In a purely mental, informational way. Of course. She’d seen the women he socialized with, had even met a few of them over the years when their social paths overlapped. Lovely women, Nulls each and every one; elegant and articulate and educated, usually artistic as hell. And visible. Always highly visible. Memorable, even. Unlike her own eminently forgettable self.
And so it goes, Valere. You are what you are. And so is he, and so are the both of you together. Concentrate on the job.
“Anyone on your list you think is likely?” Sergei asked.
Pulled from personal to professional musings without warning, Wren shook her head, replaying his words as she chewed on a particularly leafy green. Likely as a thunderstorm in summer. There was someone on her list who had the talent to pull something like this, and the probable grudge and twisted sense of humor to make it seem like a good idea. All she had to do was name him, and Sergei would be able to run a complete dossier. But the words didn’t come out of her mouth.
She tried not to lie to Sergei. It was just bad business, and stupid besides. But she wasn’t ready to say anything to him just yet. Not before she knew more.
Some things, when you got down to it, were more important than business. Some loyalties you couldn’t just walk away from. And anyway, with any luck Sergei wouldn’t figure out who she was protecting until she had her answers and it wasn’t an issue anymore one way or the other.
Callie came by to take their salad plates away and bring the main course, saving her from having to reply. By unspoken consent they moved away from shop talk while digging into their meals, catching up on the small details that made up each day. Sergei had a new show beginning that week, and he was full of the near-disasters and minor crises that came with every installation.
“So Lowell gestures like he’s some off-off-off Broadway magician, only his arm gets tangled in the hangings, which in turn get tangled in the wires. And the wires come down like the wrath of God, sending the piece soaring through the air like it thought it was Peter Pan.”
Wren snickered, imagining the scene. “Anyone get hurt?”
“Only the artist, who chose that moment to walk in the door, demanding an update. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
“You hoped he would have a heart attack,” she corrected him. “You could have doubled the prices on everything.”
His brief grin made her laugh around a forkful of sole. “Trebled. But there would have been paperwork, and the show would have had to have been delayed, so it’s probably best he didn’t.”
“Spoken like a true patron of the arts. You’re a marvel and a wonder, you know that, Didier?”
“I do my humble best, Valere. I truly do. Some day I might even make an honest man out of me.”
With perfect timing, they both said “yeah, right” in matching tones of disgust, and his sudden bark of laughter made Wren laugh again as well from the sheer joy of the noise.
He went on to detail the results of the show while Wren finished her meal. Shamelessly scraping the last of the sauce up with her finger and licking it off with relish, she checked to make sure Callie had finally reseated herself at the bar and was engrossed in a magazine before giving in to temptation and retrieving the file from the floor beside her chair. Sergei continued with his meal, now silently watching her as she skimmed through his data.
“Truthfully, these all look pretty doubtful as our boy,” she said finally. “I mean, we need someone who has a pretty major grudge against the client, enough know-how about magic to do the job, and—most importantly—they had to know about the spell in the first place. I’d say that’s a triumvirate that lets out all but three or four of these folks. I’d rather concentrate on the ones who would actually have gotten their hands dirty, see if I can’t match the readings I took from the site with their signatures.”
“Which would mean your list?” Sergei placed his knife and fork down precisely on the table. On cue, Callie swooped down and cleared their table, scraping the crumbs off the tablecloth with a small metal tool and handing them each a dessert menu. She might be an annoying eavesdropper, but she was an excellent waitress. “How many of them would fit those criteria?”
“All of them, probably.” She pushed aside the menu without even looking at it. Time to tell the truth—if not all of it. “Like I said, they may not be as highly placed, but they all have grudges, and the means to execute them.”
“So…?” Oh, she knew that tone of voice. Damn. And twice damn. He knew she was hiding something—he always knew, somehow. Like a vulture knows when dinner’s about to pass over. She looked up into deep brown eyes and wanted to tell him everything. Only a decade’s worth of resisting that lure—and seeing it work on too many others—gave her the ability to look away.
Sorry, partner. This one I’ve got to deal with on my own. You’d only freak, anyway.
“So I’ll try to narrow the list down. See if I can’t talk to some of them, face-to-face.”
Sergei kept his face calm, and only the little tic at the corner of his jaw gave him away. “Any of them wizzarts?” Casual. Too casual. She could hear enamel grind. Their partnership had taught him when to step back and let go, too. He just didn’t always—ever!—listen to what he knew.
“A couple. All recent, though, nothing to worry about. I can handle myself, big guy.”
She hoped.
five
Although it was nearing noon, activity on Blaine Street, deep in the so-called “artist’s maze” favored by trendy galleries, was better suited to early morning, with half the stores just beginning to see an early trickle of customers. The short, narrow street had clearly once been the home to warehouses, metal steps rising up from the curb to oversized metal doors set in otherwise stark brick buildings. But where most of the other converted buildings that now housed trendy stores and galleries had clear glass windows, the better to display their contents in a carefully designed presentation, the narrow glass front on 28 Blaine had been replaced with artisan-made stained glass. The deep blues, reds and greens seemed at first to be randomly placed, but if you stepped back a moment, the wavy striations in the glass and the choice of colors created the appealing effect of an underseascape.
Between the window and metal double doors, a small bronze plaque announced that this was the home of The Didier Gallery.
Inside the gallery, the floor was covered in a muted gray carpet, and walls painted Gallery White were hung with paintings in groupings of three or four, interspersed occasionally with a three-dimensional piece on a pedestal. The works displayed this month were brash, almost exhibitionist in their use of color. A curved counter ran through the middle of the space, and behind it a sturdy wrought-iron staircase rose to the second-floor gallery, where smaller pieces were displayed. A young blond man sat at the desk, flipping through a catalog. He looked as though he belonged in a catalog himself: perfectly coiffed, elegantly dressed and bored out of his overbred skull.
Sergei blew through the door, setting the chime alert jangling. The young man looked up, gauged the expression on his boss’s face, and wisely decided not to speak unless spoken to. One look around told Sergei that no one else was in the gallery, and with a grunt that could have been satisfaction or disgust, he nodded to his associate and went to the back wall of the gallery, where touching a discreet wall plate opened the door to his private office.
The door closed behind him, and the young man went