Free Alibi by Sydney Bauer

equally weathered notebook. “Pierre Auguste Renoir—the famous French guy who lived in the late eighteen hundreds. She copied a lot of his artwork in sketches, and I may be no art expert, but they look pretty good to me.”
    David watched as Joe leafed through the book and was seriously impressed. Jessica Nagoshi was one talented kid. He saw page after page of Jessica’s delicate handiwork with the original portrait’s name, and date of the artwork’s completion, at the base of the page: Little Miss Romaine Lacaux—1864, In the Summer—1868, The Dancer—1874, Girl with a Watering-Can—1876.
    There were large works and smaller ones, each capturing the subject matter, mood and lighting of nineteenth-century France. Jessica’s attention to detail was striking. She had the knack of complementing an expert’s work as opposed to making it look like a practiced imitation or tracing, almost as if she had seen these scenes through Renoir’s eyes, just as he did, almost a century and a half ago.
    Joe then flipped the page again, revealing a sketch with a different subject matter. This one was not a portrait and had no title or date at the base. It was also a less structured, gentler interpretation, as if her pencil had taken a route of its own, freed from the boundaries set by a previous Impressionist master.
    “What’s that?” asked David, gesturing toward the sketch of a striking, dark-petaled flower.
    “Black orchid. This is one of her own. The flower grows in the family greenhouse, not far from where we found her.”
    “I thought black orchids were a myth,” said David, remembering reading some article about a couple of not-so-savvy plant smugglers who dyed orchid leaves with black ink, trying to pass off the pale-colored versions as their darker counterparts.
    “Not a myth,” countered Joe. “But rare as hen’s teeth. The Nagoshis’ gardener told me this particular bloom is worth thousands of bucks. In fact, at first we thought Jessica might have walked in on a thief trying to bag the plant, but the orchid was left untouched.”
    “Might be worth checking it for prints,” said David, who could tell by Joe’s expression that the thought may not have occurred to him.
    “I told the CSR guys to lift everything but I didn’t specify the plant life. Maybe they forgot the flower. It’s not exactly an obvious place to . . .” said Joe.
    “No,” said David. “But it’s doable. In fact, a lab tech from Philly once told me petals are the perfect surface for latent print lifting because they are smooth and soft and slightly moist. He also says they have little hairlike things on their surface that compress with contact and can sometimes provide a perfect print re-creation.”
    David watched as Joe made a note. It was worth a try.
    Joe took another drink before flicking quickly through the rest of the book, and David glimpsed page after page of what looked to be some amazing reproductions. He stole a quick glance at Mannix, and saw how close the normally detached investigator was getting to this one. The sketchbook’s corners were crinkled with signs of repeated turning and David guessed Joe had spent many an hour doing exactly what he was doing now—looking for some sort of clue, or hidden message, from the hand of the girl whose life it was his job to avenge. This one has got to him , thought David, feeling more than a tinge of concern for his dedicated friend.
    And then something caught his eye. A quick flick of a sketch that showed traces of the same fluidity expressed in the drawing of the rare black orchid.
    “Wait,” said David, grabbing Joe’s arm. “Go back,” he said. “Further, before the one of the girl combing her hair.”
    Joe flipped backward and stopped at the portrait of a young man. It was drawn from a diagonal, showing most of the right side of his face and part of his left. The boy’s expression was calm but focused, as if he was listening to something important and absorbed by the