THREE

“You can’t be serious,” Trevor Blaine said, when Monk told him Lyman Davidson’s Madonna had just been stolen.

It was very quiet in the living room of Blaine’s penthouse apartment in the Watergate complex overlooking the Potomac. Monk looked past the thin-faced art dealer, out the window at the lights across the river. On the blue leather couch across from the matching club chairs occupied by Monk and his partner, Roger Forbes, their suspect sat perfectly still.

“When, Agent Monk?” Trevor Blaine asked. “When did it happen?”

Monk allowed the question to hang in the air while he watched for a tell, for something in the man’s body language to indicate that Trevor Blaine already knew the answer. He saw nothing. Despite the late hour—half an hour past midnight—Blaine showed not the slightest sign of discomfort. Even his clothes looked relaxed. His light gray silk suit hung on his spare frame as unwrinkled as if it had just come from the cleaners. Monk wasn’t surprised. If what he and Roger Forbes had heard about the art dealer from Monk’s informant in jail was true, it would take more than just their showing up to rattle him.

“The Madonna was stolen from Lyman Davidson’s house in Kalorama Heights about two hours ago,” Monk told him. “A woman Davidson was entertaining in his home attacked him and walked out with it.”

“Attacked him?”

Monk nodded, but again he said nothing. Davidson was alive, but Monk wasn’t about to be more specific about the details of the robbery, not with a suspect, not this early in the investigation.

Trevor Blaine frowned. “What does the FBI have to do with the theft of a painting? I would have thought the Metropolitan Police Department handled something like this.”

Monk glanced at Roger Forbes, signaling his partner to answer the question, to give himself a better opportunity to observe Trevor Blaine’s reaction. He paid particular attention to the man’s eyes, looking for Blaine to glance to his left, a shift of his gaze in that direction, something to indicate his mind’s eye might be looking backward as he “watched” the robbery go down. Or a shift of gaze to his right, to “see” the painting Blaine might even now be waiting to fence.

“The money,” Roger said. “That’s what gets us involved. Davidson claims the Madonna’s been appraised at fifteen million dollars. That kind of money, there’s a presumption it’ll go interstate, or out of the country. If we recover the painting here in the District, the case goes back to the locals.”

“Then my next question is, Why are you here? At my flat, I mean. How can I possibly help you with this?”

Monk had to hand it to the Englishman. There wasn’t the tiniest variation in the pitch or timbre of his voice, not the slightest lean of his shoulders away from them. Even his hands stayed in the right position, palms open and up. He appeared to be sincerely puzzled by their visit. Monk glanced at Roger and saw his partner’s eyebrows lift. Perhaps coming here was a mistake, Roger’s expression suggested. Maybe they’d leaned too hard on Monk’s informant when they’d sweated him in the interrogation room at the Federal Detention Center downtown. Made it too easy for the criminal informant to trade Trevor Blaine’s name for a kind word to the judge before the informant’s sentencing next week. It wasn’t impossible. Sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time a snitch had lied to save his own ass.

But then Trevor Blaine made his first mistake.

“I know I’m an art dealer,” he said, “but really.” He smiled. “Surely that isn’t the only reason you’ve come to me.”

Now Monk wanted to smile himself. One of the hardest things for a liar to do was keep his mouth shut. Unable to let it alone, Blaine had tried to make the same point a second time, and Monk was so surprised he almost changed expression himself. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give the man an answer. To give up his CI—get his informant killed in prison—was not an option. Made it too damned hard to recruit the next one. But maybe there was a better way.

“Why you, Mr. Blaine? Is that what you want to know?”

Trevor Blaine nodded. Monk glanced at Roger, then reached into the inside breast pocket of his summer-weight silk jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of papers. He unfolded the pages and examined them for a moment before staring at Blaine.

“According to Interpol, we have very good reason to come to you about the Madonna. According to our friends at Scotland Yard, we should have come to you the moment we heard the Madonna was—”

Monk’s voice stopped as the cell phone in his pocket rang.

Damn it. Concentrating hard on Trevor Blaine’s reaction to his words, Monk tried to ignore the phone, but he saw that it was already too late. The Englishman had been leaning toward him, toward the papers in his hand, but now he was sitting back, grinning as he recognized his reprieve. Monk felt a sudden warmth up the back of his neck. Shit. A good interrogation was as intricately choreographed as a tango contest. He’d been on the verge of pulling Trevor Blaine onto the dance floor when the orchestra dropped dead.

He grabbed his phone. “What!”

“Listen carefully, Special Agent Monk.” The voice was dead flat. “This is the counterintelligence unit at the Hoover Building. These orders come from the director himself.”

Monk glanced at Roger Forbes as the voice continued.

“You and SA Forbes will return immediately to the Special Operations Group headquarters. To the wire room. Be alert for countersurveillance. Park no closer than a quarter mile from the SOG. Do not walk to the building until you are certain you are not being observed.”

“Who is this?” Monk demanded. “We’re right in the middle of something here. I can’t just—”

“Ten minutes, Agent Monk,” the voice said. “You will not want to be late.”