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  “What’s your plan for when they get where they’re going?” Carson asks.

  “See if they leave the canvas, then go to the hotel and wait for the dot to move.”

  “Big fun.”

  We’re deep in traffic now, so it’s no problem to keep up with the hatchbacks. My general feeling of déjà vu solidifies into something else after a few stoplights. “We’ve been here before, last Saturday. We’re near Belknap’s gallery.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah.” Except it doesn’t feel good. “They came straight here, like they’re not worried about being followed. Is that weird?”

  “Fuck! They split up!”

  No no no… I look forward just in time to see the silver hatch scoot north on a side road.

  “Which one do I follow?” Carson yells.

  “Just—”

  “Which one? Quick!”

  The few seconds it takes to poke the GPS chip feel like hours. “Silver car.”

  Carson screeches around the corner. The silver hatch is almost two blocks ahead of us and weaving through traffic. Shit shit shit…

  Then my brain starts working. This makes sense only if the tracker and the canvas are in different cars. If I was playing this game, I’d send the chip off with the nearest garbage truck and take the Fantin to my fence. “Let him lose us, then go to the gallery.”

  “What? If he doesn’t go there, we—”

  “The painting’s in the white car. Plan A’s blown. Let’s make a Plan B.” I’m so glad I took the time to plant that thing.

  She grumbles, but she circles the next block to head south.

  So Burim got a bright idea. Was this his plan all along? Did he figure out how much the Fantin is worth? Did he find the tracker? Or did we piss him off by leaving his buddies on the ground with their bells rung? It doesn’t matter now. What matters is reconnecting with the canvas.

  As we dart through the maze going toward Belknap’s gallery, I start to think of all the other ways this can go wrong. If Burim’s really smart, he’ll go home, come back tomorrow, and tell Belknap some guy named Neutra is gunning for him. Or he’ll sell the Fantin to the Russians and let them take whatever heat’s on it. But I’m pretty good at reading people, and what I get from him is cunning and greed, not brilliance or foresight. Hope I’m right.

  Carson drives like she’s auditioning for The Italian Job. We slide into a tiny parking space outside the marble-fronted Kartell furniture store half a block from the gallery.

  Neither of us can sit still. Every white hatch that rolls by sends a lightning bolt through our car. I never got the make or model of “our” hatchback, but I remember the color: not quite white, but not tan or yellow either, like something soured the paint.

  I ping the chip again, just because. It’s on its way out of town. Have a nice trip.

  Ten endless minutes. Twelve. Carson’s face has that sunburned look. She rolls down her window to let in the street noise and exhaust fumes. I don’t realize how much I’m sweating until I lean forward and feel my shirt stick to the seat. Come on come on…

  A Skoda Citigo the color of a thin layer of dust rolls past from behind us, then cuts left across traffic to disappear into the driveway gate next to the gallery.

  “That’s it! That’s it!” I point out the windshield.

  “Stop bouncing,” Carson grouses. “Now—”

  I’m out the door before she finishes and slaloming through traffic to cross the street. I sprint through the passage between the street and the courtyard behind the gallery and come to the end in time to hear two car doors slam. A quick peek around the corner shows me a forty-by-sixty courtyard lined on three sides with parked cars and dumpsters. The Skoda’s about twenty feet to my right, with a dark guy in jeans and a black-and-red striped soccer jersey leaning against its fender. Burim’s waiting outside the gallery’s steel back door. He’s got a squarish bundle wrapped in a green trash bag under his arm. Yes!

  Now what? I lean back against the passage wall for a beat to get over being relieved I didn’t fuck this up. My next look shows me Belknap hunched over the canvas next to Burim. A few moments later, they disappear inside the gallery.

  “What’s happening?” Carson whispers behind me.

  I almost jump through the passage’s ceiling. When my heart stops exploding, I whisper, “Burim’s inside with Belknap.”

