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Chevron Oil’s art curator, based in San Francisco.”
    Paula frowned. “Chevron has an art curator?”
    He nodded. “They’re constantly acquiring art for their executive offices and public areas. Paintings, sculpture, everything. It’s a huge program. They donate art, too, and they sponsor art scholarships. Betty administered millions of dollars in acquisitions. She also made money for Chevron, buying and selling. In fact, she more than earned her keep.”
    “And that’s what she did for Powers Associates?”
    “That’s what she did for Raymond DuBois. That’s where this all starts—with Raymond DuBois’s collection of art, which is worth millions. Tens of millions. Hundreds of millions, for all I know. DuBois is an obsessive collector. He’s got no wife, no children, no relatives that he trusts. And his health is failing. Several years ago he had a stroke, and he’s confined to a wheelchair. Art is his whole life. Art and money. He’s apparently got a great eye, because when he buys and sells art he always turns a handsome profit. He’s not married, as I said, and apparently he became very attached to Betty, a daughter substitute. He treated her very well—paid her a damn good salary and gave her a percentage of all the money they made selling art. If she made a profit, she took a percentage. If there was a loss, which almost never happened, DuBois swallowed it. Plus, she got to travel all over the world, acquiring art.”
    “So she had a great life.”
    Bernhardt shrugged as the waiter arrived with salads and French bread. When Bernhardt asked for a third round of red and white, almost always their limit, the waiter informed them that they should have ordered two small carafes.
    “So what went wrong?” Paula asked. “Did she do business on the side, put some money in her pocket?”
    “About a year ago, DuBois told Betty he had something important to show her. He revved up his electric wheelchair and took her to a door at the end of a windowless hallway in a little-used wing of his house, which is in the hills above Hollywood. There was a door at the end of the hallway, and a control panel beside the door. DuBois punched out a code and the door slid open. They were in a smaller hallway, facing a second door. He punched out another code. The first door closed behind them and the second door slid open. It turned out to be a thick steel door, like a goddam bank vault, and—”
    “Don’t tell me.” Dark eyes dancing, her whole body came alive. “A room full of rare paintings.”
    Teasing her, Bernhardt ate some salad, ate some French bread. Then: “You’re half right. Care to try for the second half? I’ll give you a hint. The room was only about twelve feet square. But there was a Van Gogh and a Braque and a Reubens, just to name a—”
    “Stolen,” she breathed. “Stolen art treasures, sure as hell.”
    “The Van Gogh alone is worth twenty-five million.”
    “Jesus …” Her eyes searched his face; she was trying to guess the rest of it. “He was trusting her with his whole life.”
    “That’s it exactly.”
    “Why’d he do it? Tell her, I mean.”
    “He’s in his late seventies, and his heart is shot. He’s had a stroke, and he’s confined to a wheelchair, so he can’t take care of the paintings. There’re dehumidifiers, for instance, to be serviced. Plus, he wanted someone to know about the paintings if he died. He showed her the combinations that operated the doors, had her memorize them. Then he told her what he wanted done with the stuff. All this was done verbally, nothing written down.”
    “What did he want done with the paintings?”
    “He wants them all returned to the original owners, which are mostly museums. In his will he gave her the house, so she’d always have access to the paintings. It’d take time, you see, to dispose of the stuff. Time and money. Lots of money, because she’d need security. Lots of security. He said he’d leave her a million dollars.