“Sure it does. So does waiting a few weeks. Your job will still be there; it’s not going to disappear while you take some time and heal.” He grinned at her. “It takes longer than that to train your replacement. Consider the assignment the compliment it is. Take what they are expecting and give them back something better.”
“This is your version of a pep talk?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to work on it some more.”
He burst out laughing.
Seven
Lisa loved her house, but it was testing her patience tonight. She walked on carpet squishing with water out through the back door, carrying her cellular phone. “Jack, when are you getting off duty?” She’d caught him at the fire station, relieved to find he hadn’t been out on a call. She circled to the back of her house, looking at the gutters.
“Eight. Need something?”
“My gutters must be clogged. That brief rainstorm was wonderful, but it had me finding towels. My swamp is back, and this time it came in under the back door.”
“Your swamp monster returns? You mean it didn’t just unlock the door and wander through the house? Face it, you’ve got a living thing in your yard. It never dies.”
“Jack.” Next she was going to hear about those stupid monsters from the swamp movies he loved.
He relented and turned serious. “I’ll swing by and take a look.”
“I appreciate it.” She’d called him because no matter how badly she disrupted his schedule, she knew he would say yes.
She walked around to the garage to see what would have to be moved in order to get the ladder out. Jack would have to do it. She did carry in the box floor fan to help dry out the carpet.
At least the water had turned only about a foot and a half of carpet into a soggy mess before she’d realized the problem and stopped the flood. An evening of moving air should go a long way to drying the carpet out, although in this heat the pad underneath might mold in even that short time.
She’d have to ask Jack if he thought the carpet should be pulled up. The idea of handing him pliers to pull up the tackstrip for the carpet made her wince. On second thought, maybe she wouldn’t ask. She carried the wet towels through to the laundry room and started another load.
The three-hour nap she had taken when she got home had been wonderful; she had awoken to the sounds of thunder and rain. She’d enjoyed listening to the rain until she got up and walked down the hall.
She was going to have to get a load of dirt dumped to raise that portion of the yard so water would flow away from, not back to the house. The downspouts were set to direct the water from the roof well out into the yard, but when they clogged, she had trouble.
Surprisingly hungry, Lisa wandered into the kitchen, wishing she had gone grocery shopping. She settled for pulling out a box of Velveeta cheese, cutting off the end that had dried to toss into the trash. She made herself a toasted cheese sandwich.
She was finishing the sandwich, feeding the crusts to Sidney, when the doorbell rang. She dumped the paper plate, returned Sidney to his cage, and went to meet Jack.
He wore a blue T-shirt with a small white fire department emblem stitched above the pocket. It was the same shirt some enterprising kid at the last fire department open house had decorated with fabric paints, adding a red fire engine that looked like it had a flat tire. Jack loved the shirt. It was now too small for him; it had shrunk when washed in hot water, and the paint had begun to crack and flake off. But getting Jack to let the shirt die was impossible.
“What’s this?” Lisa accepted the drink he handed her.
“A slushy. Grape. It seemed to fit.”
“Jack—you had to?” His sense of humor was impossible to tame.
He tore open the wrapper on a stick of beef jerky. “I had to.” He waved his dinner at her. “Show me the damage. Your brother is here to save the day.”
“You’ll try,” Lisa agreed. “Whether you succeed—” She got an ice-cream headache drinking the Kool-Aid in crushed ice. “Come with me.”
Jack followed her into the house. “Where’s Sidney?”
“You can play with him later.”
“Lizzy.”
“Later.”
“I brought him a new toy.”
“Does it make noise?” Lizzy said.
“Of course.”
“They do make quiet ones, you know.”
“They also make earplugs.” Jack bumped into her when she abruptly stopped. “What a mess.”
“Tell me about it.”
He gingerly walked across the wet carpet to open the back door and look at the source of the problem. “If it rains any more, you’ll have a river coming in.”
“I need you to look at the gutters.”
“Gutters, smutters. I need a shovel so I can dig you a swimming pool. You would never have a water bill to fill it.”
“Jack, you’ve been asking me to put in a pool for the last three years. I’m not going to do it.”
“You let me build the deck.”
Lisa didn’t bother to point out she’d let him build it under their brother Stephen’s supervision. “Lumber is not the same as concrete.”
“Concrete is more fun.”
“You just want to plant your hands in it and be remembered for posterity.”
“A guy has to have a goal in life.”
She laughed as she pointed back toward the garage. “Outside.”
Twenty minutes later, Jack was on a ladder at her roofline. “Got yourself a forest up here.” He turned and playfully tossed a handful of storm-stripped leaves in her direction.
His grin was infectious. “You need gloves.”
“I’d just get them wet.”
He leaned over to look down the length of the gutter. “Got a broom?”
“Somewhere. Hang on.”
She found it where it actually belonged, hanging on the garage wall. She took it back to Jack and held it up. “Here you go.”