  I mentally step through what’s next. Belknap will take the piece into the storage room, go over it with a loupe, maybe a UV light to see if there’s any modern paint on it. He’ll see Fantin’s signature, check the auction results, and make an offer. Burim will dicker with him. Where? In Belknap’s office; he’ll lock the door so Gianna can’t walk in on them.

  All we need is to see Burim come out with no painting and we know the trap’s set. Then we’ll figure out how to follow it.

  Carson paces back and forth across the passage’s width. She watches Burim’s guy fiddle with his phone next to the Skoda. Her face gets darker and harder every second. After a couple minutes, she growls, “Stay here.”

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  She turns to glare at me. “That weasel fucked you. He’ll get bigger ideas if he gets away with it. Time for balance.”

  She’s into the courtyard before I can say, “Balance?”

  Carson slips behind a nearby green dumpster and disappears. The last thing we need is for her to go rogue, but what am I going to do? Drag her back here? Yeah, that’ll work. But what if she kills Burim?

  Well, what if she does?

  Getting one up on me isn’t a capital offense, at least not to me. Maybe it is in the league he plays in. Other than the wardrobe, there’s not a lot of difference between him and me—or at least, the way I was. I’d have done about the same thing in his place, and shame on me for not thinking of it sooner.

  Beyond not wanting Carson to twist Burim’s head off in principle, I’m worried about the blowback if she does. A dead body in the courtyard could burn the gallery with the cops. It’s too early for that. I want to control when Belknap goes down, and I need to keep Gianna out of the police tornado that’ll happen afterwards.

  Carson’s phone goes to voicemail. Knowing her, she won’t let me find her, far less stop her from doing whatever. I doubt she’ll even read a text right now, but I do what I can: DONT KILL THEM!!! 2 much heat on gallery.

  I’m shocked as hell when she actually replies: Ur no fun.

  A couple seconds later, I hear a thud. I peek around the corner in time to see somebody in Carson’s clothes drag the guy in the soccer jersey around the Skoda’s tail. The dragger wears a black hood; the draggee’s head bobbles like it’s on a spring. He doesn’t look dead, not that I really know what that looks like. Maybe Carson isn’t done with him yet.

  She reappears and presses her back against the wall on the hinge side of the gallery door. I stage-whisper, “Carson! Goddamnit, what are you doing?”

  She glances toward me, then turns back to the door. “Go back to the car.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Shut up.”

  A few moments later, the door swings open. Burim saunters out, minus the canvas but with a self-satisfied smirk and a cigarette on its way to being lit. The smirk freezes when he turns to see Carson.

  She whacks him with her baton. He falls like a set of car keys. Ouch.

  Carson drags him to the Skoda’s nearest wheel, zip-ties his wrists to the spokes, then ties his ankles together. If she bothers with this, he’s still alive. The relief makes my knees wobble.

  She pats down Burim, yanks something out of his sweatsuit pocket, then jogs to the passage. She skins off her mask on the way to the street, shoves it into her purse, then scrubs her hands through her hair to perk it up after being smashed flat.

  I catch up to her just before she hits the sidewalk. “What was that?”

  “Keep your voice down.” She slows to an easy stroll, lik
e we’re out window-shopping. “They’ll live. Probably.”

  She doesn’t say another word until we climb into the car, no matter how hard I browbeat her. I’m still torqued that she’d run off and do something that could get her crossways with the cops or the Mafia. “Remember when we agreed we need to work together? That means you don’t do shit like this unless we agree. What if…”

  While I’m talking, Carson drags a big roll of euros out of her purse, all used hundreds. What the…? She flicks her index finger through the notes, peeling off thousand-euro bundles and laying them on her thighs, one on the left, the next on the right. At the end, she’s got ten bundles. She scoops up the bills on her right thigh and holds them out to me. “Here.”

  “How’s Allyson feel about you mugging people?”

  “Never asked.” She shakes the bills. “Don’t want it? I’ll take it.”

  Five grand? My first thought is, Belknap really is cheap if he got that Fantin for only ten thousand. My conscience mentions that stealing from the Mob—any Mob—has never worked out well in any movie I’ve ever seen. Then my anti-conscience reminds me that five thousand euros is half a year’s pay. I don’t even have to declare it to Customs. Besides, Burim did piss me off.

