“It is all that. The last stop was this asshole who hoped I’d come in to buy a painting for you.”
Roarke sipped some wine. “Why would you?”
“Well, yeah. Anyway, that was a bust.” She tipped her head to his shoulder. “A lot of it dropped off just getting home. Then more when you were right there. And this was good. But the fucking boulder, Roarke. It’s just stuck.
“I know he’s a white male. I know his approximate age. He’s got dark blue eyes and maybe long brown hair. He’s got plenty of time—to paint, to scope out his victims. He’s got money, and doesn’t likely work in the real world. He’s got a vehicle, a place of his own. He’s not going to be close to anyone. He doesn’t care about people. He’s a—what was the word—pedestrian painter who thinks he’s a genius.
“And he has a connection upstate.”
“You think that because he said he had a show, a successful one, there?”
“That could be bullshit. But why upstate? He could’ve said anywhere, but he said upstate, so that means something to him. He could’ve said Paris or East Washington or anywhere. He’s got a connection in upstate New York. And maybe he, or someone, paid for him to show his art.”
“Another avenue to pursue.”
“Yeah, one more.” She rose. “I need to get back to the avenues. They make up a damn city at this point.”
He rose, walked with her.
“Fabrics, designers, costume places for rich people, galleries, pigments, LCs, and now wealthy areas—it’s going to be—upstate.”
“I might be able to help with the costume places for rich people.”
“How?”
“Perhaps I’m contemplating holding a fancy dress ball, and I’m considering various venues for my own costume, and of course, my lovely wife’s. Naturally, I want absolute authenticity. I want guarantees there, and I require recommendations from previous clients.”
She stopped a moment, just stopped and stared at him.
“Jesus, that could work. It could work because it’s you.”
He gave an easy shrug. “It could be fun as well. I haven’t had any fun on this one as yet. Not a single finance search for me.”
“It could be fun for you to bullshit snotty Frenchwomen, and their ilk, by pretending you’re going to have a costume party?”
“Or.”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh, no. No way in hell I’m ever wearing some dopey costume.”
“Darling, I would never want or expect you to wear the dopey. But.”
“Come on.” She gave him a light elbow jab. “Just lie. That can be fun for you.”
“That’s true. It’ll have to be tomorrow, of course.”
“Tomorrow’s good.”
She glanced over as they went back inside. “What costume are you going to lie about?”
“Hmm. I might be a dashing highwayman with sword and pistol. Stand and deliver! And you?”
“It’d have to be somebody who kicked ass, and I’m never doing it anyway.”
“You’d make a brilliant Grace O’Malley.”
She gave him the side-eye. “The Irish pirate?”
“Pirate queen and warrior. You’d wear a sword.”
