Page 159 of Homeport

“Just follow my lead there, and smile a lot. Now, when I was in San Francisco I looked up Harrison Mathers.”

“You found Harry?”

“I found his apartment. He wasn’t there. But I spent an interesting half hour with the hooker across the hall. She told me he’s been gone a few days, and that—”

“One moment.” She tugged her hand free of his and held up a single finger. “Would you mind repeating that?”

“He’d been gone a few days?”

“No, there was something about you spending time with a prostitute.”

“It was well worth the fifty—well, hundred actually. I gave her another fifty when we were done.”

“Oh, would that have been like a tip?”

“Yeah.” He beamed at her. “Jealous, darling?”

“Would jealousy be inappropriate?”

“A little jealousy is very healthy.”

“All right, then.” She bunched her recently freed hand into a fist and rammed it into his stomach.

He wheezed out a breath, sat up cautiously in case she decided to hit him again. “I stand corrected. Jealousy is definitely unhealthy. I paid her to talk to me.”

“If I thought otherwise, you’d be well on your way to the rocks down below.” This time she smiled while he eyed her warily. “What did she tell you?”

“You know, that Yankee cool can be just a little frightening, Dr. Jones. She told me that I was the second man who’d come by that day looking for him. She had a very large gun pointed at me at the time.”

“A gun. She had a gun?”

“She didn’t like the look of the first guy. Women in her line of work generally know how to size a man up quickly. From her description, I’d say she was right about him—you’d know that firsthand. I think he was the one who attacked you.”

Her hand went quickly to her throat. “The man who was here, who stole my purse? He was in San Francisco?”

“Looking for young Harry—and my guess is, your former student was lucky not to be home. He’s tied in, Miranda. Whoever he made the bronze for, whoever he gave or sold it to, doesn’t want him around any longer.”

“If they find him—”

“I arranged for someone to keep an eye out for him. We’ll have to find him first.”

“Maybe he ran away. Maybe he knew they were looking for him.”

“No, I looked around his place. He left all his art supplies, a small stash of grass.” Ryan leaned back on his elbows again and watched the clouds puff lazily across the sky. “I didn’t get the impression he’d left in a particular hurry. The advantage is we know someone’s looking for him. At this point, no one knows we are. The way the kid’s been living, either he didn’t get much for the forgery, or he blew it fast and hasn’t explored the wonderful world of blackmail.”

“Would they have threatened him first?”

“What would be the point? They didn’t want him to run. They’d want to eliminate him, quick and quiet.” But there was something in her eyes. “Why?”

“I’ve been getting . . . communications.” It was a clean, professional word and made her less jittery.

“Communications?”

“Faxes, for the most part. For some time now. They’ve been coming daily since you left. Faxes, one e-mail, here and at the office.”

Again, he sat up. This time his eyes were narrow and cool. “Threats?”

“Not exactly, or not really threats until most recently.”

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