degree was in art history, but nowhere near as specialized. She’d worked as hard as he had, if not harder, to become an expert in the field. Still, her mother seemed to prefer his opinions. He’d come late to his studies, which meant that he was six years older than she was. She thought of him as a peer. His avuncular treatment of her suggested that he thought otherwise. The less she worked with him, the better she liked it.
Mornings at the gallery were for light dusting, setting up the cash register, sorting the mail, checking e-mail, and finally opening the double front doors to the public at eleven. It was already after that. Instead of charging in, Irina thought it best to walk along the west side of the building to the front, scanning the windows for anything amiss. After checking the east side, she paused for a few seconds at the base of the wide front steps and looked in through the bay window. All the track lights were on. Something wasn’t adding up. Her mother always turned off the track lighting when she closed the gallery for the night.
Turning to the street, Irina shielded her eyes from the sun and scanned the parked cars. She spotted her mother’s pearl gray Audi Roadster halfway down the block. Feeling relieved that her mom had already arrived, she headed back to the rear of the house and let herself in. Her mother was probably fuming. Arriving late was a cardinal sin in her lexicon of business blunders.
Steeling herself for an argument, Irina walked into the main showroom but stopped under the arched doorway, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a gasp.
The glass counters had all been opened, the contents scattered around on the floor. Nothing, not a single relic, was where it should be. Masks had been torn down from the walls. Standing shelves had been knocked over, some of the ancient glass artifacts broken into a million little pieces on the polished wood floors. The doors to three smaller climate-controlled galleries were open, allowing Irina a full view of the destruction.
Rushing up the back stairs, she entered the second-floor hallway, her gaze traveling swiftly to the open doorway into the living room.
“Mom?” she called. “Are you here? Are you okay?”
The second floor had been ransacked, just like the first. The backs and seats of all the antique couches and chairs had been ripped open, with big puffs of stuffing scattered virtually everywhere. All the cupboards in the kitchen were open, their contents dumped.
Rushing through the chaos into her mother’s office, Irina let out a scream.
Her mother was slumped face-first onto her desk. Under the chair was a thick pool of sticky dark red blood. Irina pressed the back of her fingers to her mom’s cheek and was so startled by how cold the skin felt that she withdrew her hand as if she’d been burned. She moved around behind the chair, grabbed her mom by her shoulders, and eased her back. The front of her white angora sweater was stained the same dark red as the floor. Irina stood very still, feeling another scream well up inside her.
Do something, she ordered, backing up, horrified at the revulsion she felt at being in the same room with a dead body. It was her mother’s body. She shouldn’t feel that way.
She wanted to run, to breathe fresh air, to wipe the sickening image from her mind. Instead, she dove for the corner of the room and vomited. Shivering violently, she edged over to the phone, picked it up, and started to tap in 911.
“No,” she whispered, letting the phone drop back on the desk. She had to think this through.
* * *
Across the river in Minneapolis, Chess paced under the tower. He couldn’t get one of the comments the blackmailer had made out of his mind. You can’t just walk away from a m urder. Did that mean the blackmailer had seen him walk away from Dial’s house? Could Ed be the neighbor, the chatty bald guy who’d called to him as he was leaving? Had he seen Chess and Dial arrive the
Mornings at the gallery were for light dusting, setting up the cash register, sorting the mail, checking e-mail, and finally opening the double front doors to the public at eleven. It was already after that. Instead of charging in, Irina thought it best to walk along the west side of the building to the front, scanning the windows for anything amiss. After checking the east side, she paused for a few seconds at the base of the wide front steps and looked in through the bay window. All the track lights were on. Something wasn’t adding up. Her mother always turned off the track lighting when she closed the gallery for the night.
Turning to the street, Irina shielded her eyes from the sun and scanned the parked cars. She spotted her mother’s pearl gray Audi Roadster halfway down the block. Feeling relieved that her mom had already arrived, she headed back to the rear of the house and let herself in. Her mother was probably fuming. Arriving late was a cardinal sin in her lexicon of business blunders.
Steeling herself for an argument, Irina walked into the main showroom but stopped under the arched doorway, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a gasp.
The glass counters had all been opened, the contents scattered around on the floor. Nothing, not a single relic, was where it should be. Masks had been torn down from the walls. Standing shelves had been knocked over, some of the ancient glass artifacts broken into a million little pieces on the polished wood floors. The doors to three smaller climate-controlled galleries were open, allowing Irina a full view of the destruction.
Rushing up the back stairs, she entered the second-floor hallway, her gaze traveling swiftly to the open doorway into the living room.
“Mom?” she called. “Are you here? Are you okay?”
The second floor had been ransacked, just like the first. The backs and seats of all the antique couches and chairs had been ripped open, with big puffs of stuffing scattered virtually everywhere. All the cupboards in the kitchen were open, their contents dumped.
Rushing through the chaos into her mother’s office, Irina let out a scream.
Her mother was slumped face-first onto her desk. Under the chair was a thick pool of sticky dark red blood. Irina pressed the back of her fingers to her mom’s cheek and was so startled by how cold the skin felt that she withdrew her hand as if she’d been burned. She moved around behind the chair, grabbed her mom by her shoulders, and eased her back. The front of her white angora sweater was stained the same dark red as the floor. Irina stood very still, feeling another scream well up inside her.
Do something, she ordered, backing up, horrified at the revulsion she felt at being in the same room with a dead body. It was her mother’s body. She shouldn’t feel that way.
She wanted to run, to breathe fresh air, to wipe the sickening image from her mind. Instead, she dove for the corner of the room and vomited. Shivering violently, she edged over to the phone, picked it up, and started to tap in 911.
“No,” she whispered, letting the phone drop back on the desk. She had to think this through.
* * *
Across the river in Minneapolis, Chess paced under the tower. He couldn’t get one of the comments the blackmailer had made out of his mind. You can’t just walk away from a m urder. Did that mean the blackmailer had seen him walk away from Dial’s house? Could Ed be the neighbor, the chatty bald guy who’d called to him as he was leaving? Had he seen Chess and Dial arrive the
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