Page 89 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“Fire?” That had her attention.

“When the van stopped, the robbers sprayed them with a knockout gas, took the painting, and left. The fire had begun to spread to the surrounding brush by the time Billy found them. If the fire department hadn’t reacted so quickly, dozens of homes could have been destroyed.”

“You said Billy Barnett is the owner of the painting?”

“Correct.”

She thought for a few moments. “I don’t think he’s insured by Vitale.”

“You know all Vitale’s customers?” Dino asked.

“The ones with expensive art pieces, I do. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out. Thanks for the tip.”

—

“Leaving early?”

Tristan jerked in surprise, then glanced over at Mr. Duchamp’s ever-present bodyguard, Phillip.

“My shift ended at seven, so I’m actually late.” It was 7:45.

“I see. My mistake. Heading home then?”

Tristan nodded.

“Have a nice night.”

“Thanks.”

Tristan exited the gallery through the rear door that led into the small parking lot behind the building.

As he climbed into his Prius, his gaze flicked back to the gallery, half expecting to see Phillip standing outside, watching him. But the bodyguard wasn’t there.

Quit overthinking,he told himself.

Even if Mr. Duchamp had seen Monica Reyes come into the gallery, there was no way he would have known who she was. And Mr. Duchamp had not been in the main gallery when she visited. Tristan was sure about that.

He pulled onto the street and headed east toward his place in Echo Park, anxiety burning a hole in his stomach.

“Dammit, Joshua.”

What had he been thinking, giving the woman Tristan’s number?

It’s not like Tristan had firsthand knowledge of anything.

Tristan had met Joshua more than a year ago, when Joshua had come to the shop to pick up something. He hadn’t worked for any of the galleries but did what he’d called special projects for Mr. Duchamp.

They’d struck up a friendship, and over time, Joshua told Tristan about Mr. Duchamp’s illegal activities. He said his job was to deliver stolen artwork to buyers.

The stories had been riveting, but the truth was, Tristan had never fully believed him. That is, not until Joshua died and something he’d said began playing on repeat in Tristan’s head. “If I turn up dead someday, it’ll be because Mr. D doesn’t want me around.”

Tristan had laughed then, like it was some kind of joke, but he wasn’t laughing now.

“Shit.”

He swerved into the left-turn lane.

He’d stop by the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel and tell the woman enough to ease his mind, then never talk to her again.

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