  Of course I take it. I’ve had a lot of practice tuning out my conscience.

  Carson stows her half of the cash, then hauls herself out of the car. Before I can ask if she’s going back to break Burim’s legs, she leans in the window. “Park in the courtyard when the weasel leaves. Watch for Belknap. Follow him if he takes the painting. Don’t let him see you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “None of your business. When’s your date?”

  I almost say none of your business, but it’s not worth the metaphorical or physical pain. “Eight.”

  “Relieve you at six. Belknap moves before then, let me know.”

  So now I’m on a stakeout… alone. Like I know how to do this. “It’s lunchtime.”

  Carson paws through her purse and tosses me a slightly bent Luna bar. “Save some for later.” Then she’s gone.

  Chapter 35

  I get a good long time to stew about Carson’s smash-and-grab on Burim. The pressure from the fifty hundred-euro notes in my pocket eventually cuts off the blood flow to my better instincts.

  While my conscience goes down for the count, I slouch in my seat and watch the Milanese parade by. Sharp outfits, tight jeans or skirts, leather, boots, designer handbags, platform sneakers on the dressed-down women, man-purses on the guys. Very pulled-together. But the palette’s dull: lots of grays, blacks and taupes like the built environment, very few saturated colors. L.A.’s a riot of color in comparison. I miss it.

  Burim’s Skoda slinks away about an hour after Carson leaves. I swipe an empty spot in the courtyard and fix the Fiat’s mirrors so I can see the gallery’s back door. Belknap’s wine-red BMW 220i coupe is in the far parking spot. I pass the time reading Gianna’s business plan and checking the mirrors.

  Carson rolls in at five-thirty in a sporty white Renault two-door. She double-parks behind me—very Italian—and fills my open driver’s window. “He still there?”

  “Yeah. You’re early.”

  She shrugged. “Served your time.” She holds out a folded sheet of notepaper. “Drop the car here. Put the key through the mail slot. Take off.”

  While I change clothes at the hotel, I keep an eye on RAI News 24. Nothing about Burim, of course. But there’s video about a warehouse fire near the Expo that killed four men.

  The warehouse we visited Monday night.

  Navigli is on the southwest edge of central Milan, lying just outside what used to be the city wall. What’s left of the canal system that got the marble to the Duomo cuts through the district. Navigli was supposedly pretty rough until artists and hipsters started moving in a few years ago. Now it’s trendy.

  Well, except for this part.

  The driver stops in front of a tired prewar apartment building on a side street a couple blocks off the Naviglio Pavese, one of the two surviving canals. Four stories, six window bays wide, flat-fronted. The graffiti’s the most interesting thing about it. Four of the six ground-floor commercial bays are boarded up. This looks like the kind of place bodies are found several days after they get dead. I ask the driver, “You’re sure this is the right place?”

  “Si, signore.” He holds up the notepaper in case I want to check.

  I climb out into the twilight and step up to a glass door under a black awning. It’s a travel agency, and it’s closed. To my left is a security door with iron bars over the obscure glass. “Comici” isn’t on the call board next to it. Plywood covers the bottom six feet of what used to be a full-length shop window in the next bay. A light’s on inside. I scan the scrubby little park across the street for any gathering predators: none I can see now, but there’s time.

  The last bay is a plywood door with a hasp. The padlock’s gone. A sheet of pink A4 taped to the door says Entrare Rick.

  How much do I trust Gianna?

  The place’s been demoed to the studs and bare slab. Unshaded strip lights hang from wires. Square concrete columns support a beam running down the center of the surprisingly deep space. It’s cleaner than my pool house back home and smells like a recent janitor visit.

  Gianna’s perched on the only furniture in the place—an old metal swivel chair in the middle of the floor.

  Angelo Morrone’s standing behind her, arms crossed. His expression says he’s tired of waiting.

