“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No. Listen, here’s what’s pertinent at this point.” She tucked a short piece of hair behind her ear. “We need to acknowledge that I might not be the only person who’s aware that Frank was in possession ofYoung Woman at Rest. Certainly Ricardo’s aware, and there’s no telling who he’s told. It’s in your best interest to figure out where Frank has been storing that painting. The sooner you get it out of your possession, the better—for the two of you and for Carolyn. Do you have any idea where it might be?”
He’d never tell her if he did. “Not yet.”
“When you do come up with ideas, contact me. I’ll check them out. If I find the painting, I’ll take care of the entire situation. None of you will have to risk anything or get your hands dirty in any way.”
“You’ll sell it on the black market.” His voice was flat.
“I’ll take care of it,” Emerson reiterated. “You’ll receive fifty percent of the profits, which will amount to a tremendous sum. Enough to ensure that Carolyn never has another financial worry in her lifetime. Enough to set you both up very comfortably.”
Britt came to stand next to him, aligning herself with him wordlessly.
Earlier, he hadn’t been able to read her. But he knew exactly what she was thinking now. She was thinking,no way. Britt wouldn’t allow Emerson to have the painting. Not for any price.
“If you let me handle it, you won’t have to worry about anyone else knocking on your door in search of the Renoir,” Emerson said.
“Who else might knock on my door?” he asked. “I’d like names.”
“I can’t give you names. But, like I said, several people may be aware that Frank had the painting. If I take possession of the painting, that becomes a non-issue for you. It’s a win-win outcome.”
“Except for the Pascal,” Britt observed.
“The Pascal is doing just fine,” Emerson replied. “It owns approximately seven hundred masterworks at last count.”
Taut quiet encircled them.
“Will you consider my offer?” Emerson asked.
“Yes.”
“And contact me with ideas regarding the painting’s whereabouts?”
“Yes.” He wanted Emerson to hope that they might come through for her with a tip that would lead her to the Renoir. She was too smart to injure potential allies.
“I’ll retrieve your phones.” She did so, then held her front door open as they passed through.
“Do you happen to know where Grant Mayberry’s Modiglianis ended up?” Zander paused on her front step.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Because I get the impression that his wife might like them back.”
“I’ve no idea.” Emerson spoke firmly, despite that she no doubt had every idea of the paintings’ whereabouts. She’d shared all that she was going to share. The Modiglianis were lost.
Once inside his Jeep, Zander turned over his phone and discovered a yellow Post-it note stuck to the back. On it, Emerson had written her phone number.
They’d driven a good two miles before Britt spoke. “Your uncle stole a masterpiece and kept it hidden for more than thirty years.” She set her sandals on his dashboard and bent her knees up toward her chest. He could remember her sitting that exact way in the passenger seat of every car he’d ever driven.
“It’s hard to believe.”
“Incredibly.”
And now Britt was tangled up in an art heist worth millions because of her friendship with him.
Until the day at the Central Library, he hadn’t suspected that Frank had a connection to the Triple Play. By then, Britt was already deeply involved. It would have been difficult to talk her out of helping him with Frank’s case at that point. Still. He should have tried. Instead, he’d continued to include her for his own selfish reasons.
