Painted Ladies

“Yes.”

“You got an address for them?” Quirk said.

“Yep.”

“You thinking about going over there,” Quirk said. “Ask them this?”

“I am.”

“Good,” Quirk said. “We both know if I show up, or Healy, these people will disperse like the morning mist.”

“How poetic.”

“Fuck poetic,” Quirk said. “We need to hang on to them until we can connect enough dots to arrest them.”

“For what, exactly,” I said.

“Somebody killed Prince,” Quirk said. “And your building super.”

“And you’re sure it was the Herzberg Foundation?” I said.

“That’s one of the dots,” Quirk said. “You got something better?”

“No,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

“You got fewer rules to follow,” Quirk said. “Just don’t scare them off.”

“And what if they attempt to kill me?” I said.

“Try to avoid that,” Quirk said. “At least until you’ve found something we can use.”

“Not only poetic,” I said, “but sentimental, too.”

“You gonna do it or not,” Quirk said.

“Sure,” I said.

47

I was back in the Hammond Museum. In the director’s office. Looking at the bare branches through the window, and talking to Richards, the director.

“I am sympathetic, Mr. Spenser, and I appreciate the integrity of returning our check because you felt you hadn’t done the job well enough.”

“I’m hired to protect a guy and he gets killed,” I said. “How much worse could I have done it?”

“Several of the policemen we’ve talked with said there was nothing you could have done, given the setup.”

“I could have prevented him from walking into the setup,” I said.

Richards nodded and smiled.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“Have you ever had any requests to sell Lady with a Finch?”

“Recently?” he said.

“Ever?” I said.

“Oh, of course. There are private collectors who are quite passionate in their desire for one or another piece of art.”

“Do you have a record of the offers,” I said.

“We probably have a file somewhere,” Richards said. “I can’t really say.”

“Is there someone who could say?”

“We preserve and display art,” Richards said. “We’re not in the business of selling it.”

I nodded.

“Anybody named Herzberg?” I said.

Richards frowned.

“I’m not really comfortable,” he said, “talking to you without our attorney.”

I shook my head.

“Look, Mr. Richards,” I said. “I am not a cop. I am self-employed. You can lie to me with impunity. I’m used to it.”

“I don’t wish to lie to you,” he said.

“Whether you do or don’t,” I said, “talking with me doesn’t require a lawyer.”

Richards nodded. He shifted a little in his chair and stared for a moment out the window. Behind the museum, the snow was still clean and looked relatively fresh.

“Herzberg is the name of a former owner of Lady with a Finch,” he said. “A wealthy