Janet Evanovich - Wicked Business

The page was held by a computer printout of what at first glance appeared to be the same painting, but on closer inspection showed small differences. Someone had circled the differences and written private collection and a Louisburg Square address in the margin.

“I think I might have something,” I said to Diesel. “Come look at this. The librarian said the Lovey book cover reminded her of a Van Gogh painting of almond blossoms. I found this art book on Reedy’s desk, and it looks like there were two almond blossom paintings that were similar but different. One is owned by a museum, but it looks like the second is in a private collection. There’s a Louisburg Square address here, and Julie said Reedy went to see someone in Louisburg Square about the clue.”

Diesel looked over my shoulder and ruffled my hair. “Way to go, Sherlock.”

Beacon Hill is a Boston neighborhood delineated by the Boston Common, the Charles River, and busy Cambridge Street. Streets are narrow, lit by gaslight, and mostly one way. No matter where you want to go on Beacon Hill, if you’re driving, you can’t get there from wherever you happen to be. Sidewalks are uneven from time and tree roots. Residences are primarily Federalist-style town houses, with some Greek Revival thrown in for variety. Charles Street slices through the residential area from one end to the other, with its antiques shops, restaurants, boutique stores, coffee shops, bakeries, and greengrocers. Louisburg Square sits two blocks uphill from Charles. The Square itself is a green oasis surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence and a sprinkling of trees. Houses around the Square are redbrick with black shutters, and usually five floors, with half of one floor belowground, opening out to a tiny backyard. This is high-end Boston real estate, with houses selling for multimillions of dollars. I’d walked the streets as a tourist, from Charles Street, up Beacon, to the Massachusetts State House, so I had a vague understanding of the geography.

Diesel left Storrow Drive for the flat of the hill, found Mt. Vernon Street, and turned into Louisburg Square. He counted off houses and idled in front of a perfectly renovated town house that sat in the middle of the block.

“This is the address on the computer printout,” he said. “According to the text I just got from my assistant, the house is owned by Gerald Belker. He’s president of Belker Extrusion. Has a wife and two adult children. This is one of three houses he owns. It’s not clear if he’s in residence. Reedy was let into the house to see the painting, but that was a couple weeks ago. My assistant called the house and got a machine.”

“What’s your assistant’s name?” I asked Diesel.

“I don’t know. She’s been with me for three weeks, and it’s too late to ask. She’d get insulted and quit.”

“So how are we going to get in to see the painting?”

“We ring the doorbell. If someone answers, we lie our way in. If no one answers, we break in.”

“I don’t like either of those ideas.”

Diesel parked two houses down. “What’s your plan?”

“You treat me to dinner at a nice restaurant, we go home, and we pretend we didn’t discover the computer printout of the second painting.”

“Not gonna happen, but after we break into the house, I’ll buy you a pizza and a beer.”

“I’m not breaking into the house. Look at these places. They all have alarm systems. The police will come and arrest us.”

“No worries. There’s not a jail that can hold me.”

“But what about me? I can’t do the whole Houdini thing you do with locks.”

“Yeah, you’d be behind bars for a long time.”

“Good grief.”

Diesel grinned. “I’m kidding. I’ll take care of the alarm.”

“You can do that?”

“Usually.”

“Only usually?”

“Almost always.”

I followed him up the stairs to Belker’s house and waited while he rang the bell. No answer. He rang again. Still no answer.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I said. “I don’t think we should break in. It’s daylight. People will see us.”

Diesel put his hand to the door and the lock tumbled. “No one’s looking.”

He opened the door, we stepped in, and the alarm went off.

“Bummer,” he said. “I usually block the electrical signal.”

“Shut it off! Shut it off! Do something .”

“Look around for the painting.”

“Are you insane? You set the alarm off. The police are rushing over here.”

Diesel was going room by room. “The alarm company will call first.”

The phone rang.

“What should I do? Should I answer it?” I asked him.

“No. You don’t know the code word. Just look for the painting.”

My heart was racing, and I was having a hard time breathing. “I’m gonna go to jail. What’ll I tell my mother? Who’ll make cupcakes for Mr. Nelson?”

“I found it,” Diesel yelled from upstairs, barely audible over the screaming alarm.

“I’m leaving,” I yelled back. “You’re on your own. I can’t eat prison food. It’s probably all carbs.”

Diesel jogged down the stairs with the painting.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“I’m borrowing it.”

“Omigod, you’re stealing it.”

“Only for a little while. Help me wrap this bed sheet around it.”

“It’s huge!”

“Yeah, it didn’t look this big in the book. The gold frame doesn’t help, either.”

We got the sheet around the painting, and Diesel hustled it out the door and down the street to his car. I had the hood pulled up on my sweatshirt and my face tucked down in case someone was looking and making notes or, God forbid, taking pictures. We slid the painting into the back of the SUV, scrambled into the front seat, and Diesel took off. He turned out of Louisburg Square, onto Pinckney. I looked back and saw the flashing lights of two cop cars as they came in and angle parked in front of Belker’s house.

“See,” Diesel said. “No problems.”

“We missed getting arrested by two minutes. And we’ve got a hot painting in the back of the car. It’s probably worth millions. I mean, this isn’t like shoplifting a candy bar. This would be a felony. Remember what they did to Martha Stewart? They put her in jail. I don’t even remember why. I think she told a fib.”

“Nobody said saving mankind was going to be easy,” Diesel said.

“We’re art thieves .”

Diesel looked over at me. “Does that turn you on?”

“No! It scares the bejeezus out of me. Aren’t you worried?”

“No, but I’m hungry.”

We retrieved Carl from Diesel’s apartment, got takeout pizza in Marblehead, and brought it back to my house. Diesel hung sheets and towels over my kitchen windows so no one could look in, and we propped the painting up against a wall.

“It’s nice,” Diesel said, working his way through a piece of pepperoni with extra cheese, “but it’s just branches and flowers to me. I’m not seeing any clues.”

“Reedy thought you had to believe in true love to see the clue.”

Diesel took another piece of pizza. “I’ve gotta be honest with you. I don’t even know what true love means. If it wasn’t for John Lovey living in the nineteenth century, I’d think the whole true-love thing was invented by Disney.”

I’d been staring at the painting for a half hour and I didn’t see any clues, either. I looked at it up close, and I looked at it far away. I looked at it with one eye closed. I examined the back. Nothing. But when I touched it, I felt the energy.

“Do you see a clue?” Diesel asked me.

“No.”

“Hunh,” Diesel said.