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He’s a pump-and-dump sort of dealer.”
    Jay’s intent navy eyes urged her to continue.
    â€œBeck will pump what buzz he can from the paintings and the trial,” she said, “then dump the paintings on the market without regard for the worth they could have had with careful handling.”
    â€œCommodities.”
    A few blocks over a siren wailed, then stopped almost immediately.
    Sara frowned. “Everything has a price in the art market. I’m pragmatic enough to understand that.”
    â€œI’m hearing a ‘but’ . . .”
    â€œThe Custers are worth more than simply money. They represent some of the last great artistic interpretations of a western landscape that was vanishing even as he painted it. The past can’t be recovered, but we can sense it in those paintings.”
    â€œIt’s probably easier to see greatness if you didn’t know Custer personally,”Jay said. “I was just a kid, but I thought he was a petty, vain son of a bitch. That’s why he got the nickname Custer, after the general who didn’t know better than to lead his soldiers into a death trap in the name of spit and pride.”
    Inwardly Sara winced. “I gathered from some of our conversations that Custer wasn’t Mr. Personality. The painter, that is.”
    â€œPeople had a hard time understanding why JD carried him so long.”
    â€œCarried?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you? Room, board, art supplies, and pocket money.”
    â€œThat’s not well known,” she said, feeling excitement tickle through her. “Maybe your father believed in Custer’s talent.”
    â€œMaybe. And maybe he just liked having someone to wipe his boots on.”
    â€œOuch.”
    Jay smiled slightly, softening the hard lines of his face. “Guess I didn’t tell you that JD was as ornery and hardheaded as they come.”
    â€œEr, no. Sounds like your father and Custer were well matched.”
    â€œMore like my mother had a soft spot for Custer,” Jay said, taking Sara’s arm and heading for the doorway to the street. “She loved his paintings. JD loved her.”
    And I like the feeling of his son’s big hand on my arm, Sara thought. He’s one interesting man in person as well as over the phone.
    Good thing I’m immune.
    â€œYou’re cold,” he said, opening the door to the street, then closing it behind them. “Did you leave your coat in your car?”
    â€œNo. It was stolen from my—”
    Just then Barton Vermilion rushed up, drowning her words. He looked tired and drained and tight as a new-strung wire. The black coat was no longer slung over his shoulder, but wrapped around him.
    â€œJay, I need to talk to you. Now.”
    Sara felt the instinctive tightening of Jay’s hand on her arm before his grip loosened with a reluctance that made her want to ooze closer.
    Of course I want to be closer, she told herself briskly. He’s warm and the wind isn’t.
    â€œMs. Medina,” Jay said, “have you met my brother, Barton?”
    â€œA pleasure, Mr. Vermilion,” she said.
    Barton gave her a dismissive nod and turned back to Jay. “We have to talk.” Then his head snapped back toward Sara. “You testified against us. The judge quoted your opinion as a deciding factor in her decision.”
    â€œI gave a deposition, which included the authenticity of the receipts for Custers sold to JD Vermilion,” Sara said. “As your last name is Vermilion, you’re a beneficiary of my opinion.”
    Jay bit back a smile at Sara’s cool reply. “Point to the lady.”
    Barton swept his eyes up and down her like it was just before the bar closed on a Saturday night. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you have the sense to wear a coat?”
    The reply she wanted to make was straight out of the barnyards of her childhood. Before she could frame it in polite words,