The Pegasus Secret Read Online Free PDF Page A

announcing a sale at Neiman’s, the midtown neighborhood paper and an envelope with the name “Ansley Galleries” printed on it. Curious, Lang opened it, extracting a computer-printed letter informing “Dear Customer” that the gallery had been unable to reach anyone by phone but the job was complete.
    Ansley Galleries was a small storefront down around Sixth or Seventh Street, a few minutes from where he was standing. There seemed no point in having Sara make an extra trip.
    The teenaged girl behind the counter had spiked purple hair, lipstick to match, a butterfly tattooed on her neck and a ring through her left eyebrow. Looking at her made not having children of his own easier to bear. She glanced at the letter, then at him. Her jaws stopped masticating a wad of gum long enough to ask, “You’re . . . ?”
    “Langford Reilly, Dr. Holt’s brother.”
    She looked back down at the letter in her hand and then back at him. “Jesus! I read in the paper . . . I’m sorry. Dr. Holt was a sweet lady. Bummer.”
    He had had enough condolences for a lifetime, let alone today. Still, it was nice of the kid. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I’m taking care of her estate. That’s why I’m picking up . . .”
    He pointed to the paper in her hand.
    “Oh! Sorry! I’ll get it for you.”
    He tracked her progress between the shelves behind the counter by the sound of popping gum.
    When she returned, she had a package wrapped in brown paper. “Dr. Holt sent this from Paris, had us frame and appraise it for insurance.” She tore off a small envelope that had been taped to the paper. “This is a Polaroid of the painting and the appraisal. You’ll want to keep them somewhere safe and we’ll keep a copy.” She put both envelope and package on the counter and consulted a sales slip. “That’ll be two sixty-seven fifty-five, including tax.”
    Lang handed her his plastic and watched her swipe it through a terminal as he stuffed the envelope into his inside coat pocket. What was he going to do with some piece of religious art? Selling it was out of the question;Janet had bought it in the last hours of her life. He would find a place for it somewhere.
    He signed the credit card receipt, wadded it into a pocket and took the package under one arm. Stopping at the doorway, he let his eyes acclimate from the dark of the shop to the bright spring light outside.
    Something out there was not quite right, out of place.
    The old sensitivity which made him habitually aware of his surroundings had become so much a part of him that he no longer noticed it, like a deer’s instinctive listening for the sound of a predator. His mind noted the doorman of his condo standing on the left instead of the right side of the door, a jalopy in an upscale neighborhood where Mercedes and BMWs belonged.
    It took a second for him to realize he had stopped and was staring at the street and another to realize why. The man on the other side, the derelict who appeared to be sleeping off the demons of cheap wine in the paper- and glass-littered doorway of one of the neighborhood’s empty buildings. He sat, facing Lang, eyes seemingly closed. The worn camo jacket, tattered jeans and filthy, laceless sneakers were in character. The man could have been one of the city’s thousands of wandering homeless. But how many were clean-shaven with hair cut short enough not to hang below the knit cap? Even assuming this one had recently been released from a hygiene-conscious jail, it was unlikely he would be here so close to noon when the church down the street was giving away soup and sandwiches. Also, he had gone to sleep in a hurry. Lang was certain the bum had not been there when he arrived at the gallery, yet he had found a suitable spot and dozed off in two or three minutes. Even the gut-corroding poison purchased with dollars panhandled from guilty yuppies wouldn’t knock him out that quickly.
    Of course, Lang told himself, he could be mistaken. There were plenty of