Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) Read Online Free PDF Page B

door safe and walked away from the heady scent of coffee. I’d pour a cup when I was done. I’d certainly have earned it. Squinting, I stepped into the daylight.
    A couple bums sat in the alley watching as I crossed to the reeking dumpster. Big and brown, it was full of germs and slime and vermin and disease, and I knew at once that I…I couldn’t go in that thing. I wasn’t cut out for dumpster diving.
    “Hey.” I waved to the bums. “I’ll give you twenty bucks to find something for me in here.”
    “Fuck you, buddy. I ain’t goin’ in dere.” A scruffy man in a red knit cap and a dirty buffalo plaid jacket laughed at me. He poked his friend. Man number two sat crouched in his own grimy coat. He nodded, peering up from his book. The two of them were side by side on a piece of filthy cardboard and watched me like I was the morning show. There was a bottle of my Uncle Tino’s discount gin sitting between them. It was nearly empty.
    I threw the lid open on the dumpster, and then I frowned at the cashmere sweater I’d gotten on markdown from Bloomingdale’s. It was the single best article of clothing I owned, living on the peanuts that I did. I wasn’t a clotheshorse, not really, but this was a V-neck in soft, unblemished, buttery yellow. I could not crawl into that rancid dumpster with this garment on. “Fifty bucks,” I called. I didn’t have fifty, but I’d bet the sweater that Shep did.
    “Sixty.” He blew his nose with his fingers and wiped his hand on his dirt-colored pants.
    “Are you…are you haggling with me? I don’t have sixty bucks.”
    “That’s a nice sweater. Looks like cashmere.”
    I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. “I’m not trading. I’ll give you fifty bucks to climb in here and see if there’s a sculpture made of watches.”
    “Aw. No. It ain’t in dere, man. I was in dere about ten minutes ago.”
    “You were already inside the dumpster?”
    He nodded. “Had some of that cake from last night’s orgy. And Joseph found some, uh, spirits.”
    “Did you see anyone leave that door?” I pointed to the steps and the wide-open door to the gallery kitchen.
    “Couple of ’em. They was loading a van, and one guy had a big box. He drove off late.”
    Ah. Useful information. “The guy, what did he look like?”
    “White guy. He didn’t have no shirt on, and he had a bow tie.”
    Goddamn it. “Hair? How tall?”
    “Oh. Tall, fit, and had a ball cap on. It was dark out. You still gonna give me fifty bucks?”
    “You already were in the dumpster.” I gave him ten anyway. It was my lunch money and subway fare. “What time did you see him?”
    “Last night. Right, Joseph?”
    Joseph, obviously the name of the bum reading a romance novel on his pallet of cardboard, nodded. “Ayup. Afta midnight, I reckon,” he drawled. “Captain said he was nekkid.”
    “Nah. I said he was flauntin’ himself.”
    Captain? The guy’s name was Captain? “What kind of car?”
    “Taxi. It was yellow and banged up.”
    I needed to call the police. I dialed Jean Luc instead. His phone went straight to voice mail. Then I dialed Peter. For him, I left a message. “Peter. I have a question about one of the pieces. Call me directly.”
    I ran back inside and was brought up short by the sight of Shep McNamara lounging in the kitchen, his strong hands gorgeously proportionate to the rest of him, his tablecloth draped effortlessly. He was sipping my coffee from my mug. He was as chiseled and compelling as Michelangelo’s David. He was about as hairless as well. Although— “Why are you orange, Shep?”
    “Estelle. She had me go to a shoot for the show— Mr. Potter’s Lullaby —and they thought I was too pale.” He smiled unselfconsciously. “I think it makes my hair look white.”
    “You look like an oversized Oompa Loompa.”
    He chuckled. “Thanks. Yeah it’s supposed to fade in a couple days. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
    I boiled over. “I need you to sober up and get out of