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Authors: Karen Kendall
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“their” stolen property back? The fact that they’d already resorted to violence was not a good sign.
Unfortunately the black market for art and antiquities had heated up, partially inspired by the utterly insane prices that objects fetched in today’s aboveboard market. When a frankly repulsive Lucien Freud painting brought in $33 million at auction—the most ever paid for a work by a living artist—one could hardly blame criminals for slavering over a piece of the profits pie.
And that price paled in comparison to the $83 million paid by a Japanese conglomerate for van Gogh’s Irises . Or the $103 million shelled out for a Picasso recently.
Hell, there were times when McDougal himself was tempted to put his rather unusual skill set to use in crime, but most of his tendencies toward dishonesty had been thrashed out of him at an early age, between his three brothers, his four sisters, and the priests at St. Joseph’s.
It was from his siblings that he’d learned to be fast, silent, and some would say stoic, since his brothers had loved to hold the small-for-his-age Eric down and tickle him—or, worse, fart on him—and his sisters had loved to hold him down and dress him up in girls’ clothes. Thank God he’d grown like a weed during puberty.
McDougal, now on the Bruckner, headed north on 95 and exited at Atlantic Street. Then, guided by his GPS, he took a few turns that led him to Leonard Street and the picturesque little neighborhood of Springdale. Soon he was easing the rented SUV to a stop outside an unpretentious little Cape Cod.
Natalie came quickly out the screen porch door, her face drawn, anxious, and pinched with cold. The girl he’d left the bar with had disappeared. Today she wore slim brown corduroys and brown leather boots with an oversize, artsy sweater in a purple, brown, and black abstract pattern.
She’d styled her dark hair in an unruly pile on top of her head. The same black woolen scarf from yesterday kept her neck warm, but she wore no coat. Maybe it was still in the neighbor’s house.
Both her embarrassment of this morning and the playful sexuality of the night before had vanished. Natalie was simply tense and miserable.
He swung out of the car and approached her. “Hi.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said. She made no move to hug or kiss him, but then, he didn’t expect her to, especially under the circumstances.
He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry; we’ll find her.”
“Where can she be?” she fretted. “Her car is gone.”
He drew his brows together. “She has a car? Why would a woman who’s legally blind have a car?”
“She wouldn’t let us sell it. I think she’s hung on to it with the idea of giving it to me one day, not that I can afford to garage it. I tried to tell her that.”
“Maybe a neighbor took her to the doctor, or out to run an errand?”
Natalie shook her head. “I’ve checked with three different neighbors, now. Mrs. Kolchek is home, and her daughter is in school. The Ormonds are in southern Spain. And nobody’s home at Colonel Blakely’s.”
“You sure the Kolchek girl is in school?” asked McDougal skeptically.
“Pretty sure. She’s a good kid, not the type to play hooky.”
“Did her mother see or hear any activity at your grandmother’s house?”
Natalie shook her head.
“All right.” He scanned the exterior of the house, looking for any signs of a break-in. No screens off. No footprints in the snow where they shouldn’t be. “Let’s go in. You have a key?”
“Yes, but since I didn’t plan to come here today, it’s in my apartment in the city.”
He nodded, and she followed him up the concrete steps and into the sheltered porch area. “Is there an alarm?” he asked.
“No.”
He made a disapproving noise and removed the Glock nine-millimeter from the holster at the small of his back. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without her noticing. Then he
Unfortunately the black market for art and antiquities had heated up, partially inspired by the utterly insane prices that objects fetched in today’s aboveboard market. When a frankly repulsive Lucien Freud painting brought in $33 million at auction—the most ever paid for a work by a living artist—one could hardly blame criminals for slavering over a piece of the profits pie.
And that price paled in comparison to the $83 million paid by a Japanese conglomerate for van Gogh’s Irises . Or the $103 million shelled out for a Picasso recently.
Hell, there were times when McDougal himself was tempted to put his rather unusual skill set to use in crime, but most of his tendencies toward dishonesty had been thrashed out of him at an early age, between his three brothers, his four sisters, and the priests at St. Joseph’s.
It was from his siblings that he’d learned to be fast, silent, and some would say stoic, since his brothers had loved to hold the small-for-his-age Eric down and tickle him—or, worse, fart on him—and his sisters had loved to hold him down and dress him up in girls’ clothes. Thank God he’d grown like a weed during puberty.
McDougal, now on the Bruckner, headed north on 95 and exited at Atlantic Street. Then, guided by his GPS, he took a few turns that led him to Leonard Street and the picturesque little neighborhood of Springdale. Soon he was easing the rented SUV to a stop outside an unpretentious little Cape Cod.
Natalie came quickly out the screen porch door, her face drawn, anxious, and pinched with cold. The girl he’d left the bar with had disappeared. Today she wore slim brown corduroys and brown leather boots with an oversize, artsy sweater in a purple, brown, and black abstract pattern.
She’d styled her dark hair in an unruly pile on top of her head. The same black woolen scarf from yesterday kept her neck warm, but she wore no coat. Maybe it was still in the neighbor’s house.
Both her embarrassment of this morning and the playful sexuality of the night before had vanished. Natalie was simply tense and miserable.
He swung out of the car and approached her. “Hi.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said. She made no move to hug or kiss him, but then, he didn’t expect her to, especially under the circumstances.
He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry; we’ll find her.”
“Where can she be?” she fretted. “Her car is gone.”
He drew his brows together. “She has a car? Why would a woman who’s legally blind have a car?”
“She wouldn’t let us sell it. I think she’s hung on to it with the idea of giving it to me one day, not that I can afford to garage it. I tried to tell her that.”
“Maybe a neighbor took her to the doctor, or out to run an errand?”
Natalie shook her head. “I’ve checked with three different neighbors, now. Mrs. Kolchek is home, and her daughter is in school. The Ormonds are in southern Spain. And nobody’s home at Colonel Blakely’s.”
“You sure the Kolchek girl is in school?” asked McDougal skeptically.
“Pretty sure. She’s a good kid, not the type to play hooky.”
“Did her mother see or hear any activity at your grandmother’s house?”
Natalie shook her head.
“All right.” He scanned the exterior of the house, looking for any signs of a break-in. No screens off. No footprints in the snow where they shouldn’t be. “Let’s go in. You have a key?”
“Yes, but since I didn’t plan to come here today, it’s in my apartment in the city.”
He nodded, and she followed him up the concrete steps and into the sheltered porch area. “Is there an alarm?” he asked.
“No.”
He made a disapproving noise and removed the Glock nine-millimeter from the holster at the small of his back. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without her noticing. Then he
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