He climbed the rest of the way onto the roof and walked along the edge with a casualness that spoke of easy comfort with both the slope and the height. “Here’s your problem. Your wire end cap was knocked loose, let the drain clog.” He retrieved it and cleared the drain spout to replace it. “You want to try and work on the yard next weekend? I’ll be glad to heft bags of dirt around for you.”
“As much as I would love to be your boss for the day, I think it’s going to take more dirt than we could get down at the yard department of the Home Depot store. I think I’ll give Walter—Nakomi Nurseries—a call. Since he’s got a job in this neighborhood, he might be able to just bring out a truckload of dirt one afternoon and dump it.”
“That would certainly solve the problem.” Jack strained to reach over and clean out the turn of the guttering. “So how’s Quinn?”
“What?”
“I heard you two went out to dinner.”
How had that started? “The grapevine was wrong.” Which surprised her because the family grapevine rarely got facts wrong. “He picked me up from work is all.”
“I thought . . . never mind.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What did Kate say?”
“Nothing.”
She leaned against the ladder and jiggled it enough to make the metal ring. “Jack . . . don’t make me want to tip this over. It would be a pain to pick up.”
“You would too.” He sighed. “Quinn was asking about directions to Casa Rio.”
She blinked. Next time she was going to have to be more selective before she said no to dinner.
Jack tossed down more leaves. “I could be talked into taking you if you’ll please lose that sad puppy dog expression.”
“I haven’t been to Casa Rio since my birthday.”
Balanced on his heels, Jack rested his arms across his knees. “Quinn remembered it was one of your favorites. The guy has a good memory for details.”
“I’m noticing.”
“Why didn’t you say yes?”
/> “Jack—”
“This is your brother asking.”
“I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.”
He looked stunned. “Quinn? He’s not like that lowlife Kevin.”
“Speaking of which—you didn’t have to bust Kevin’s nose.”
“Sure I did. He made you cry.”
“Jennifer exaggerated.” She scowled. “What did he call me?”
“Lisa—”
“I know you. Kevin said something and you hauled off and hit him.”
“He had it coming. And you should have dumped the guy long before.”
She shifted on her feet, uncomfortable. “Probably.”
His face softened. “Someday you’ll have to tell me why you didn’t.”
She hated having perceptive brothers. “Maybe.”
“Quinn is a safe date.”
“This is a crazy place to be having this conversation.”
He grinned. “I like it. You have to look up at me.”
“Would you finish and get down here?”
He stood. “I’ve got time for a walk in the park if you’re interested.”
The subdivision had a small pond and walk path a block away. It sounded like a nice way to end the evening. “I’m interested.”
Quinn squeezed into a tight parking place one block west of Dearborn and Grand and reached for his suit jacket. Lincoln’s message had been urgent. He checked that the jacket covered his weapon, secured the car, pocketed his keys, and kept an eye on the crowds around him as he walked toward the gallery where Lincoln had asked to meet him.
Downtown Chicago at 9 P.M. was a busy place to be as those who lived in the city came out to enjoy the fall evening and mingled with tourists looking for the nightlife. He found himself watching traffic, looking for a dark green Plymouth. He hated mysteries, and one that tailed him was not likely to just go away and remain gone.
Dara’s was one of a number of small galleries that thrived in the art culture that dominated Chicago. It was much like dozens of others he had patronized over the years, although this one tried to maintain the prestige of its heritage with its rich burgundy canopy over the entrance and its address just four blocks off the magnificent mile, even as the art it carried had become more and more modern. The reason for the black tie became obvious as he approached the gallery and saw the sidewalk podium and the assembled valets. A new show was opening tonight.
Guessing Lincoln had arranged the invitation, he gave his name to the host at the podium. He noted the quiet advance word that passed between the host and doorman. The word buyer had an interesting impact no matter which gallery he visited.
The opening tonight had brought out the champagne, a few art critics he recognized on sight, and a crowd that would please the owner. People were lingering as they discussed the various paintings; movement around the gallery would be a challenge.
Quinn scanned for Lincoln while also doing a quick summary of the paintings. All those in sight were oils. The painter was . . . intense. It wasn’t displeasing to the eye with dark colors dominating the works, but the subject matter—mostly scenes of the city at night—would be an acquired taste. He settled in to move around the gallery with the pace of the crowd.
Someone else might have painted the moonlit Chicago river as romantic; this artist had instead made the black shadows in the water dominate the work. He quirked his eyebrow at the violence it suggested. It took talent to create such a subtle impression.
“Thanks for coming.”
He glanced to his left to find that Lincoln had joined him. “Interesting request. I didn’t know you were into art.”
“I’m not,” Lincoln replied dryly, making Quinn chuckle. “To your far right, a couple in their fifties talking with a vivid lady in red who is toying with a glass of white wine.”
Quinn set the back of his left boot heel and turned without appearing to move. He scanned the room, passing over the threesome Lincoln had described. The lady in red was probably also in her fifties, but she wore the age very well. She was photogenic, obviously involved in the discussion, animated, captivating.
“The lady in red—Valerie Beck.”
“The artist of tonight’s exhibit.”
