Free Four Kinds of Rain by Robert Ward Page B

and he had no clear image of where he might go from here. He had to come up with some other plan, maybe push Emile to tell him where Edwards was now. That was risky as hell, but it was all he could think of.
    Weary and aching in every joint in his body, Bob shuffled along down the street, heading back to his own neighborhood. Some damn crook he’d turned out to be. He couldn’t even find the buyer, much less grab the prize.
    He turned down Aliceanna Street, trying to keep all the negative thoughts out of his mind. Every rookie criminal must go through times like this, he told himself. It was how you responded to a crisis that determined if you were going to be a great villain or just another cheap little punk. What he had to do was keep his hopes up … stay positive. What he had to do was …
    Bob’s train of thought was interrupted by something he saw in front of him. Not a half block away there was a man sitting on his stoop, a guy wearing an expensive dark suit and a three-hundred-dollar haircut. His shoes were so shiny they reflected the streetlight that glowed in front of Bob’s house.
    Parked at the curb in front of the man was a silver BMW.
    “Bob Wells?” the man said, with the trace of an English accent.
    “Yeah?” Bob said.
    “Colin Edwards,” the man said, standing. “A pleasure to meet you.”
    Bob walked a few more steps and reached out to shake Edwards’s hand.
    “Sorry,” Bob said. “I’m not sure I know you.”
    “You don’t,” Edwards said. “But you want to, right?”
    “Maybe,” Bob said, taken aback by Edwards’s total confidence.
    “Oh, come on now,” Edwards said. “You’ve been casing Emile’s place for the better part of a month. I’ve been watching you the entire time. You must have something you want to discuss with me.”
    Bob felt his stomach lurch. It was all well and good to stalk the man, but to learn that Edwards had been aware of him the entire time was unsettling. It made him feel like … well, like what he was, a rank amateur.
    “Okay,” Bob said. “Let’s walk.”
    “Sounds charming,” Edwards said. “I love this area of your town. The brick houses, the narrow streets, the local fishmongers. Reminds me of my old neighborhood back when I was a mere lad.”
    “Where was that?” Bob said.
    “Liverpool,” Edwards said. “Dear old rotting, rat-infested Liverpool. Of course, the Beatles made it all seem charming. The Fab Four and their bar mates, all of that. But, trust me, it was and still is a hard place.”
    “Like Baltimore,” Bob said.
    “A lot like it,” Edwards said.
    They turned left at Broadway and walked past closed and abandoned stores, toward the harbor.
    Edwards took a theatrical sniff of the air.
    “Ah, nothing like the smell of salt air and machine oil,” he said. “Started that way myself, you know, ordinary seaman and wiper. Went all over the world on freighters. Learned to speak eight languages and found myself interested in art. Eventually, I made it to Oxford. Had to pull a few strings to pull that off, but I never cared for university life. Too dull, predictable. Snobbery. Quit school and got into the import/export game, made a killing and began to collect. Been an exciting life, but very competitive.”
    “Really?” Bob said. He had to admit rather liking Edwards’s tone. It was smooth and confident, so unlike those of his harried patients.
    “Oh yes,” Edwards said. “That’s something the average person doesn’t know. They think of an art dealer as a refined gentleman who wears a vest and goes around buying pictures, in between attending polo matches and getting the old Bentley reupholstered. But that’s bollocks. People who collect art are wealthy, single-minded, and ruthless, y’know? Some of them are downright dangerous.”
    “So I understand,” Bob said.
    “I can only imagine what Emile has told you,” Edwards said, lighting a Gitanes. “Let me guess. He said that I tried to get his friend Larry Stapleton