All Lies Read online

  Russ Simpson was a weasel. A smart weasel. The kind of weasel lawyers hate. Needless to say, things didn't go well.

  Wahoo, stuck in the middle of nowhere, wasn't exactly a metropolis, but it seemed to be thriving nonetheless. My travel agent passenger, reading from Wikipedia, informed me that Wahoo, once a small farming town, had become a bedroom community of Omaha. It was clean and well-cared for, with a strange combination of the old and the new. The town even once had a college. Thankfully, that was about all she could tell me about it.

  Russ Simpson lived in one of the newer neighborhoods. It was a rather plain house, but there was something about it that hinted at money. Maybe it was the Jaguar parked in the driveway.

  We pulled up to the curb and sat for a minute, re-evaluating our tactics. The original plan called for politeness followed by intimidation, if he wasn't accommodating. Now we didn't exactly know where we would go with it.

  "I guess all we can do is ask," said Sabrina.

  "Based on the description we heard, I can't picture that going well," I said, "but we can try."

  We got out of the car and walked up the path, the grass on each side meticulously landscaped. We rang the bell. From inside the house we heard the chimes of Big Ben informing the Lord of the manor that he had visitors. We had looked him up online and it didn't seem that he was married.

  Russ Simpson opened the door.

  He might have been a weasel, personality-wise, but appearance-wise he was a bull. Well over six feet, he had a massive upper body and a thin waist. A large ring in his nose would have completed the bull image. But no ring. He was dressed casually—not jeans and a ratty t-shirt, like I would wear, but country club casual. The type of casual that looks good but couldn't possibly be comfortable.

  "Amway? Jehovah's Witnesses? Either way, don't want any." His condescension was almost withering. If I had been selling something, I would have felt like slinking away. He started to close the door in our faces. I noticed though that gave Sabrina more than a cursory look.

  "Mr. Simpson," Sabrina quickly said. "We're not selling anything. We were given your name by your aunt and uncle in Fairfield."

  That stopped the door from closing, but not for long. We were going to have to get it out quickly. If he felt any of the same feelings for them that they felt for him, it was going to be a short conversation.

  I knew what he was thinking. Could there possibly be anything in it for him?

  "One of them dying?"

  "Not that we're aware of," I answered.

  Okay, so he wasn't inheriting anything.

  "Then I can't imagine what we'd have to talk about." The door was inching closed again.

  "It has to do with a painting from your great-grandfather's gallery."

  The door not only stopped closing, but actually reversed direction slightly. His radar was up.

  "What about it?"

  "Can we come in?" asked Sabrina.

  He hadn't taken his eyes off her, the lust apparent. It wasn't enough though.

  "We can talk out here."

  We had no choice but to lay it out for him. We kept it simple though—old family quest, emotional value, and all that. He didn't buy it, and I can't say I blamed him. I wouldn't have believed me either.

  "So who are you?"

  I gave him my name and was about to introduce Sabrina, when she said, "Patty Worth. I'm Del's girlfriend. Nice to meet you."

  Of course. If he knew he was dealing with someone famous, it would just kick up the ante.

  "My family has been looking for this painting for decades," I explained. "The artist saved my great-grandfather's life, and has had almost folk-hero status in our family. It would be so important for us to get it back. Patty's been helping me track it down. I can't believe we might have finally found it." I tried to say it with an innocent wide-eyed enthusiasm. I doubt that it worked.

  Didn't even come close.

  "I've never heard such bullshit in all my life. That's the best you could do?"

  "It's the truth," I said weakly. God, I was terrible at this.

  "Uh huh. So assuming I even have this painting, what's in it for me?"

  I looked at Sabrina for help. I really had no idea what to do at this point.

  "You'd be helping a family answer some questions about its past," said Sabrina truthfully.

  "Couldn't care less." He started to close the door.

  "Legally it's mine," I said quickly. "I can get a lawyer and force you to give it up."

  "You could," he said, momentarily stopping the door from closing. "But you won't. First, you don't even know if I have it. Hell, I don't even know. Second, it would take months—maybe years—for this thing to work its way through the courts, and I don't think you want to wait that long. You need this painting now, I can tell."

  He was good. I had to give him that. I guess when you're a life-long asshole, you assume everyone else is too. He knew we had an agenda.

  He closed the door, leaving us standing there.

  "Wow," said Sabrina.

  "He can afford to close the door," I said. "He knows he's got us. Now he'll expect us to knock on his door and bargain with him."

  "Then let's not," Sabrina replied, turning back toward the car. I followed along.

  "And your thinking?" I asked.

  "He'll pull out the painting and do some research on it. He'll discover that it's not valuable, and then he'll be as stuck as we are."

  "Of course, we don't know that it doesn't tell exactly where the treasure is."