  What the…? My first thought: she’s a hostage. I scan the rest of the room to see if ‘Ndrangheta goons are coming out of the shadows. They’re not… yet. “Gianna? Are you—”

  “Salve,” she says. Her voice’s careful, not scared. “Welcome to my gallery.”

  All my questions crash head-on. What’s Angelo doing here? How’d he know to come here? How’s he connected to Gianna? Why would she do this? She’s too cute to be evil… right?

  “I remember you saying ‘alone,’” I finally tell her. It’s hard to keep my voice calm.

  “My apologies, Signore Hoskins,” Angelo says. “My father asked me to contact you, and I did not have your information. Signorina Comici is kind enough to arrange this meeting.”

  Uh-huh. The card I gave her last night was for Morrone. Was this her plan all along? “What is it you want?”

  He skirts Gianna’s chair and strides toward me. If his hand goes inside his unstructured black blazer, I’m out of here. “My father apologizes for the unpleasantness at the party and wishes to invite you to his home this Saturday. He wants to share his collection with you, and to continue your conversation.”

  Seriously? This is what I’d hoped for at the party, but didn’t really expect. Still, this “meeting” creeps me out. It was way too easy for him to get to me.

  He stops when he reaches me and pushes his hands into his front pockets. His posture’s anything but casual, though. “You mentioned ‘souvenirs’ at the party. My father wishes for you to know that this may be an opportunity for you to acquire them.”

  I’d wondered whether I’d hear from Morrone again. I hadn’t even hoped for a tour. He’s gotta be in a tough spot to move this fast.

  I must’ve hesitated a moment too long, though, because Angelo’s face clouds. “You are not free on Saturday? Of course we can schedule—”

  “No, I’m just surprised.” Dial it down. Don’t sound too eager. “Pleasantly, of course.” I pull a card from my wallet and hand it to him. “Send me the address and time.”

  He takes the card in both hands and bobs his head at me. “Thank you so much. My father wishes that you also bring Signorina Carson. We hope this is possible?”

  I peek at Gianna, still in her chair. She bites her lower lip for a moment, then slides back into a stiff smile. This wasn’t part of her plan. “It should be.”

  For the first time, Angelo lets loose a little smile. We shake hands.
“Very good, signore. My father thanks you. I will leave you and Signorina Comici to your evening.” He nods to Gianna, then marches out the front door.

  Gianna and I watch each other for a few moments. I can tell she’s working hard to keep that smile going. I finally growl, “You should’ve told me. I don’t like this kind of surprise.”

  She looks down and says “Mi dispiace” to her bare knees.

  “How do you know him?”

  “We meet when Rossi comes to the gallery. Now Rossi does not talk to Lorenzoni, and Angelo talks to me about his father’s art in our storage.” She looks up at me, her eyes wary. “This is why Signore Rossi sees you at the party.”

  That even sounds semi-legit, except for the missing part about why the Morrones didn’t move all their paintings—and why she didn’t mention this before now. She’s also talking like she still doesn’t know who “Rossi” is, or isn’t admitting it.

  “Did Angelo happen to tell you what they did with the pieces they took out of storage?” It’s worth a try, and she might answer to make me happy.

  She shakes her head. The brave smile’s gone. “Are you angry with me?”

  The real Hoskins would be pissed and let her have it. I’m still counting up the ways this could’ve gone bad. I sound—and feel—pretty grouchy when I say, “Don’t do this again.”

  Gianna swings out of her chair. Her white, long-sleeved, mid-thigh shirtdress looks like something Faye Dunaway might’ve worn in the original The Thomas Crown Affair. This time her lips actually touch my face when she goes for the two-cheek kiss. She whispers “ciao,” then briefly touches her lips to mine. Oh, God. “Please forgive me.”

  My hand fits perfectly in the soft curve of her waist. Bad move: lust flushes away my aggro. “What happened with Lorenzoni today?”

  “He is angry in the morning. He asks if I try to make the deal with Rossi myself. I say you make me to introduce you to Rossi, and I am scared you will not be the client if I say no.”