Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [200]
Simon merely smiled and stuck out two fingers. Sean looked at those two fingers, gummed his graham cracker faster, then shoved off with his feet. The walker flew into Simon. He was so startled, he fell back on his butt.
He laughed, got back onto his knees, and lightly ran his fingers over Sean’s black hair. “You’re going to be a real bruiser, aren’t you, champ? You’re already a tough guy, mowed me right down.” He turned on his heel to say to Lily, “Are you the changeling or is Savich?”
Savich laughed and gave Simon a hand up. “She’s the changeling in our immediate family. However, she looks like Aunt Peggy, who married a wealthy businessman and lives like a princess in Brazil.”
“Okay, then,” Simon said, “let’s see if she tries to bite my hand off.” He stuck out his hand toward Lily Frasier. “A pleasure to meet another Savich.”
Good manners won out, and she gave him her hand. A soft hand, smooth and white, but there were calluses on her fingertips. He frowned as he felt them. “I remember now, you’re an artist, like Savich here.”
“Yes, I told you about her, Simon. She draws No Wrinkles Remus, a political cartoon strip that—”
“Yes, of course I remember. I’ve read the strip, but it’s been a while now. It was in the Chicago Tribune, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. It ran there for about a year. Then I left town. I’m surprised you remember it.”
He said, “It’s very biting and cynical, but hilarious. I don’t think it matters if the reader is a Democrat or a Republican, all the political shenanigans ring so true it doesn’t matter. Will the world see more of Remus?”
“Yes,” Lily said. “As soon as I’m settled in my own place, I’m going to begin again. Now, why are you so anxious to see my paintings?”
Sean dropped the graham cracker, looked directly at his mother, and yelled.
Sherlock laughed as she lifted him out of the walker. “You ready for a bath, sweetie? Goodness, and a change, too. It’s late, so let’s go do it. Dillon, why don’t you make Lily and Simon some coffee. I’ll be back with the little prince in a while.”
“Some apple pie would be nice,” Simon said. “I haven’t had dinner yet; it would fill in the cracks.”
“You got it,” Savich said, gave Lily the once-over to make sure she was okay, and went to the kitchen.
“Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?” Lily asked again.
“I’d as soon not say until I actually see them, Mrs. Frasier.”
“Very well. What do you do in the art world, Mr. Russo?”
“I’m an art broker.”
“And how do you do that, exactly?”
“A client wants to buy, say, a particular painting. A Picasso. I locate it, if I don’t know where it is already—which I do know most of the time—see if it’s for sale. If it is, I procure it for the client.”
“What if it’s in a museum?”
“I speak to the folk at the museum, see if there’s another painting, of similar value, that they’d barter for the one my client wants. It happens that way, successfully sometimes, if the museum wants what I have to barter more than the painting they have. Naturally, I try to keep up with the wants and needs of all the major museums, the major collectors as well.” He smiled. “Usually, though, a museum isn’t all that eager to part with a Picasso.”
“You know all about the illegal market, then.”
Her voice was flat, no real accusation in it, but he knew to his toes she was very wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings, that was it. She didn’t trust him because she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he could deal with that.
He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked up the afghan, and held it out to her.
Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No, no, just toss it to me.”
But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware that she didn’t want him near her, frowned, then sat down again and said, “Of course I know about the illegal market. I know all of the main players involved, from the thieves to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers and the collectors who, many of them, are totally obsessed if there is a piece of art they