“Maybe Prince made the switch sooner than anyone thought,” Healy said.
“Or maybe they weren’t sure if he had or not,” I said.
“And took this painting, to be sure,” Kate said.
We were all silent for a while.
“We got more information in this case than we know what to do with,” Belson said. “And we can’t even make an arrest.”
“Be nice if we could turn somebody,” Kate said.
“Maybe we can,” I said.
60
Molly Pitcher was wearing a little white blouse with a little Peter Pan collar and a little black string tie. Adorable.
“Morton Lloyd,” I said.
“Do you have”—she looked up and her voice trailed off—“an appointment?”
“I do,” I said, and walked past her into Lloyd’s office carrying a manila envelope.
“What the hell are you doing,” he said.
“I’m barging in,” I said.
“Well, barge the hell right back out,” Lloyd said.
“I’m hoping to save your life,” I said.
“What?” Lloyd said.
I closed the door behind me.
“You know Rosalind Wellington?” I said.
“I don’t really know her,” he said. “I know she’s Ashton Prince’s wife. What’s this about saving my life?”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her?” I said.
“I don’t think I ever met her. Why are you asking?”
I took three of the goriest crime scene photos of the dead Rosalind out of the manila envelope and spread them faceup on his desk.
“What she looks like currently,” I said.
He glanced down.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“That’s Rosalind Wellington, the late wife of the late Ashton Prince,” I said.
“She’s dead.”
“Yep. Somebody beat the hell out of her, then shot her twice in the forehead,” I said.
“I don’t want to look at this,” he said.
“Shooting somebody in the forehead twice,” I said, “is like wearing suspenders and a belt.”
“Who did it?”
“We think it was the Herzberg Foundation,” I said. “We think they killed her because she had information that might hurt them. And now we’re worried about you.”
“That Herzberg will kill me?”
“Yep.”
He was silent, looking at me with an odd expression. It might have been fear. I walked to the window on the side wall of his office, the one that overlooked Batterymarch.
“Who’s ‘we’?” he said.
“Me and the cops,” I said.
“Why aren’t they here?”
“Figure if you’re seen talking to the cops, you’re a dead man,” I said. “So they sent me.”
I continued to look out the window.
“Who would see me?” he said.
I nodded out the window.
“Maybe them,” I said.
He stood and came to the window. A silver BMW sedan with tinted windows was parked in a tow zone on Batterymarch.
“How do you know someone’s in it,” Lloyd said.
