buyer.”
“If he had one,” Devers said.
Parker said, “If he was that tight for cash, he had a way to turn those paintings over right away. At least some of them.”
Mackey said, “What about the bank accounts? We’ve got the passbooks.”
“Not a chance,” Parker said.
Devers said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The three of them moved next door to the bedroom, where Devers switched on the overhead light. Mackey said to Parker, “Why not? I’m a pretty good hand with signatures. I could do a fine Leon Griffith before the bank closes this afternoon. And I walk in with Griffith’s ID.”
Parker said, “He opened the accounts three days ago. A man comes in with fifty thousand in cash to open a savings account, they’re going to notice him at the bank. They’ll remember him three days later. You don’t look like Griffith.”
“All that money,” Mackey said. “Wasted.”
“All our work wasted, too,” Devers said. “Unless we can find a buyer.”
“And soon,” Parker said. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Devers said, “I’ll start in here.”
The three of them separated into different parts of the house, and spent the next hour searching. There was no note, and no clue to Griffith’s buyer—if he had a buyer—in any of the obvious places: his office, his bedside table. But they kept searching anyway, as outside the day got brighter, and soon they didn’t have to turn lights on any more when they entered a room.
Parker and Mackey met near the front hall. They both had fingertips black with dust, and Mackey was even more irritable than before. “Not a goddam thing,” he said. “And where the hell else is there to look?”
“The basement.”
“That’s a goddam waste of time, and you know it.”
“We’ll do it anyway,” Parker said.
Mackey grimaced. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Just so we can say we did everything.”
“Come on.”
They walked down the hall together. Mackey said, “Lou isn’t gonna be happy when he hears about this.”
“Nobody’s happy about it,” Parker said.
Devers was coming the other way, a piece of paper in his hand. He looked excited, but in a muted and guarded way. He said, “Take a look at this.”
Parker took the paper, and he and Mackey read it together. It was lavender stationery, thick, good quality, with a purple letterhead in Edwardian script:
Jacques Renard
302 CPW
The letter was handwritten, in clear but rather overly fancy printing. It was dated a month earlier, and it read:
Leon, dear,
So lovely to hear from you. Unfortunate, of course, the news your letter brought. Dear boy, we are all of us biting the bullet these days, and praying for happier times.
Although a direct transfusion just wouldn’t be possible from these limp old veins, it might be that some sort of business arrangement might be worked out between us, if you’re interested. Should you be traveling in these woods, why not rap upon my trunk?
As ever,
Jack
Doubtfully, Mackey said, “Maybe. Sounds more like a brush-off. Like Griffith tried to tap this guy, and the guy didn’t want to be tapped, but was letting Griffith down easy.”
Parker said to Devers, “Why do you think this is it?”
“Because it was in the kitchen,” Devers said. “Hidden in a cookbook.”
Mackey said. “Hidden? Maybe he just used it for a bookmark.”
Parker said, “I saw other letters from Renard in the office.”
“That’s right,” Devers said. “In the office. Not in the kitchen.”
Mackey looked at the letter again. “That’s some address,” he said. “Three-oh-two CPW. What the hell is CPW?”
“Central Park West.” Parker said. “Renard is in New York.”
Four
