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Even with all that had happened the night before, I still had things to do, and I started with a shower. Twice, I thought I heard a noise over the running water and shut off the shower to listen. Both times, my house was silent, but I couldn’t shake the image of Michelangelo sneaking up behind my shower curtain like Norman Bates, butcher knife in hand.
I felt better once I got out in the Florida sun. I drove over to the Stephenses’ house then followed Ricky to the dealership. While I waited for Elliot the Slim in the strip mall across the street, I called to see if Buddy Reid Security was open. Buddy himself answered and told me Ortega’s friend wasn’t there. I related to Buddy what Ortega told me, and Buddy said he would meet me at home later that afternoon. I hung up and saw I’d missed a call from Adolph Hurst while talking with the security company. I carefully considered the warning that Baker and Ortega gave me concerning Adolph. Call me old-fashioned, but if a pickle demonstrates a man’s innocence, I’m not going to argue. So I returned his call.
“Delve Gallery,” Adolph said when he answered.
“You would have saved me some grief if you hadn’t told San Marco Homicide I blabbed that you were a person of interest,” I said.
“It didn’t occur to me until after I spoke that I might have made things troublesome for you. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t sweat it. If I can’t raise Baker’s blood pressure to dangerous levels, then I’m not doing my job. You called?”
“I have something I’d like to tell you over lunch. Your treat, to make up for the pickle you absconded with.”
I almost pointed out that I’d already given him a whole jar but changed my mind. “Sounds intriguing. Give me a place and time.”
After some gym time, I spent the rest of the morning on paperwork. A little before noon, I stopped by Elliot the Slim’s observation post across from Jack Todd Ford, bringing a pizza and a six-pack of Cokes. I asked if he could cover his usual lunch break. He had no problem, especially since I’d brought him a pie loaded with jalapeños and anchovies.
With Elliot covering my usual lunch surveillance, I drove to my lunch date, and after turning onto Ninth Street from Cadiz, I found a parking spot right away. My mind drifted back to the gift Michelangelo had left. I gripped the steering wheel tightly as my body seemed to get cold enough that I shivered. I wondered if I was experiencing some sort of shock or the aftereffects of shock. I threw open the door, and a passing car honked as it swerved to miss it.
“Shit,” I mumbled and got out. The sun felt delicious, thawing away my anxiety, along with my chill. I locked the car since I now carried my Glock 19 in the glove box. As for the Ruger SR9, it was safely stowed in my pocketbook. Concealed carry is a wonderful thing when a psycho killer takes an interest in you.
The Butterfly Nine Café was at the corner of Cadiz and Ninth, a block and a half down from Adolph’s gallery. It sat back far enough from the sidewalk that several wrought-iron tables and chairs could fit for outdoor dining. The stucco walls were painted bright purple with an electric-teal trim. Hippie-dippie dining at its finest. I went in and spotted Adolph sitting in a booth. As I crossed the café, I breathed in the aroma of their food—lots of cumin, curry, and garlic—and took in the sixties and seventies rock concert posters framed in reclaimed wood and hung over almost every inch of wall space. Adolph stood and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. He may have been an insufferable whoredog down in Miami, but in San Marco, he was a gentleman. Sometimes the harder the life lessons, the better a person emerged.
A dreadlocked waitress soaked in patchouli and wearing a tie-dyed sundress took our order. Her hemp bracelets shook as she wrote down Adolph’s buffalo chicken panini. At his suggestion, I asked for the goat cheese salad with datil pepper dressing.
Normally a teetotaler until the magical five-o’clock hour, I saw they had Duke’s Brown Ale on tap and ordered one of those. Adolph ordered a sauvignon blanc with a name that danced off his tongue like poetry. When the waitress returned with our drinks, I watched Adolph twirl his glass, sniff it, twirl it again, and sip. I gulped my beer and burped.
We traded some pleasantries and Adolph asked, “So how did young Analise Norwood get so into art that she majored in its history?”
“That can probably be traced back to my parents.”
“Artists?”
“My mother was, to a degree. Not in your league, but she loved to paint landscapes.”
“And your father?”
“Pops was into the history, knew all the masters from each century, studied books on art, even owned a Klee,” I said.
“Was he in academia?”
I laughed. “Pops was a mechanic. Both he and Mom supported my art history pursuit, though they advised me to look for unique ways to make a career in the field.”
