Martha’s grin doubled. “May I take your plates?”

“Please.”

As she began gathering the dishes, a phone buzzed on one of the deck chairs.

“That’s me,” Monica said. She retrieved her phone and looked at the screen. “It’s Tristan Williams.” She accepted the call. “Hello?…Yes, this is she…Hi, Tristan. Thank you for calling me back.” She turned on the speaker and retook her seat.

The voice that came out of the phone was male and guarded. “What can I help you with?”

“I was given your number by someone who thought you could help me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Joshua Paskota.”

Silence on the other end, then, “He’s dead.”

“I’m aware. He was helping me with an investigation.”

“What kind of investigation?”

Monica eyed Stone before she responded, “I work for an insurance company, and am looking into several potential art thefts.”

They heard movement on the line and then three beeps.

“He hung up,” Monica said.

“Try him again.”

She did, but instead of ringing, she was sent straight to voicemail.

After the beep, she said, “This is Monica Reyes again. Pleasecall me back. I really need to talk to you.” She hung up. “He must have turned off his phone. If he doesn’t return my call…”

“Wait here.” Stone went into the house and retrieved his phone. After retaking his seat, he said, “What’s Tristan’s number?”

Monica brought Tristan’s info up on her phone.

Stone called his friend Bob Cantor. Bob was a former NYPD officer who’d made a lucrative post-force career as a security technology expert and private investigator.

“Hello?”

“Bob, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, Stone. Long time no talk.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve been a little busy lately.”

“I heard about the mess with the Russians. Glad you came out of it okay.”

“You and me both. Listen, I need your help with a phone number. I don’t know if it’s a cell or a landline, but I’d like to know where it’s located.”

“Sure. Give it to me.”

Stone did so.

“L.A. area code,” Bob said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean that’s where he is.”

“Is this something you can look into right away?”