“I can manage, thanks.”
“This way. Watch the walls.”
Danziger led Bosch into the house and to the left. They walked down a short hallway and through a living room where there were large paintings over a fireplace and a couch by the opposite wall. They did not appear to be from the brush of Jasmine Corian. It indicated to Bosch that Danziger might be a collector of many artists.
They went through a set of double French doors into what looked like a second living room, this one smaller but with a large fireplace with a seating arrangement in front of it. There was a desk table and chair at the far end of the room next to a window that looked out across the bay. Bosch could see cars moving on Bayshore Boulevard far on the other side.
Standing next to the table was an artist’s three-legged easel with nothing on it. Bosch put the heavy painting crate down on a rug but kept one hand on it to make sure the thin wooden package didn’t fall over. He pulled the screwdriver Monica had given him out of his pocket. He had to loosen two screws in the top wooden panel of the crate and then the painting could be carefully lifted up and out. He looked around as he worked the screwdriver. There were three paintings of the same size and equally spaced on the wall above the couch. All three were signed Jazz and seemed to be part of a study of a young man in a white shirt and tie. On the wall over the fireplace was a larger canvas that was a painting of Danziger that made him look strong and upright, peering off into the distance at something meaningful. The wall to Bosch’s left was covered by what looked like velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains.
“Looks like you’re out of wall space for this one,” he said.
“Just put it on the easel,” Danziger said. “When I’m ready I’ll find a place for it.”
Bosch moved to the second screw. He waited a beat before speaking again. “You used to go out with Jasmine, didn’t you?”
Danziger turned from looking at the painting of himself to stare at Bosch. “Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t mean to be rude. I saw the painting of you there and that made me remember you two had a relationship.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Who are you exactly?”
“A friend of Jasmine’s. That’s all.”
“Have we met? You look familiar.”
“That’s unlikely. I’m from Los Angeles.”
“Then you should mind your own business.”
“You’re right. I definitely should.”
Bosch felt the wooden plank release and he lifted it out by the two screws. He then reached into the crate and brought the bubble-wrapped painting up and out through the narrow opening. Leaning the package against his legs, he used a folding knife from his pocket to cut the tape that secured the wrapping and carefully unfolded it. Holding the painting between his palms in the way he had seen Monica handle it, he walked to the easel and placed the painting on display. From the canvas, Jasmine’s eye looked between her fingers at him.
Bosch stepped back and studied the work for a moment. “Twenty-two thousand bucks,” he said. “That’s a lot for something you just hang on the wall.”
“It’s an investment,” Danziger said. “Her work has appreciated markedly over time.”
“I heard her old stuff is really valuable. Wish I had invested way back when.” Bosch moved back to the crate and started gathering up the bubble wrap. “You want to keep the crate?” he asked. “In case you can’t find space for it and you just want to store your investment?”
“I told you, I’ll find a space for it,” Danziger responded. “A painting should be seen and appreciated, not put in a closet.”
“I totally agree. But if you think that, why do you have the curtain closed?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The curtain.”
Bosch dropped the bubble wrap to the floor and walked over to the velvet curtain. He reached behind the left edge and found the draw line. He started opening the curtain.
“Leave that alone!” Danziger cried.
“I studied your house before I came in. This room has no window on the front wall. I look familiar to you because...”
The curtain opened, revealing the missing painting hung on a windowless wall. The Guardian. Bosch stared for a moment at his own image of twenty-five years before.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Danziger said. “But I want you to get—”
“A man covets what he can’t have,” Bosch cut him off. “You couldn’t have Jasmine so you bought her paintings. She’d sell you anything but the one on her own wall. So you coveted it and you took it.”
Bosch reached up and took the painting off the wall. He judged that it was roughly the same size as the painting he had delivered. He took it to the crate and folded the bubble wrap around it before slipping it securely inside. Danziger just watched.
“What are you going to do?” he finally asked.
“I’m going to take it back to Jasmine,” Bosch said. “After that, she’s the one you should ask.”
Bosch screwed the top plank back into place. “I’m not a cop,” he said. “If I was, you’d be in cuffs.”
“Please, tell Jasmine, we can work something out,” Danziger said, a whine in his voice now. “The police don’t have to be involved.”
Bosch lifted the crate, ready to go. “Like I said, I just came for the painting. You can talk to her about the rest.”
Bosch put the crate into the backseat of the rental and drove away. In a few minutes he was on Bayshore. The sun was going down and the sky was orange and blue over the bay. He turned onto Willow and drove under the thick arms of the oak trees.
A few minutes later Bosch helped Jasmine hang her painting back on the wall.
“Thank you, Harry,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Jasmine,” he said.
Chum in the Water
by Lori Roy
Tierra Verde
Dale pushes open the door to Smugglers and straightaway sees a new girl working behind the bar. As he walks inside Tierra Verde’s only real tavern, a place where a man can still smoke a cigar, the late-day sun follows him into the dark room and throws a glare. He leans to get a better look. The girl pushes off the bar when the sunlight falls across her, turns toward Dale, and smiles. He drops the door and as it falls closed, snapping off the stream of light and hot August air that followed him inside, she comes into focus. White teeth shining against bright-red lips. Pale-blue eyes that linger on him. Pulling a bar towel from her back pocket, the girl laughs at something, tips her face, arches her back, and blots her neck and chest. Dale drops into a chair at his usual table, or rather the sight of that girl knocks him from his feet, because, damn it all, walking in on something that inviting is almost painful. And then he sees Chum.
Sitting on his stool at the end of the bar, Chum is the one making the girl laugh. He’s telling her how he got his nickname some sixty years ago. He’s going on about sharks having a taste for him and ancient burial grounds just down the way that protected him. Protected this island from hurricanes too. Look it up, he’s telling her. Dale wants to turn and leave, but that would make Chum suspicious, and he’d come after Dale for sure. Or he could stay and hope the old man forgets he’s here, a possibility given the distraction behind the bar. Quietly, Dale scoots his chair until he’s out of Chum’s sight line.
The past year has been tough for Dale — lost his business, wife left him, got himself deep in debt to Chum, and he’s never felt so damn old — but he has good reason to believe things will start looking up in the next few weeks, and maybe the new girl is another sign of better days ahead. With a girl like that, Dale damn sure wouldn’t feel old anymore. Just the thought of what her hair would smell like when fanned across his pillow starts him feeling happy about the days ahead. Yes, he’ll stay and hope Chum forgets he’s here.