Free Crooked Hearts by Patricia Gaffney Page B

enough, and he winced when he tried to smirk.
    “Not that it’s any of your business, but my husband…” She looked down, took a deep breath, looked up. “My husband,” she got out with a catch in her voice, “has a bad heart.”
    Oh, she was very, very good. So good, he wasn’t a hundred percent positive she was lying. “That would be Henri, the entrepreneur?” he asked neutrally.
    “He’s a former entrepreneur. I forgot to tell you he’s retired.”
    “Aha.”
    “Aha,” she mimicked, impatient. “Back to the question, Mr. Jones. What’s your interest in my financial affairs? What’s going on in that devious mind of yours?”
    He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “What I’ve got in mind is pretty simple, Mrs. Rousselot. Being such a smart lady, you’re probably already there ahead of me.”
    “It wouldn’t surprise me.” She smiled to disarm him.
    It worked; he lost his train of thought for a second, caught up in the sly, unexpected friendliness of that smile. It took a big gulp of beer to get his wits back. “I’m suggesting that you and I don’t take the combined loss of six thousand dollars lying down,” he said softly. “I’m suggesting we take steps to get it back. Together.”
    The quick gleam in her eye, there and gone in a second, proved his suggestion hadn’t taken her by surprise. She pushed her plate to the side and rested her chin on her twined fingers. “How?”
    “We start with Doc Slaughter. He’s the antique dealer I was telling you about.”
    “‘Doc Slaughter’?” She had a surprisingly girlish giggle. “That’s the most unlikely antique dealer’s name I ever heard.”
    “Well, that’s his name. He’s got a shop on Powell Street. I could go see him tomorrow, show him the tiger and the—”
    “We could go see him, you mean.”
    “Slip of the tongue. Nice to know you’re paying attention.”
    “I always pay attention.”
    “We’ll show him the tiger, see if he can tell us something interesting about it. Even if it’s not worth much by itself, it could be worth a great deal to whoever’s got the other eleven pieces.”
    “Like a chess set with a missing queen.”
    “Exactly. As for Fireplug’s letter, Doc’s got contacts in Chinatown; he can pay somebody to translate it and keep his mouth shut afterward.”
    “Why does he have contacts in Chinatown? Tell me more about this guy.”
    “Let’s go home, I’ll tell you about him there.” He raised his hand to signal for the bill. “I think we have to figure Fireplug for a thief among thieves, don’t you? He took the tiger during the holdup for himself, either to hock on his own or hold out and sell back to his employer later.”
    “That’s assuming he had an employer. Couldn’t he and the other two have been acting on their own?”
    “They could’ve been, but somehow I don’t think they were.”
    She folded her napkin into a small, neat square, frowning. “I don’t think so either.”
    “Good, we’re agreed.”
    They stood up. He found her cape and helped her on with it. She was wearing her hair on top of her head tonight; a few blonde corkscrew curls had slipped their pins and were bobbing around her face in a cheerful, artless way. At least he assumed it was artless. With Grace, you could never be sure.
    “I love my new dress,” she sparkled, turning her head to look up at him over her shoulder. “Thank you for buying it for me.”
    She was trying to whittle down his interest rate, he knew, but he couldn’t resist her pretty, twinkly-eyed gratitude. “Seeing how beautiful you look in it is all the thanks I need,” he said fatuously. “I meant that figuratively, of course,” he called after her, weaving through tables of diners toward the door, hurrying to keep up. “Not literally!”
    Outside, a thin, sickle moon hung low in a fog-free, blue-black sky. From the crest of a hill, they could see the dark form of Alcatraz Island in the Bay, the winking lights of the Marin