Free Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) by Joe Reese, T Gracie Reese

lake.
    “What painting are we talking about?”
    “A Durer.”
    For a moment, he could not speak. He did not know whether to blame this unseasonable cold on pure shock; but he simply waited; let his steps carry him along, the great sidewalk looming on either side of him, until his mind throat and mouth coordinated themselves into words.
    “My God.”
    This, he admonished himself, was the best he could come up with.
    “Yes,” came the reply.
    “You have a Durer?”
    “Yes.”
    “The Chicago Art Museum doesn’t even have a Durer.”
    “They have two sketches; I will have a painting.”
    “What painting?”
    “Hase.”
    “We’re talking about one of Durer’s Hasen? His rabbits?”
    “Yes.”
    He paused for time, as the same process of speech coordination in the midst of impossible conversation repeated itself.
    “How much is it worth?”
    “It’s priceless. But I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars to transport it to me, from Chicago to Graz.”
    “All right.”  
    The two were silent for a time.
    So…do you want to move this painting for me?”
    “I’m not sure. I may have to think about the matter.”
    “There’s no time. The painting needs to get to Austria. And damned quick.”
    His warning antennae picked up something in the air.
    Something was wrong.
    “Why this sudden urgency?”
    “You know the former owners want these paintings back.”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you come, given the nature of the business you have chosen…”
    “Import/export.”
    “Ha. Yes. Well, if you wish to call it that. At any rate, have you come to hear of ‘The Red Claw’?”            
    “No. And what do red claws have anything to do with recovering stolen art?”
    “Because of the man who is reputed to be their leader. No one has seen him. No one even knows what he looks like. But he’s reputed to be a particularly nasty fellow. He does not treat couriers well, when he finds them transporting the paintings of his people. These couriers simply disappear.”
    “Still, the name…”
    “Lorca Reklaw.”
    “Ah. I see.”
    “Yes. The Red Claw. Reklaw was apparently the name of one of the largest of the families. Do research on the thing, if you wish. With your contacts…”
    “Yes, yes. You can depend on it. If I do this, I shall come to know with whom I am dealing.”
    He breathed deeply, then said:
    “This will take a special operative. Someone completely unknown.”
    That part of the matter is entirely up to you.”
    “All right. Let me think about it. Give me until tomorrow morning. I make some contacts; talk with some of my people.”
    “Fine. If you decide that you want the job, be in front of Union Station tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Someone will be there to give you the details. Also, of course, to give your half of your fee. As has always been our arrangement.”
    “All right.”
    “Very well then.”
    And the figure was gone.     

    The end-of-the world loneliness of the back side of Field Museum gradually gave way, as he made his way through the park. By the time he reached the Art Institute, the city was somewhat itself again, with people either going too fast or nowhere at all. The cabs were lined up in their usual place, directly opposite the Russian Tea Room, pointing north on Michigan, awaiting the end of the concert at Symphony Hall. He caused some consternation among the drivers by selecting the third taxi, and not the first (there was a good deal of pointing and recriminating in, he guessed, Pakistani or an offshoot of it)...but finally he solved the problem by giving ten dollars to both drivers.
    Then he got in the third cab.
    “I want you to take me to Damen and Montrose. There’s a possibility we may be followed. Take a circuitous route. Don’t go the most direct way. Keep looking behind you. Stop every now and then, as though you’re studying a map, or trying to figure out where you’re going. If you think we’re being followed, stop at the nearest bar