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strangely familiar voice told her. “This one is occupied.” Liza peered into the shadows. Then her eyes went big in surprise.
    “Chris Dalen!” she burst out in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”

4
    For a second, Dalen looked as surprised as Liza when she sat down at the table. Then his lips quirked in a crooked smile. “Und zo, ve meet again,” he said in his hokey German accent. With his next words, he switched back to his normal voice. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked, considering that your friend Kevin runs this joint.”
    “I’m not sure he’d appreciate you calling this a joint,” Liza said.
    “I expect not,” Dalen replied. “Well, it sure beats hell out of the joint where I’ve spent the last dozen or so years. Nicer dress code, for one thing.” He fingered the lapel on the suit he was wearing. It was a little too narrow to be fashionable, maybe ten or twelve years out of style. Back then, though, it had been a good, expensive suit.
    Now it hung on Dalen’s emaciated frame. Liza figured he could fit two fingers under the collar of his dress shirt. “That’s all very interesting,” she said. “But it still doesn’t answer my question about what you’re doing here.”
    Dalen shrugged, rattling the ice in his highball glass. “Guess I was looking for a place where I could order top-shelf booze, enjoy a room where I get to lock the door, and sleep in a comfortable bed with a blanket that doesn’t rasp the skin off me. I wanted one taste of the old, good life.” He lapsed back into his fractured German shtick. “Und tomorrow, I get on der telefunken und call mein zister.”
    His crooked grin came back. “I’ll bunk in her spare room, find a nice job filling ice cream cones or something, and lead a good, gray life.”
    Liza looked at him for a long moment. “And the fact that Ritz Tarleton’s father just happens to be here this evening is a complete coincidence?”
    Dalen’s face barely changed. “Oh, you heard Daddy was in the building? Well, maybe the kid mentioned something about that . . .”
    “You’re trying to sell off that painting to him.”
    Chris Dalen dropped the ironic pose like a mask. “I know you’ve gotten involved in a couple of police cases. But you’re still pretty much a civilian, so I’ll be straight with you. I haven’t got much time left. Everybody who knows about the Mondrian sees me as one big dollar sign, and after those butcher-doctors in the joint were done with me, I was left in no shape to defend myself. As our pal Mr. Lezat might say, best to relieve myself of a major liability.”
    Liza blinked. “You make it sound like you’re in danger.”
    “Hey, Mr. Tarleton Tours is probably the gentleman of the bunch,” Dalen said. “Think of Fat Frankie Basso. There’s a guy who indulges his appetites for more than just food. He’s probably more used to moving the contents of knocked-over warehouses, but if he could make a connection to sell the Mondrian for half or even a third of its real value, that would still be more than a million bucks in his pocket, just for getting his hands on the painting.”
    Dalen gave a bitter laugh. “And what is it? The damned thing looks like a schematic for a tile bathroom floor. A buck two-eighty’s worth of paint on canvas, but people who know squat about art will pay three mill for it on some expert’s say-so. Now, if I had boosted the Mona Lisa . . .”
    His humor suddenly vanished. “But this is just business— maybe dangerous enough that it’s not a good idea to be seen talking with me.” With that, Dalen got up and left the table.
    Liza sat where she was, and a moment later a waiter came by to take her order. “Er, the gentleman said you were picking up his tab.”
    “Then I guess I am.” Liza ordered a glass of red wine. It arrived in a tall stemmed glass, and Liza swirled the red liquid around, wondering how much of what Dalen had said was for real, and how much was the newly freed