Page 41 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“You seem to forget that if I go down, you go down with me.”

“Mutually assured destruction. But then again, you’re the bigger fish, which means it should be easy to get immunity in exchange for my testimony.”

Simon definitely needed to start looking for a new source. This wasn’t just boring, it was getting on his nerves.

“All right, Mr. Conroy. Double fee on this job. But this is a onetime thing. Do not expect it to happen again in the future.”

“Whatever you say.”

Simon stabbed the disconnect button and then called Phillip, his bodyguard.

“Yes, Mr. Duchamp?”

“I’m in the back office.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Phillip entered a few moments later. He was a big, bald slab of muscle shoved into a black suit and tie. Because of this, he was often assumed to be lacking intelligence. That was far from the case.

“I’m growing concerned about Dalton Conroy,” Simon said.

“I see.”

“I don’t want you to do anything yet, but I have a feeling our relationship with him will soon need to be terminated.”

“I’ll await your word.”

“Thank you, Phillip. How are we doing on the other matter?”

“I should have the problem dealt with soon.”

“Have you figured out who it is?”

“I’ll know by tomorrow evening.”

There was a leak somewhere in Simon’s operation. Ironically, he would not have known about it if not for Dalton. The leaker had apparently contacted an investigator who worked under him. Unfortunately, Dalton didn’t know the leaker’s identity.

“Very good. The sooner we can put this behind us, the better.”

“Understood.”

Chapter 15

The following evening, Stone and the Eagles enjoyed an excellent steak dinner, then headed to the exhibit at Duchamp Gallery.

The place was packed with people dressed in everything from Prada dresses and Armani suits to ripped Levi’s and BlackPink T-shirts. Stone spotted three well-known actors who had vacation homes in the area, and an aging pop star now famous for judging TV singing shows.

“The artist is local,” Susannah said. “Ivonne Cervantes. Have you heard of her?”

“I haven’t,” Stone admitted.

“Then you’re in for a treat.”

There were more than thirty paintings on display, most of them mounted to the walls, with a few scattered throughout the space, hanging from the ceiling on wires.

Susannah guided them to the nearest piece, a stunningphoto-realistic portrait of an older Hispanic woman defiantly staring forward, over an abstract background of multicolored rays.

Susannah was right. Cervantes’s work was stunning.

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