The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) by Aaron Elkins, Charlotte Elkins

she refused. She came up with a bunch of wordy reasons, none of which made a lot of sense, but the underlying message was clear. He had blotted his copybook and she was uninterested in risking her life again in his company or under his so-called tutelage. That her aversion was to him was personal and not directed at the Bureau as a whole was clear enough; since that time she had accepted two more assignments with the art squad—but none of them undercover (Ted was the lead on all undercover operations), and none of them on cases in which he had any personal involvement. He had gotten the message, and had kept out of her way.
    “What the hell, it’s over and done,” he muttered. He picked up the Lord & Keen file again. Let’s just hope whatever she’s doing for the Brethwaite people will also be over and done if it turns out the case requires me to go down to Palm Springs to talk to them .

O n t he other side of the continent, two-and-a-half thousand miles distant, in Palm Springs, California, the scene in Ted’s office was being almost exactly duplicated, this time by a young woman who sat in a swivel chair, staring at a telephone without seeing it, the furrow between her eyebrows marking the intensity of her thoughts. Even the subject of those thoughts was the same as the one on Ted’s mind: that misbegotten lunch at the National Gallery. Her perspective, however, couldn’t have been more different. Like Ted—like anyone—Alix’s memory was selective, whimsically so. Sometimes it chose to retain only the positive things, the things that brought pleasure, that made her feel good about herself. Sometimes not. This was definitely a “not.”
    This is the way she remembered it: Over a meal of roast beef, chicken potpie, and root vegetables (the luncheon theme that month was American), Ted had offered her a new undercover job. She could tell from his animated manner that he was excited about it and he was sure she’d see it as the terrific assignment he thought it was.
    Instead, he’d gotten a lecture. Did he remember a book he’d recommended to her by the founder of the art squad, Robert Wittman? Did he remember how Wittman had described the essence of undercover work? First you befriend, and then you betray. Did he recall that Wittman had expressed the feeling that either you were cut out for undercover work or you weren’t? (She wasn’t actually shaking a finger at him by this point, but she might as well have been.) Well, she hectored him: She wasn’t cut out for betrayal, for schmoozing first and gaining your new “friends’” trust and amity, and then dropping a ton of trouble on them, and, frankly, she was surprised that he could stand it. (That had been then. Now, a year later, she’d come to the conclusion that there were quite a few sleazeballs she’d betray in a heartbeat.)
    The longer she talked, the more sober and restrained he became, and no wonder. She’d done it in a self-righteous, better-than-thou way that no self-respecting man with an ego (and Ted had plenty of that) could have taken in any way other than as a put-down, personal and professional. She should have apologized on the spot and she knew it, she’d known it even then, but . . . she hadn’t. The words were out there and when she tried to take them back, they had stuck in her throat. And afterward, the more time that passed, the more impossible it became.
    There hadn’t been any “scene.” In fact, they had parted with smiles and best wishes. But the deed had been done. Ted still valued her expertise—thus the continuing consulting offers—but he himself had dropped out of her life.
    When she was startled by a sudden jerk of her head, she realized that she’d dozed off. The need for sleep had finally caught up with her. Quickly, before it passed, she lay down fully dressed and was asleep instantly. She didn’t awaken until almost nine, much refreshed.
    After soaking under a long shower and wolfing down every crumb of