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me,” said Victor.
    “That’s exactly the problem,” I said.
    “Zena isn’t worried, are you my dear?” Victor turned to me. “At the end, she will have the money, and it is you who will hand over the paintings. I will only make the arrangements.”
    Victor said he’d already told the insurance company we had the paintings, and now he told us how he’d work the exchange. The problem, of course, was that talking to the company gave them a chance to find us. They could trace his phone calls. “But I’ll use three separate cell phones,” he said. “I’ll put those little cards you can buy in a smoke shop into them. I will only make one call from each phone, and I’ll be in my car, driving. So they can trace each call, but I’ll already be gone, and my next call will be on a different phone, from a different place.” He laid out his three shiny new cell phones in front of him.
    A few minutes later, I left to go to the washroom. On the way, I passed the rack where we had hung our coats—it had been raining outside. I suppose cell phones were on my mind. Victor’s coat hung on the rack like a limp dishrag, and I saw where the pocket bulged. I looked back. A big post blocked the view from our table; Victor couldn’t see me. I slipped my hand into the pocket of his coat and felt the old cell phone he normally used. Taking it, I ducked into the washroom.
    I pressed Recent Calls.
    Nine calls had been made to someone called “T. Crowder” at a number here, in Los Angeles.
    T. Crowder? Who could he be?
    There was an easy way to find out. I pushed Call.
    From the washroom, the signal was pretty weak, but the phone started ringing. A female voice answered. “The Crowder residence. Good evening.”
    “Is that Mrs. Crowder?”
    “No, sir. It’s Maria, the maid.”
    “Thank you.”
    I pushed End Call.
    T. Crowder, it seemed, was rich enough to live in a “residence” rather than a house. He could also afford a maid.
    On my way back to the table, I slipped the phone back into Victor’s coat pocket. I was smiling as I sat down. All my questions, I thought, had been answered. Victor , I said to myself, what a wicked fellow you are .

Chapter Eight
    Dollars for Art

    Victor’s exchange plan was a scam, a big lie. I’ll give him credit, though—it sounded good, it looked good.
    Supposedly, Victor was driving all over Los Angeles, talking to the insurance company. Supposedly, he was telling them where they should take the money and where they should pick up the paintings. This way, he said, when we picked up the money, we wouldn’t be picked up ourselves by the police. All that stuff with the cell phones made the story convincing. But in fact, I felt pretty sure Victor was sitting in some coffee shop, reading his newspapers.
    Why didn’t I say anything?
    I was taking Victor’s advice, keeping my mouth shut, being discreet. He was playing a game. I was playing along. Winning, for me, meant staying out of jail... and Zena. My share of $600,000? I told you in the beginning, I didn’t care about the money at all.
    Victor’s game ended in Los Angeles, in Union Station. It’s the old train station, which opened in 1939. You can see it in black and white movies. The outside is like a Mexican palace, with a huge clock tower. To one side, there’s a beautiful garden. Inside, the tile floors have patterns like Navajo Indian rugs. Some of the ceilings are as high as a five-storey building. As for the trains, you can travel from here to anywhere in the United States, or you can just go across Los Angeles on the Metro Rail lines.
    The next afternoon, at two o’clock, I was sitting in a big padded leather chair in the station’s waiting room. Beside me was a suitcase. Victor had given it to me. It was locked with a combination lock. Inside were the paintings.
    I was sitting on the left side of the waiting room.
    Zena was also sitting in one of those comfortable chairs, over on the right side. I couldn’t quite see