Bad Blood by S. J. Rozan Page A

paused. “Not that sympathy does you much good.”
    “You’d be surprised,” I said. “Thanks.”
    There was a short silence. Through the phone I could hear a Schubert piano sonata. The C Minor, written while Schubert knew he was dying. I’d never played it.
    “You said you had some questions?” she prompted.
    “Oh. Yeah.” I cradled the phone against my shoulder so I could light a cigarette. “I found some silver today that I think is yours.”
    There was a very short pause, just a heartbeat. “Where? How?”
    “An antique place near Breakabeen. I’ll bring it over in the morning. But I wanted to ask you: do you know a girl, probably about sixteen? Golden hair, sparkling eyes, dazzling smile?”
    “Quite a description, but I don’t think so. Who is she?”
    “She’s peddling your stuff. I was hoping you could tell me who she is.”
    “No,” she said slowly. “But I’ll think about it.”
    “Good,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to get some dinner. Tony’s out of business for tonight. I’ll be up in the morning.” We fixed a time and I hung up, seeing in my mind the yellow farmhouse standing in the sunlight at the top of the hill.
    I glanced at Tony. His empty glass had slipped from his grip and was lying on the newly scrubbed floor. He was still staring ahead of him, looking at nothing.
    I fed the phone again and called Lydia. This time, Lydia answered her office number. That line rings through to her room at home, and I knew that’s where she was, because I could hear her mother puttering around in the background, singing a high-pitched Chinese opera song. She obviously had no idea what a narrow escape she’d just had, not having to talk to me.
    I, on the other hand, did.
    After Lydia got through telling me who she was in English and again in Chinese, I said, “Hi, it’s me. You have anything for me?”
    “Oh,” she said. “Well,” as though she was thinking about it, “just information.”
    “What else could I want?”
    “What you always want.”
    “Not over the phone,” I said in wounded innocence.
    “Since when?” I heard her rustling some papers; then she asked, “Are you all right? You sound tired.”
    “I am.”
    “Oh,” she said. “That’s why the lack of snappy patter.”
    “No, this country living must be dulling my razor-sharp senses. I thought I was being pretty snappy.”
    “Wrong. Now listen: I haven’t picked up anything about your paintings, if that’s what you want to know.”
    “Among many other things. Where are you looking?”
    “Shipping companies. Maritime and air-ship insurance. Art appraisers, auction houses.” She paused. “Don’t worry, I was subtle.”
    I hadn’t said anything, but she knew me. “How?”
    “Mostly I said I was looking for stolen Frank Stellas that would be being shipped as something else. People were very cooperative.”
    “Good old people. Anything else?”
    “I went to see your friend Franco Ciardi. He remembered me and was charmed to see me.”
    “Isn’t everyone always?”
    “Of course they are, but sometimes they hide it well. Anyway, he knows nothing, but he promised he’d be interested and most discreet if I do come up with anything. Was he offering to take them off my hands if I find them, do you think?”
    “I’m sure he was. That’s it?”
    “Yes, but isn’t no news good news? There’s no sign yet that those paintings are on the market. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
    “Yes. How sure are you?”
    “Well, I’ve only been on it since this morning. I may be missing something; but you can do a lot with a phone and a cab in a day.”
    “Okay. Any other ideas?”
    “I haven’t got any ideas. But I have something interesting.”
    “I’m sure, but you won’t let me see it.”
    “And you said not over the phone.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Uh-huh. Anyway, listen. You know how art galleries work? On commission? Well, the normal commission is ten to fifty percent of the price of the work—the lower the sale