Free Stone Quarry by S.J. Rozan Page A

strike me as a man to whom that matters very much."
    "Where did you get them?"
    His round eyes blinked in his round face. "Some people ..." he quoted himself sadly. "A young lady brought them. She was given them by her grandmother and doesn't care for them. Though I must say she seemed a refined young lady; I was surprised at her taste, but—"
    "When?" I interrupted.
    "When? Saturday."
    Three days ago. "Did you know her?"
    "Not I."
    "Can you describe her?"
    "Oh." His face took on a faraway look. "Oh, my, she was lovely. Petite; with golden hair, not straight and pale as straw the way they wear it now, but thick and golden, like summer sunlight. Red cheeks glowing from the cold; shining eyes. Standing at the threshold of womanhood, but still with a child's eagerness and joy. Lovely."
    "And you believed her?"
    "Believed her? In what way?"
    "These things are stolen," I told him.
    "Stolen?" He looked at me as though I should be ashamed of myself. "Stolen? Oh, my, young man, you are—"
    "I'm a private investigator," I said. "These things are among a group of items stolen from a client of mine last Friday." I handed him my card. He looked at it and then at me. He handed it back.
    "Young man, you have been less than forthright with me."
    "You do your business your way, I do mine my way."
    His face took on a stern and schoolmasterly look. I went on, "Do you get much of your stock that way, total strangers bringing in pieces this valuable? Happens every day?"
    "Of course not. What is there that happens every day? My stock, as you call it, comes to me from many sources. Much of it I go in search of. Some is brought here by acquaintances or strangers. Without being immodest, I may tell you that this shop is known for handling only items of the highest quality. A young lady with such valuable items to sell would naturally—" He broke off, his open mouth forming a perfect circle. "Young man! I hope you are not implying that I knowingly—"
    "I don't think I am." I picked up the tray and the candlesticks. "I want these things back and I'll pay for them—assuming the price is reasonable. But I want to know everything you remember about this girl. Did she bring you anything else?"
    "No, just this set." He pursed his lips. "Stolen . . . you're sure? Yes, yes, of course you are; a young man like yourself is always sure. Really, I can't tell you very much else about her. A dazzling smile, a promise of secrets. Enchanting. Many years ago, I would have been tempted to play the prince to her Rapunzel."
    "Was she alone?"
    "She came in here alone, though I believe someone waited in the car for her."
    "What kind of car?"
    "A truck, actually, I think, a blue truck, the kind that rides high on its wheels."
    "And she didn't give you her name, tell you where she was from, where her grandmother lived?"
    "No, no." He shook his head. "Really, young man, such a charming child—"
    "Never mind. If you remember anything else, or if she comes back, give me a call at this number, okay?" I wrote the number at Antonelli's on my card and passed it back to him.
    He looked at me as though it were I who had opened Pandora's box and let evil loose on the world.
    The price of the tray and candlestick set was very reasonable, although it was more cash than I had in my pocket. But it didn't matter.
    He took my American Express Card.
    I started the car, swung it around, and headed back down the pockmarked road. The silver was carefully wrapped and in the trunk. I'd had on my gloves when I'd handled the pieces, so I had fair hopes of being able to lift a good set of prints from them, including the shop owner's.
    I had less hope that anything I found would be useful. The golden young lady's prints wouldn't be in anyone's computer unless she had a criminal record, which seemed unlikely.
    But she might have been working with someone who did.
    I walked around that thought slowly in my mind, looking at it from all angles. The sun was thin above the overhanging pines and a