Bad Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

again until we came up the hill behind the house, trim and solid against the blue of the sky. “Fame is a disease, Mr. Smith. I don’t want it; I won’t have it. Nor will I have those paintings dissected, discussed, exposed—!”
    The spots of red appeared in her cheeks again, but her voice stayed low, controlled. “I want you to find those paintings, and do whatever you have to do to get them back. Pay the market price, if you have to. I can do that.” She smiled a small, bitter smile; then it faded. “But who I am is my business.”
    We rounded the house, stopped at the porch steps. I looked at her. Her boots were caked with mud. Her eyes were like crystal creatures caught in the net of lines around them.
    “The paintings,” I said, watched her eyes. “Who would recognize them as yours? An expert? A layman? Are they signed?”
    “They’re not signed. An expert would certainly know them. An educated layman, possibly. My work is distinctive, Mr. Smith. There are recurring images, themes that don’t change.”
    I searched for the right way to put my next question. “If it were necessary to destroy the paintings to preserve your privacy, would that be all right?”
    She didn’t speak right away. Finally she said, “I don’t know.”
    Simple and clear, that answer; and I’d made my decision. I said, “There are some things I’ll need.”
    “What things?”
    “Descriptions of whatever was in the trunk. And I’ll need to bring someone else in.”
    She stiffened. “Why someone else? No.”
    “If I’d stolen your stuff, I’d forget about selling the paintings—assuming I didn’t know what they were worth— and try to unload whatever looked valuable: silver, old photographs, things like that.” And probably dump everything else in the county landfill, but I didn’t tell her that. “But if I were smart enough to know what the paintings were worth, I’d also know I couldn’t sell them up here. I’d take them to New York. I want to call someone, check that out. I could go down there myself, but I think I’m more useful up here.”
    She was silent for a time, her eyes roving over the sloping lawn, the drive, the tangles of forsythia. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’m hiring you as a professional. If you think this is necessary, do it. But understand that total discretion is as important to me as the return of those paintings.”
    I couldn’t help grinning. If I hadn’t gotten that message already it would have been a good time to tear up my license and go fishing.

3
    IT WAS EARLY for lunch at Antonelli’s. Tony was alone inside except for two T-shirted guys wolfing down beers, burgers, and a mountain of fries. Tony, leaning on the bar, looked up from his newspaper as I came in.
    “Jesus,” he said. “You look like hell.”
    “And you don’t. Why is that?”
    He grunted. “Clean livin’.” He folded the paper, put it aside. “You okay?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Just thirsty. Let me have a Genny Cream.” He opened a bottle and put it on the bar with a glass. “Listen, Tony, I need to talk to Jimmy. Where can I find him?”
    “Trouble?” His mouth tightened.
    “No. Just something I need to know.”
    “From that punk?” He gave a humorless laugh. “If you can’t drink it, drive it, or steal it, he don’t know nothin’ about it.”
    “Oh, Christ, Tony, there are some things he’s good for, if you’d cut him a little slack. He cooks as well as you do. And he’s better than anyone I know with a car.” I was sorry the minute I said it.
    Tony’s face flushed. “Yeah. He can fix ’em, smash ’em, or cool ’em off if they’re hot.”
    Oh well, I was in now. “That what Frank Grice was here about last night? Something to do with the quarry?”
    “That’s none of your fuckin’ business!” He slammed his open hand on the bar. The T-shirts looked up from their fries. Tony shifted his eyes to them, then back to me. He dropped his voice. “You saved my ass last night.