“Yes.”
“Her name, her work, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“No reason it should,” Lincoln replied. “Wander to the back; there’s something you should see.”
“You want to give me a hint?”
“I don’t want my opinion to sway yours. Go have a look.”
What Lincoln was not saying mattered as much as what he was. Quinn looked one more time at the lady in red and nodded.
What had Lincoln found?
It took him several minutes to reach the archway into the next room. It was merely the middle of the gallery, another archway indicating another room. His way was blocked by a large group of guests, the critic from the Chicago Fine Arts and Sculpture magazine commanding a good portion of the room so he could hold court on what he thought of a retrospective painting of the Chicago World’s Fair.
Quinn slid past the crowd with some reluctance. The man needed a history lesson if not an art lesson, and he was half inclined to stop and give it to him. He actually hoped the man would write the drivel he was saying in his review so the rest of Chicago could see his lack of insight. The painting was an interesting piece, not as dark as some of the other pieces. Once the group drifted on he’d have to come back and do some serious consideration—it might fit the space he had available in the ranch’s dining room.
He stepped through the second archway.
Photographs, not paintings. He stopped in the doorway, absorbing the change in mood and tone of the work. There was a photojournalist quality to the subjects chosen: people dominated, events. The photographs did not have the technical expertise he would have expected from an artist of Valerie Beck’s caliber.
The room had only two other guests casually perusing the pictures; there was no crowd here.
This was the work of a different artist. He searched for a title and an artist’s name to confirm his hunch.
“She called that one Endurance.”
Valerie Beck had joined him, as vivid up close as at a distance. She was looking with great indulgence at the photo he had been examining. It captured the start of the Chicago marathon, although it was hard to place the year of the race.
“My daughter’s work.”
Quinn checked his discomfort and wondered where Lincoln was. He didn’t know yet what he was supposed to be looking for, but it was apparently in this room. “The photographs show talent. You have reason to be proud of her, Mrs. Beck.”
“This is the best she’ll do, I’m afraid. My daughter was murdered a decade ago. She always wanted a showing of her work.”
Violence, and something that had caught Lincoln’s attention . . . Quinn could feel the threads crossing. “A tragedy. But this—” he looked around the room—“is an act of love.”
His words brought a grateful smile in return. “I received more enjoyment out of putting together this showing than I did choosing works for my own.”
He was playing this by ear, not sure what to ask. Quinn nodded to a photograph to his left. “I like this one.”
“Horses. Rita did love them.”
“She also had a great subject. He looks like he was a jumper.”
“I believe he was. Do you collect art, Mr.—?”
“Diamond. Quinn Diamond. And yes, I’ve been known to buy a piece I like.”
“Diamond—a lady’s best friend?” She smiled at him as she touched the sleeve of his jacket. “Indulge me, Mr. Diamond, and I’ll tell you about some wonderful photographs by a promising young photographer.”
He returned the smile, relaxing, liking her. “I would enjoy that.”
And for the next twenty minutes he did, hearing about a daughter from a mother who loved her, obviously missed her, and remained very proud of her. The word murdered still resonated as
a harsh, discordant ending to the story, but she seemed to have moved past it enough to recover the good memories.
They had almost circled the room when he stopped in his tracks.
“My daughter. She was sixteen when that was taken.”
It was a five-by-seven-inch snapshot, a casual picture, hanging low on the wall among a display of awards. Rita looked very much like a younger version of her mom even at sixteen. Rita had her arm around the shoulders of another teen, both girls holding cameras. The other girl in the picture was the very girl he had sought for so long: a smiling Amy Ireland.
“I do love this man.” Lisa curled up on the couch and reached for the remote to adjust the volume. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan were about to kiss for the first time. She snuggled the phone closer to her shoulder. “Jennifer, does Tom kiss this good?”
“Better,” Jennifer replied smugly.
It was a quarter to eleven; Jennifer had called shortly after 10 P.M. to pass along word that she’d found the movie playing on the romance classics channel. It wasn’t the first time they had watched a movie together long distance. Lisa was feeling quite relaxed. A muscle relaxant had ended any pain and a canister of Cheetos lay open on the table.
“Who was the last guy you kissed?” Jennifer asked.
Lisa grinned at the intrusive question. “Jack. He cleaned out my leaf-clogged gutters tonight.”
“Brothers don’t count.”
“Well it wasn’t Kevin,” Lisa replied, grateful that was true. For all the mistakes she had made with Kevin, that hadn’t been one of them. She was choosy about whom she kissed.
“Good. I never liked that ER doctor.” The movie went to commercial. “Quinn was a good kisser, but there was an awkward height difference.”
“What? You admit he has a flaw?” Lisa teased.
“He’d be just about right for you.”
Lisa squirmed against the cushions, remembering the couple times he had held her as he helped her move from the car. Jen was right . . . his chin had brushed her hair as he held her, sent a quiver direct to her gut. If he kissed her . . . “I don’t intend to find out.”
The Truth Seeker Page 8