted a promise that he would find the painting and bring it back. But he never made promises like that. When he worked homicides in Los Angeles, he made too many promises like that, telling grieving parents he would find the killers who took their sons or daughters. He never made good on some of them and the promises kept him awake at night.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m going over there to see Monica. Do me a favor: don’t tell her I’m coming.”
“I won’t. But if you think she may be involved in this, you are wrong. Monica would not betray me like that.”
“It’s good that you have somebody like that. But I don’t think anything about anybody right now.”