Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant Page A

ma’am?”
    â€œY-yes,” he stammers. “It’s a sign of—”
    I hold up one hand. “Just don’t, OK?”
    â€œThe door is this way,” he says quickly and rushes over to open it.
    I scowl at him as I walk into the concentrated heat of a blistering day, sweat instantly beading on my freckled forehead. I ponder whether to further study the Adamskys in the window, but Casper’s rat-like countenance looming behind the art makes me turn away.
    That’s when I notice a small café perched on an upper-level balcony. Its large shady umbrellas invite me to climb the short flight of stairs and indulge in an iced mochaccino.
    How can I refuse?

Ten
    The cafe has a magnificent view of the bay and a cheerful waitress who delivers a mochaccino on the rocks with a long straw peeking out from a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.
    I enjoy the coffee and friendly smile before pulling out my notepad and jotting a few scribbles. There isn’t much in there, but it’s a start:
    I have learned that the local expert doesn’t recognize Diego’s hidden Adamsky, and that the paintings are being shipped directly from Portugal. I also learned that Declan has never come across one that was still curing. What that means, I don’t know, but it’s worth filing away in the back of my mind.
    I take another sip of cold coffee just as the sun is eclipsed by a broad-shouldered vision.
    â€œDo you mind if I sit?” Declan asks.
    I glance up. “Not at all.”
    I indicate the empty chair facing me, while attempting to keep the puzzled amusement off my face.
    Declan smiles nervously as he sits and orders a soda and lime from the hovering waitress. It may be a trick of the light, but I could swear that both the waitress’s smile and her peek-a-boo bosom swell at the sight of Declan.
    â€œI got the impression you didn’t want to spend any more time with me,” I start.
    â€œAre you always that direct?”
    I shrug unapologetically, and his face melts into a mask of such boyish charm that I want to stroke his hair, coo softly in his ear, and nestle him to my chest.
    â€œActually,” he says, “I want to apologize for my rudeness. I’m not used to reporters and didn’t realize being interviewed would make me so … nervous.”
    He nibbles on his lower lip, and I have to resist the temptation to ask if I can join in.
    â€œI should be the one apologizing,” I say, trying to lift my eyes above his lips. “My interview style can be on the rough side. Most times I don’t notice what a jerk I’m being until someone kicks me in the ass.”
    Declan laughs, and I join in. When his spritzer arrives, he lifts it into the air for a toast.
    â€œTo art,” he says.
    â€œTo beauty,” I agree and clink my mug against his glass.
    The apologies done, Declan sighs contentedly, allowing his shoulders to slump as the tart soda cools his throat.
    â€œCan I ask why you’re interested in Adamsky?” Declan asks.
    â€œI’m not, really.”
    â€œThen why the questions?”
    â€œCuriosity. The painting is an anomaly in Diego’s death.”
    â€œAnomaly? I thought it was a clear suicide.”
    â€œThe cops think so too.”
    Declan narrows his eyes. “I don’t understand?”
    â€œNeither do I. That’s why I’m looking into it.”
    Declan takes another sip of soda. “You don’t buy that he killed himself?”
    I shrug. “Makes a better story if he didn’t, but apart from a few oddities, everything points to the official verdict.”
    Declan smiles. “You’re a curious one, Ms. Flynn.”
    â€œCall me Dixie.”
    â€œOK.” He smiles wider. “Will you have dinner with me tonight, Dixie?”
    â€œWhy the change of heart?”
    â€œChange of … I don’t understand.”
    â€œEarlier, you couldn’t wait to get rid of me, but now