Free The Monet Murders by Terry Mort Page A

Monet”—her words—floating around somewhere. That now belonged toher husband, and the fact that he couldn’t tell a real Monet from a Li’l Abner cartoon didn’t change the fact that he had been robbed by some on-the-make sleazeball with the unwitting assistance of a wife with a bad case of the hots. Her husband deserved to get his property back.
    I did wonder, though—what did “priceless” mean? A hundred thousand? Maybe even more. I wondered if the boyfriend had already disposed of the picture on the black market; I assumed there was a black market for art somewhere. Or maybe he had been holding on to it for some reason known only to himself.
    But why had he come back to her house? He must have known she’d be in a bad mood, and he also must have known she carried that pistol. Bad moods and pistols are a combination anyone with an ounce of sense wants to avoid. Maybe he had had second thoughts about the theft; maybe he was returning the picture, smiling a sheepish smile and hoping to patch things up with the lady; maybe that picture now hanging above the mantel was genuine. Maybe he’d gone there thinking no one was home and replaced the fake with the real thing, at which point she’d arrived, emitting fumes of jealousy, and let him have it three times and then, distraught, ruined her coiffure with a .22 slug. But if that was what had happened, there was an extra painting to be accounted for, whether fake or original. It’s possible he hadn’t had time to replace the fake before she arrived in a murderous mood.
    I called a guy I knew at homicide. He was one of the newer breed of L.A. cops—a college grad who preferred scientific interrogation methods and would only resort to a blackjack if the scientific methods didn’t work.
    â€œKowalski,” he said when he picked up.
    â€œHi, Ed,” I said. “It’s . . . Bruno Feldspar.” Again I had trouble getting the name out.
    â€œHello . . . Bruno. How’s life?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œBy the way, I know that can’t be your real name. What kind of parents would name a kid Bruno?”
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Feldspar.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWould I lie?”
    â€œDoesn’t everyone? What’s on your mind . . . Bruno?”
    â€œAre you involved in the Emily Watson case?”
    â€œI might be. Are you?”
    â€œI was. Briefly.”
    â€œReally? And?”
    â€œShe came to my office yesterday and asked me to track down the guy who ended up with the leaky organs.”
    â€œLet me guess why.”
    â€œYou’d be right.”
    â€œSo you’re telling me this was no intruder, but a regular visitor. The classic crime of passion.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œThe papers are going to love this.”
    â€œYou might consider keeping it under your hat for a while, Ed. There’s an unsuspecting husband to consider.”
    â€œThere usually is.”
    â€œWell, don’t you have any feeling for the guy? He’s grieving. Why add to his troubles?”
    â€œWhat makes you think he’s grieving? And besides, if he’s so clueless as to think something other than the obvious, maybe it’s time he wised up. But it’s out of my hands,ultimately. The news boys will have this story sooner rather than later. What’s your angle?”
    â€œI don’t have an angle. At least I don’t know for sure. Just answer me one question.”
    â€œIn exchange for?”
    â€œWhat I know about the relationship between the dead guy and the dead woman.”
    â€œAll right. Shoot.”
    â€œWas there an extra painting somewhere at the scene of the crime—a copy of the painting over the mantel, lying around, near the body, maybe? Or leaning against the wall? Even something rolled up somewhere?”
    â€œNo. Not that I saw. And there was squat in the after-action report.”
    Swell.
    â€œSo what’s your