Free The French Kiss by Peter Israel

watch. “Well? Where is he? This is absurd! I’ll have you know I’ve got an appointment to see his collection!”
    The gendarme shrugged, but he stood his ground. I tried to maneuver around him but his body cut down the angle. We bumped.
    â€œNo one’s allowed in without special authorization, Monsieur.”
    â€œSpecial authorization? But this is an outrage! I don’t need special authorization, my good man, don’t you know who you’re talking to?” He didn’t seem to at that. “Well? Where do I have to go to get this special authorization?”
    â€œTo the police, Monsieur.”
    â€œThe police ? But you’re the police, aren’t you? Say, but nothing’s happened to him, has it? What’s happened to him? I demand to know what’s happened to Alan Dove!”
    â€œNo one knows what’s happened to him, Monsieur.”
    â€œNo one knows ? But that’s an outrage! I demand to see the person in charge!”
    I maneuvered again. We bumped again.
    â€œI’m sorry, Monsieur,” he said, nodding toward the sky. “There’s no one up there who knows any more than I do.”
    â€œWho’s up there?”
    â€œJust some of my colleagues, Monsieur. And the paintings.”
    I could have tried the old BF Special on him, the fullback up the middle without the ball while I snuck around end for the winning touchdown, but I figured he’d bring up the cornerbacks if I did. Instead I went off, muttering “outrage” and “special authorization” till I was out of earshot, and when I took a last look back from the porte-cochère, he was slouched against the entrance again, staring at nothing.
    So Al Dove had disappeared, it seemed, along with his team, and the Law had his collection, and from what Freddy Schwartz had told me plus what I’d picked up on my own, I had one or two pretty good theories as to why. But Bernard Lascault was lying low too, which didn’t square either with the theories or with the Law having “closed” the dossier.
    As it happened, I’d called Freddy Schwartz right after my first meeting with Lascault. Freddy’s a sad and bleary-eyed old rummy who’d lost his job on the L.A. Times mostly because of the booze. But like I said, he’s still a useful little guy, even though when he’d called me back that morning, it had been midnight in Los Angeles and to judge from the rolling sound of his voice he’d been well on his way to bottle heaven.
    According to Freddy Schwartz, the gallery in Beverly Hills was a real go-go operation but strictly kosher. Al Dove was listed as president, but the person who ran the show on the spot was Mrs. Al Dove. “You used to know her, didn’t you, Cagey?” Freddy Schwartz had asked, and when I didn’t answer: “Back when she was Binty Banks? Weren’t you and she something of a number once?”
    â€œI used to know her,” I’d said finally. “But who’s behind it?”
    â€œI’m just coming to that. All it cost you was a trip to the Hall of Records. Al and Binty Dove are the listed officers, but you’ll never guess who owns the property.”
    â€œWho owns the property, Freddy?”
    â€œDoes the Rancho del Cielo Corporation ring a bell?”
    It did, and a hell of an obvious one. Rancho del Cielo was the real estate swindle Al Dove had been involved in a few years back. It had been one of those desert retirement paradises which pop up like cholla cactus all over Southern California, with golf course and clubhouse and door-to-door morticians, so much down and the rest in your will. Only the pine they’d built Rancho del Cielo out of was so green you could hear the sap hissing and the financing had turned out to be as creaky as the suckers who’d bought in. And Al Dove and his partners had gotten out two steps ahead of the scandal and about half a step ahead of the