Oh, good, he was colorful. Tilda smiled at him brightly. “Well, gee, this has been great. Thanks for all your help.” She started to slide out of the booth and he put his foot on the bench, trapping her.

“Hold it,” he said. “You owe me. Who are you and why were you hitting Clea’s closet?”

“No,” Tilda said and pushed at his foot.

“Yes,” he said, keeping his foot where it was.

“If I create a scene,” she began and then stopped as she saw the problem. She was sitting in a booth with a hot painting. She couldn’t afford a scene. Somebody would come up and say, “What is that?” and then she’d have to explain, and anything was better than talking about the Scarlets, anything, even this yahoo and his glint.

“There you go,” he said. “The good news is, I don’t care what you’re up to, I just want information. Who are you and-”

The waitress came by with the coffeepot, and he shrank into his jacket a little more. “Hamburger?” he said to her, and she took out her pad without even looking at him. If anybody asked tomorrow, she wouldn’t remember a thing about him, which was amazing because he really was a piece of work. “Coffee,” he said. The waitress nodded, put her pad back in her apron pocket, topped up Tilda’s cup and left, still not looking at him.

“Now,” he said to Tilda. “Your name.”

Tilda sat back and thought fast. “Call me Vilma. The painting is mine. Mrs. Lewis took it and wouldn’t give it back, so I had to go in and get it.”

“She stole it?” he said. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

“She bought it,” Tilda said, “but she didn’t pay for it.”

“That sounds like her,” he said and Tilda thought, You know her well. Her thoughts of Clea, never warm to begin with, grew colder.

“So who are you?” she said. “And what were you doing there?”

“I’m a consultant for an elite law enforcement agency,” he said, looking at her over the top of his horn-rims. “Call me Bond. James -”

“Funny,” Tilda said.

The waitress brought his coffee, and when she was gone, he said, “So why didn’t you call the police?”

“That would be so unpleasant.” Tilda lifted her chin. “And she could say she had the painting on approval.”

“So you turned to B and E to avoid the unpleasantness.” He nodded. “We’ll come back to that. Who taped the door for you?”

“What?” Tilda said, widening her eyes the way Gwen and Eve always did when they wanted to look innocent.

He snapped his fingers. “Betty Boop.”

“What?” Tilda said again, this time for real.

“That’s who you remind me of. Curly hair, bug eyes, Kewpie-doll mouth. My sister dressed up like her for Halloween once.”

“Fascinating,” Tilda said, her eyebrows snapping together over the “bug eyes” part. “Can I go now?”

“No, Betty, you can’t. When I got to Clea’s, I tried the doors and they were all locked except one at the side. The latch was taped down so it wouldn’t lock. Who did that for you?”

“I have no idea what-”

“Betty, you can stop lying. I just want to know who you know on the inside so I can know him, too.”

The waitress brought his hamburger and slapped the check on the table and then wandered off again.

“I don’t know anybody inside,” Tilda said as he began to work his way through the sandwich at the speed of light. “I went in during the day and taped it.”

He looked at her over the top of his glasses and she stopped. “Here’s some advice,” he said, threat palpable in his tone. “Don’t lie to me. It’s a waste of your time and my patience.”

“Oh, please,” Tilda said, unimpressed.

He nodded and bit into the hamburger again. “That tough stuff never works for me,” he said when he’d swallowed, his voice light again. “Which is odd because I really can be a bastard.”

He smiled at her, and Tilda saw menace in his eyes and felt her throat close up.

“Want to push your luck?” he said.

“No,” Tilda said. “Okay, here’s the truth. Somebody taped it for me but that person does not work inside. I don’t think anybody works there. I think it’s just Mason Phipps and Clea Lewis, and I don’t think there’s any time when the house is empty for sure.”

He sat back and regarded her with something that might have passed for approval. “So you set up a dinner party. Not stupid.”

“Thank you.” Tilda tapped his shoe. “May I go now?”

“No,” he said, not moving his foot. “Clea bought the painting from you. Why?”

“No idea,” Tilda said. “I guess she liked it.”

“Why do you have to have it back?”

“No,” Tilda said. “That will not help you.”

“And yet I feel sure it would.” He pushed his empty plate away, and Tilda blinked her surprise. He must have been starving to inhale a hamburger like that. “Let’s take this from the top.”