“But a private investigator?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of out of left field. No one saw that coming, including me.”
“Are your parents still with us?” Adolph asked.
“Mom is, sort of. She is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Dad passed a few years ago from a fast-moving cancer.”
“Again, my condolences.” He hesitated, thinking, and said, “So you’re now the proud owner of a Paul Klee?” That seemed harsh, and I guessed my expression reflected it. “I’m sorry, Lise. I guess it’s the art dealer in me.”
“That’s all right. And no, I don’t own the Klee. When Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Pops kept her home as long as possible. I don’t know how much you know about the disease, but it can be pretty rough on the loved ones of those suffering. Though it broke his heart, he finally had to put her in an Alzheimer’s facility.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“But it turned out to be a good thing. Pops had been so exhausted caring for her that it was affecting his health. He finally got rest, got his strength back, and saw that Mom was no worse off at San Marco Eldercare. In fact, she seemed to do a little better with some of their treatment. She’d been out of the house for about nine months when Pops was diagnosed with his disease. There was little chance of survival, and worrying about Mom, Pops sold the Klee and put the money into a trust to help pay for her care, at least what insurance doesn’t cover.”
Adolph reached for my hand. “A good man, your father.”
“Amen to that,” I said, and we lifted our drinks in an unspoken toast to Pops.
“You still see your mother?”
“Yeah. It’s funny, but I still go to her for advice, bounce things off of her.”
“Does it help?” Adolph asked.
“Kind of. In my mind, I can hear what advice she’d give me if she hadn’t gotten sick.”
Adolph lifted his wineglass. “To mothers, and the advice they dispense with love.”
“To mothers,” I said, and we drained our glasses.
Adolph signaled the waitress, and she brought us full glasses.
“Shall we get down to business?” I suggested.
“Yes. But I was wondering if, perhaps, you had a picture of the sketch?”
I considered bringing up the photo on my phone but changed my mind. “For now, while the sketch is missing, I’m keeping a lot of the case close to my chest. You’re only the second person I’ve told about it. When it’s solved, you can see it for yourself. I promise.”
“Good enough.” Adolph sat back, his wine held before him. “I have planted a few seeds.”
“Have you now?”
“Whether they will grow to fruition, I cannot say.”
I leaned forward. “We’re not really talking about gardening, are we?”
He smiled. “I’ve put out word to a couple of seedier acquaintances in South Miami.”
“Seedier.” I chuckled.
“I told them that I’ve expanded into the realm of hard-to-get art.”
“By that, you mean stolen?”
“Basically. These men have been known to procure and sell high-priced art to private collectors with no scruples about how said art is obtained.”
“What did you tell them?” I asked.
“That I have a client who collects twentieth-century masters and price is no object. And though most of his collection has been built through legal sales, he’s now looking into other avenues for his private collection.”
“Good,” I said. “If The Floating Ballerina goes on the black market, word will probably get to Miami.”
“Even more good news,” Adolph said. “Through one of my connections I got the name of a man in Jacksonville who also provides a similar service. His name is Alden Whitt, and as far as my connection knows, he is the only person in Jacksonville to handle such transactions at the level of expense we’re talking about.”
“Have you contacted him?” I asked.
“My south Florida contact gave him an introductory call, and then I phoned him.” Adolph picked up his glass, swirled the remaining wine, sniffed it, then drank it. “When we spoke, I asked how best to introduce him to the wealthy tycoon’s art acquirer. That would be you.”
“It’s good work if you can get it,” I said.
“My connection told me a couple of things about Whitt. One works against us, and the other is to our benefit. The first is that he’s a suspicious man. If he senses anything awry, he’ll bolt.”
“What’s to our benefit?” I asked.
“Alden Whitt has a weakness for beautiful women. Anyway, Whitt, when I told him about you, said he’d rather work through me. I told him that after my troubles in Miami, I was keeping myself at arm’s length from the actual transactions. Whitt was on the verge of turning me down, but I told him it would be a shame that he wouldn’t get to meet the stunning agent for my buyer. He said—”
The waitress arrived with our lunch.
After she placed everything on the table and left, I asked, “He said?”
Adolph pushed a folded square of paper across the table. “Here’s his phone number. Call and set up a meet. And I figured you’d prefer an alias, so I told him you were Margaret Atwood.”
“You remembered my fake name. How sweet.”