Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant

somewhat of a recluse.”
    â€œHow do you get in touch?” I feel myself slipping into hard-nosed reporter mode.
    â€œI’m contacted when he is ready to ship over more paintings.”
    â€œYou speak Portuguese?”
    The comeback catches him off guard.
    â€œN—no … it’s Adamsky’s agent who gets in touch.”
    â€œI thought you were his agent?”
    â€œI’m his North American distributor and also the largest seller of his work.”
    â€œAnd his agent …”
    â€œRoger King—” The name leaves his lips before he can stop it and his eyes widen, exposing both shock and a flash of anger.
    â€œRoger Kingston,” I complete. “A man of many interests.”
    â€œPlease don’t disturb Sir Roger,” Declan says anxiously. “He is a very important business associate and a man who places a high value on privacy. I had no right to mention his name.”
    He’s making me feel bad, which I hate. Here I am, all pleased that I pulled some juicy information out of him, and he ruins it by reminding me why I don’t get many dates. But since I’ve already blown it, I carry on.
    â€œWhy is such a powerful man acting as an artist’s agent?”
    â€œI couldn’t say.”
    â€œBecause you don’t know, or—”
    â€œBecause it’s not my place to comment on Sir Roger’s relationships.”
    â€œHe has a relationship with the artist?”
    â€œA business relationship!” he snaps.
    Let it go, Dixie. He’s getting pissed.
    â€œOf course.” I use my softer voice. “How often does Adamsky ship paintings over?”
    â€œWhenever he has enough. There are no set dates.” Declan attempts to rebuild his composure by brushing invisible lint off his shirt.
    â€œWhat was the time span between the last two shipments?”
    â€œI’m not sure.”
    I try the coy smile. “Could you please check? It would be such a hassle to have to go through Customs to find it.” Now I was being both a bully and a liar. I just hoped he didn’t know it would be practically impossible to squeeze information out of the Customs office.
    He reaches into another drawer and produces a ledger. He opens it with an annoyed sigh.
    â€œThe shipments were a month apart; twenty-eight days to be exact.”
    â€œHow many paintings in each shipment?”
    â€œI only have invoices for the ones I keep.”
    â€œHow many was that?”
    â€œFive.”
    â€œWas any of the paint still wet?”
    â€œOf course not!”
    â€œThen—”
    The chirp of a clear glass phone cuts off my question. When I first saw it on the desk, I assumed it was a piece of sculpture rather than a functioning device. As it rings, its electronic innards light up in a rainbow of neon.
    When Declan answers it, I take the time to notice a simple diamond stud in his left ear and the absence of a wedding ring. He tells whoever is on the line to hold a moment, and then extends his right hand across the desk.
    â€œThis is an important call,” he says. “And I have a lot of work to catch up. I hope I’ve managed to answer all your questions, Ms. Flynn.” His voice is so cold it practically has freezer burn.
    I squeeze his hand, pocket the Polaroid, and head for the door.
    â€œBy the way,” I say, turning around in the doorway. “What is Adamsky’s first name?”
    â€œHe doesn’t use one,” Declan replies stonily.
    I give him my best smile with just a touch of lost-girl pout. “Well, just remember mine is Dixie,” I say. “Thanks for your time. You have a terrific gallery here.”
    He doesn’t reply.
    I walk into the showroom, intending to look around more, but Casper scurries up beside me.
    â€œAre you leaving, ma’am?” he sniffs.
    â€œYeah, but—” I narrow my eyes, voice turning ice cold. “Did you just call me