Page 83 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“Summer at Sheep Meadow.”

Stone stilled for a moment. The painting was one of several his mother had painted of Central Park, but that wasn’t the reason for his reaction. In the picture was a family on a picnic.Hisfamily. The three of them had featured in a handful of her paintings, and while he loved everything she’d created, those were the pieces he cherished the most.

“I’ve been looking for that one for a long time.”

“So I’ve heard. I also heard the boy is you.”

“It is. I hadn’t realized the painting was up for sale.”

“You’re not the only one who has people keeping an eye out for her work.”

Chapter 26

Monica found Tristan Williams’s place off Echo Park Avenue, on the eastern slope of a narrow valley. The house itself sat at the midpoint of the slope, accessed by a steep set of concrete stairs.

When her first knock went unanswered, she thought no one was home, but when she knocked again, she heard movement inside.

The guy who opened the door was either half asleep or high or both. His eyes drooped, and his long, disheveled hair stuck out from his head like a halo. He stared at her without saying anything.

“I’m looking for Tristan Williams,” Monica said.

“Who?”

“Tristan Williams. I was told he lives here.”

His eyes scrunched together momentarily, then he nodded. “Right. Tristan. Yeah, he lives here.”

“Is he home?”

“No idea.” He turned around and yelled Tristan’s name. When there was no response, he shrugged. “He must be out.”

“Is he at work?”

“Might be.”

“Do you know where that is?”

“Not a clue.”

“Do you know the name of the company he works for?”

“Sorry, this is my girlfriend’s place. She and Tristan are roommates.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“She’s not here, either.”

“I see. Okay, then, sorry to have bothered you.”

“It’s cool.” He shut the door.

Monica considered leaving a note, but Tristan had already made it clear he wasn’t interested in talking to her. Seeing him face-to-face might be the only chance she had to find out what he knew.

She decided to check out the area where Stone’s contact said Tristan’s phone had last pinged. It took her forty minutes to drive to Melrose Avenue and another ten to find an open parking space.

The block was mostly filled with clothing shops. She ducked into each and asked if Tristan Williams worked there, but no one knew him.

She headed down Melrose, extending her search. A few blocks from where she started, she stopped and stared. Across the street was the Los Angeles location for Duchamp Galleries. That seemed too much of a coincidence to be mere chance. She crossed over and went inside.

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