“Let’s not.” Tilda sat up straighten “Look, I know you’ve got me, but I have no connection with Clea Lewis, I’ve never even met her, and I’m done telling you things.” She stuck out her chin. “So if that’s not enough, go ahead and turn me in.”

He looked at her sadly. “Betty, I am not the kind of guy who turns people in.” Then he stopped, as if he’d remembered something. “Well, I’m not the kind of guy who turns people like you in.” He picked up his coffee cup and smiled at her.

“Thank you,” Tilda said, ignoring the little leap her pulse gave. “You’re a real prince. Move your foot.”

He sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes off her. “You’re not a thief. You’d starve to death trying to steal for a living, and you clearly haven’t been starving.”

“Hey,” Tilda said.

“That wasn’t an insult. That was an observation made while bouncing you on the carpet.” He moved his foot off the seat and slid out of the booth, taking off Andrew’s baseball cap and dropping it crookedly on her head as he went. “Okay, this conversation is not over.” He reached under the table for the duffel bag. “Stay here, Betty. When I get back, we’re going to start all over again.”

Oh, no we’re not, Tilda thought and watched him go toward the back, his shoulders hunched, unremarkable. She straightened her cap as he turned into the hall where the restrooms were, gave him an extra minute to be sure, and then slid out of the booth and headed for the door, the painting clutched firmly under her arm.

The waitress caught her on the way out. “Wait a minute. Who’s paying for the hamburger?”

“He is,” Tilda said.

“He’s gone,” the waitress said, blocking her way. “Went out the back door.”

“The son of a bitch,” Tilda said, outraged. “He stuck me with the check?”

“That’s a guy for you,” the waitress said. “With the coffee, that’s nine eighty-seven.”

“Jerk.” Tilda dug in her purse for the money, kicking herself. She’d actually had semi-warm thoughts about the bastard, which just went to show how pathetic she was. Well, the good news was, he was out of her life.

And her Scarlet was back. She felt slightly sick at the thought but it was all good, having it back. It really was.

“Thank you,” she told the waitress and headed out the door, grateful for her narrow escape.


ACROSS THE STREET, Davy lounged against the side of a building, hidden in the shadows. Sorry about that, Betty, he thought as he saw the waitress catch her by the door. She looked up and down the street, undoubtedly gunning for him, and he stayed motionless in the shadows, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder and anchor the painting under her arm before starting off, taking long strides and making people turn to watch as she walked by. Clearly not cut out for crime, he thought as he began to follow her.

Four blocks later she cut down a side street and he picked up speed to catch her, only to find himself alone in an alley. Kicking himself for not watching her closer, he went back out into the street and looked around.

There was nothing of interest on the street except for a dingy brick storefront that had dim light filtering through its windows. Davy walked over and looked through the glass. The shop was dark, but at the back was a door with a window in it and people moving around inside. And through the shadows in the front of the store he could see two well-executed but depressed-looking seascapes.

Paintings.

That is not a coincidence, he thought, and stepped back to scan the peeling sign over the storefront. It was hard to read because the gold letters had faded, but after a minute he’d spelled it out: the goodnight gallery.

So Betty the art thief had connections to an art gallery. He caught sight of a smaller sign in the lower corner of the show window and moved closer to read it.

“Furnished Apartment for Rent,” it said. “Inquire within.”

He looked over his shoulder, suddenly cautious, remembering his dad: if things seem too good to be true, get out. Michael Dempsey wasn’t much of a father, but as a survivor, he had no peer.

Davy considered the situation. If some human being wasn’t setting him up for a fall, fate was. He thought about Betty, her pale blue eyes clueless behind those bug glasses, failing miserably at seducing him at Clea’s, stonewalling him with no finesse at all in the diner. The chances that she’d led him here on purpose seemed slim to none.

Fate, on the other hand, could very well be trolling for him. He’d been a pool player long enough to know that if you had to choose between skill and luck, you chose luck; a con man long enough to know that if you had to choose between a great plan and fate on your side, you picked fate. And here he was, up to his ass in skill and plans.

The situation required some thought and he needed some capital, so he went to find a bar with a pool table. Betty could wait.