The Black Painting. Neil Olson

exactly kind. She had a firm handshake.

      “I’m Audrey,” she replied, brushing against him as she passed. More closely than the space required. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

      “Wait, have you spoken to Cynthia?” Philip called after her.

      “She won’t mind,” Audrey declared, already in the hall and headed for the stairs. Philip went as far as the kitchen door in pursuit. Then stopped, shoulders sagging.

      “My niece,” he said in resignation.

      “I remember,” Dave replied. She was a mouthy teen when he last saw her. The children had been off-limits for questioning. Which was appropriate, yet frustrating, as three had been in the house during the theft. One of them had actually been in the room. A boy, in therapy for some trauma. Dave could guess the source of that trauma, but none of the adults would speak of it. He’d met Audrey because she sought him out during her father’s interview. Flirting, he guessed. Or wanting to know what was up, the way teenagers did. She was cute, but fifteen-year-olds were not his thing, and he hadn’t given her a second thought. She was all grown-up now.

      Morse shuffled back to the table. Audrey’s entrance had severed the brief bond between the men, and Dave sensed a dismissal. But the attorney sat down again.

      “Thank you for telling me those things.”

      “I can’t imagine they were what you wanted to hear,” Dave answered, sitting down also.

      “No, but not as bad as I guessed. Tell me something else, please. Did you believe I was the thief? Is that what you would have reported to my father?”

      “That’s a tough question, Philip.”

      “The truth will do. You won’t offend me.”

      “I hadn’t made up my mind. I needed more time, and more freedom. You looked suspicious, but so did other people.”

      “Like my brother-in-law,” the attorney said. “Ramón.”

      “I can’t answer that.”

      “You don’t need to.” Morse reached into his jacket and slipped out a checkbook. They had not discussed a fee for Dave’s time, but without asking, the attorney began to write. “What I would like to do is ask you to pick up where you left off fifteen years ago,” he said, tearing the check from the book. “I don’t know how realistic that is.”

      “It’s a cold trail,” Dave managed, covering his surprise. Was he serious? “I would have to track down a lot of people. They would have to be willing to talk.”

      “Many hurdles,” the lawyer agreed. “Don’t answer now, but consider the possibility. Last question. Or request. Would you be willing to repeat everything you’ve just said to my brother and sister?”

      There it was. The old man was gone but not the siblings. Did one of them control the purse strings? Or was this just an emotional thing? Did it matter?

      “If they’re willing to listen,” said Dave, “I’m willing to talk.”

      Morse nodded and handed over the check. It was for a thousand dollars, far too much. Dave thought of handing it back, then thought better.

      “Consider yourself on retainer,” the attorney said. “We’ll be speaking more.”

       6

      The diner was a mile from Morse’s house, at the first intersection going east. Anyone returning to Owl’s Point would pass this way. There was also a gas station, post office and antiques shop, but little activity this Monday morning. Little to attract Dave’s eye while he ate a late breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. He could not have said what he was watching for until the red Lexus sped by the window.

      Philip had shaken his hand when they parted. As if they were pals now, or at least co-conspirators. Dave did not know why it bothered him. He had worked for worse men, and very little had been asked of him so far. He had no inflated sense of his own honor, but there was something tainted about the attorney. About the whole family. They were people to avoid; Dave felt it on an instinctive level. Yet he’d accepted the check, and gave Morse his mobile number. Going to his car, he had stolen a glance back and caught a figure in a second-floor window. Near the back of the house, the master bedroom probably. It was her, Audrey. She examined a blouse in the window’s natural light, and it took a moment to realize she wore nothing but a white bra. She didn’t look up, but Dave had no doubt the show was for him. Before he averted his gaze, she turned around quickly. As if someone in the room behind had startled her. Yet she made no effort to cover herself.

      He had been trying to sort it all out—what the attorney really wanted, why Audrey had made an appearance, what was going on between the two of them—when her car shot by. She drove too fast. Any careless pedestrian would have been instant roadkill. In the minimum time it would take to find a place to turn around and come back, the Lexus reappeared and swung in next to his blue Taurus. She got out slowly and scanned the long window until she spotted him. Then waved. Dave did not wave back, but she bounded up the stairs and entered the little diner nevertheless.

      The same black jeans, but now she sported a pink blouse with the sleeves rolled, along with a turquoise bracelet and silver chain around her neck. Also fresh lipstick and eye shadow, which did not quite distract from the dark crescents of sleeplessness. She had the weathered look of a woman a few years older, a look Dave found appealing. Indeed, he was quite attracted to her, and the sooner he admitted that to himself the better he could resist.

      “Hey,” she said, sliding in across the table from him. “Mind if I join you?”

      “You already have. But I was just finishing.”

      “Doesn’t look like you enjoyed it.” She grabbed his coffee cup and took a swig, leaving a red smear on the white ceramic. “That is terrible,” she announced.

      “It is,” he agreed. “You didn’t give me time to warn you.”

      “I know you,” Audrey said, drilling him with those blue eyes. It struck him that she had a slightly crazed look, and Dave could not decide if it was natural or a put-on. “I could feel it right away, but it took a little while to figure out. You won’t remember me.”

      “I do.”

      “Really?” She seemed far too pleased. “They wouldn’t even let me talk to you.”

      “You managed to barge in anyway.”

      “For like thirty seconds before they hustled me out.”

      “You were too young,” Dave said. “It wasn’t allowed.”

      “I was fifteen. I made a statement to the police.”

      “And I got a copy of that.”

      “Maybe I didn’t tell them everything,” she said, letting that sit. He would not take the bait, and he could see that she had no patience. “So what’s the story, Dave? Did my uncle hire you to investigate something?”