Innocent Monster by Reed Farrel Coleman

the roof. Don’t come in here and try and cut me off at the knees. We’ve been doing business with each other too long for that.”
    “Thirty is as high as I’m going to go for this.”
    He laughed, but not because he was really amused. “Sonia, Sonia, Sonia... I happen to know you paid fifty last year for ‘Red Waves’ to that collector in Ojai.”
    “That was last year, Randy.”
    “And this isn’t ‘Red Waves.’ ‘Lime Ocean Blue’ is the real thing and the subtlety of it shows Sashi was maturing as an artist.”
    Randy Junction’s “was” stuck in my craw. They were talking about Sashi Bluntstone as if she were already dead and they were picking over the prime cuts of her carcass. I could have smacked him and kicked Sonia Barrows-Willingham in the ass. I chose to bide my time instead. Martyr was right: the vultures were circling, darkening the sky, ready to cash in on Sashi’s death. And while I wasn’t ready to write Martyr any love letters or apologies, he suddenly seemed less detestable somehow. At least his loathing and cynicism were on display for the world to see, not hidden in whispers in the corner of a low-rent art gallery.
    “All right, Randy. Forty.”
    Junction couldn’t have hidden his smile with an iron mask. “Forty-five.” His heart wasn’t in it, but he figured it was worth a try.
    “Forty.” Sonia reached into her million dollar handbag and pulled out her checkbook and Mont Blanc. “Shall I start writing or walking?”
    “Writing, of course.”
    There would have been some advantage to surprising them and confronting them in public, but surprise can be overrated. I wanted a little more information before I went after them and I wanted them separately. Besides, I’d overheard their conversation and they could no more retreat from it tomorrow or the next day as they could today. Junction would have her money and she would have the painting and they could both rot in hell.
    “Here’s your check,” she said, tearing it off and handing it to him. She didn’t look particularly pleased, but she looked like the type of woman who never seemed particularly pleased about anything. She probably blinked when she orgasmed... if she orgasmed.
    “Thank you, Sonia. Your paintings will be delivered tomorrow as always.”
    Paintings? When Sonia Barrows-Willingham left, I watched Junction place little red “sold” stickers on the white description placards next to three of Sashi’s paintings. Randy Junction was practically floating as he walked from painting to painting with his red stickers. I thought I’d use his good mood to my advantage.
    “Excuse me, are you the gallery owner?”
    “I am indeed. Randolph Junction. How may I assist you?”
    “I’m not much for art myself,” I said. “One bunch of glops and drips is much like any other to me, but I’m an investor. I’ve got a nice portfolio, but that’s not the thing that gets me going. No, I like investing in things: diamonds, stamps, wine... I got a tip from a friend that I should check out some of this kid’s stuff.”
    I thought Junction was going to ring like an old-fashioned cash register. “Your friend has a good eye.”
    “My friend is color-blind and knows less about art than I do. What he knows is money and investments. So sell me, Junction.”
    “All right, you seem like a man who wants to cut to the chase. The fact is that if you had walked in here a month ago, you could have bought every original in this gallery for about a hundred grand. Today, you couldn’t buy any three of them for that little.”
    “Why’s that?”
    For the first time since I entered, Randy Junction was off balance. He didn’t answer right away and nervously brushed his palms against each other.
    “Don’t clam up on me now. I know the kid is missing,” I prodded.
    “Well... look, if she doesn’t turn up,” his voice cracked, “the value will go sky high.”
    “Okay, I appreciate your honesty. Have you got a card and some