Free Crooked Hearts by Patricia Gaffney

Police are unsure of the connection between the two missing passengers and the stage holdup, if any. According—’”
    “Why do they say posing as a Catholic nun?” Grace interrupted, scowling at a pink chunk of corned beef on the end of her fork. It was her second meal that day at Belle’s. “Why do they think I wasn’t a nun? They’ve got no evidence, none at all.”
    “‘According to San Mateo sheriff’s deputies—’”
    “They’re just guessing.”
    “‘According to—’”
    “That really galls me.”
    Reuben sighed and looked up at her over the top of page nine of the Daily Examiner.
    “I take pride in my work, and I don’t appreciate being slandered in the newspaper as a poser by some incompetent, second-guessing sheriff.”
    “Maybe they checked up on the Blessed Sisters of Bewilderment,” he suggested mildly.
    “Hope,” she corrected, “the Blessed Sisters of Hope.”
    “You mean they really exist?”
    She popped the meat into her mouth and chewed it unhurriedly, staring at him across the table. She was figuring the angles, he knew, trying to decide if there was any reason to keep lying. “No,” she finally conceded.
    “There you are, then.”
    “They probably checked,” she agreed grudgingly. “That’s the only way they could know. Because I never let it go, never, not even when that slimy son of a gun was pawing me.”
    “I never let it go either,” Reuben pointed out, “but I never get any credit for it. I was Edward Cordoba to the end.” (In the jargon of flimflam, you “let it go” if you stepped out of character while running a skin game.)
    “That’s different. Why should you get any credit for that?”
    “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “Because Fireplug could’ve killed me! I might’ve died while you were being true to Edward Cordoba!”
    Not that again. He drummed his knuckles on the table, annoyed because she had him and she knew it. He guessed it was an advantage she planned to keep reminding him of forever.
    “So, go on,” she said, satisfied, leaning back against the high leather banquette in their secluded booth at Belle’s. “What’s it say about the robbery?”
    The small piece of raw steak she’d made him stick on his swollen eyebrow came unstuck and fell in his lap. He retrieved it absently, deposited it on his plate, and went back to reading. “‘According to San Mateo sheriff’s deputies, the only objects stolen from the traveling art exhibit were an undetermined number of funerary sculpture pieces, among them a jade dragon used as a tomb guardian during the Wei period, a Han earthenware unicorn, and twelve calendrical representations from the Ming dynasty.’”
    “Eleven,” Grace amended smugly.
    “‘Priceless paintings, scrolls, and ceramics were left behind by the miscreants, for motives the police have not yet determined. The captured Chinaman has refused to speak, and at last report had not even divulged his name.’”
    Reuben folded the paper and laid it aside, reaching for the mug of beer at his elbow. He took a sip, then gingerly pressed the cold glass to his eyebrow, grimacing. “So. Fireplug won’t talk.”
    “Maybe that piece of paper has his name on it,” she theorized. “If so, we did him a favor when we lifted it.”
    “Mm. My friend with the curio shop can find out what it says.”
    She looked unimpressed. “I can take it to the local laundry and find out what it says.”
    “I don’t think that would be wise.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because the fewer people who know about this, the better. Especially since we don’t know what the paper says yet,”
    “What difference does it make?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve got something on your mind, haven’t you? Something besides making sure you’re not connected to the robbery.”
    Instead of answering, he set his elbows on the table and leaned toward her, the picture of earnest entreaty. In his best you-can-trust-me voice, he asked, “How much money did you lose