  "It doesn't. I can't believe they'd go to the trouble of painting a picture as the clue and then put explicit instructions on it."

  "But it has to have enough of a clue to set us in the right direction, I would think."

  "But we might already have enough to set us in that direction," she answered. "We have notes and family history to go on. Russ has nothing. No, I say we go to a hotel and wait for him to find us. We have each other over a barrel. We need him for the painting and he needs us because he has no idea what this is all about. We should talk about what we can offer him when he shows up."

  We found a better than average steak house and took some time to decompress. Sabrina had me describe my now former job. She seemed genuinely interested in my story. She must have liked me. No one else would have willingly suffered through that.

  After dinner we found a decent hotel. After our experience in Fairfield, things were definitely looking up. When we arrived in our room and had closed and double-locked the door, Sabrina grabbed me and kissed me. It wasn't just any kiss. It lasted almost five minutes. She was probing and exploring, and I was willing to let her explore. And of course, it didn't end there.

  An hour later, with the bed covers in a heap in the floor, we lay in each other's arms, completely naked, just savoring the moment.

  "It was different," I said finally.

  "Different?"

  "You were different. Less tentative. More forceful. You seemed more at ease."

  "I was. I am."

  "Are you trusting more?"

  "I trust you." The implication was clear. Trust of others was going to be a long road.

  "Well, it was nice," I said.

  "Given a little more time, who knows what will emerge." She snuggled in closer.

  "Even better than this? I can't wait."

  A knock came at the door.

  "Shit," I said. "Just a minute," I called out.

  We quickly threw on our clothes and picked up the sheets from the floor and laid them hurriedly across the bed.

  I went to the door, expecting Russ.

  He didn't disappoint. Even better, he was holding the painting.

  Chapter 18

  He may have had the painting, but he wasn't ready to give it up. As expected, he had conditions.

  Russ Simpson was surly, even more surly than he was that afternoon. The reason was clear. He had to come to us, and that bugged him to no end. He looked like the kind who was used to people coming t
o him. He was in some sort of commercial lending business—we determined that when we looked him up. He was successful, so he was probably a big man in town—possibly just in his own mind—and this wasn't supposed to happen. But it was obvious that he was also greedy, and his greed-o-meter was clanging away loudly. The problem for him, of course, was that the message of the painting meant nothing to him—he didn't even know it held a message. Finding nothing of interest in the painting, he probably did his research online and came up empty. He knew we were lying, and it was frustrating him that he didn't know the story.

  Sabrina had called it. Now we just needed to convince him to hand the picture over.

  He walked into the room without saying a word. I saw his eyes go from me to Sabrina to the bed. The scene and the sweaty smell of sex told him all he needed to know. It probably just intensified his lust for Sabrina. I looked at her. She was blushing—embarrassed that we'd been caught so soon after the act.

  "You ready to tell me why you want the painting?" he finally asked.

  "I guess we could be a bit more forthcoming," I answered.

  "I guess you could. And if I don't like the explanation, I walk and you'll never see the painting."

  "And what'll you get out of it, Russ?" asked Sabrina.

  "Mr. Simpson."

  "I'll stick with Russ." She wanted him to know exactly where he stood with her. "You brought the painting here, so you're obviously ready to deal. If you leave, all you'll have is a totally worthless piece of art. You can either hang it over your fireplace or throw it in your basement."

  "The thing's ugly. Not worth the canvas it was painted on," he replied. "Which means it must be fucking valuable. Let me guess. It contains some sort of message or clue?"

  Wow, a shot in the dark and he hit a bulls-eye. Impressive.

  "So what do you want for it?" I asked, ignoring his comment.

  "I want in."

  "In what?"

  "In whatever you've got going here. I don't know if it's a scam, a treasure hunt, or something else. Whatever it is, I want in. And I want the whole story."

  "And?" I asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  "Fifty percent."

  "Thank you very much, Russ," said Sabrina, going over and opening the door. "But we don't need it that much."

  Silence. He looked at me, at her, at the door, then down at the painting. He knew when he said it that he'd never get fifty percent. Now the negotiating would begin.

  "Thirty."

  "Door's still open," said Sabrina.

  "Twenty, but that's the lowest I'll go."

  "Ten, and that's the highest we'll go," I countered.

  His eyes narrowed. "What are we talking here?"

  "A million," answered Sabrina. "Maybe more.

  Prison certainly taught her how to lie with a straight face.

  "We don't know for sure ourselves," she continued. "But the fact is, we've put in all the work. You just happen to be lucky enough to have a small clue. It'll speed up the process, but that's all. That doesn't warrant twenty percent."

  Dollar signs hovered over Russ's head. "Okay, let's split the difference," he said. "Fifteen."

  I looked at Sabrina, who gave an imperceptible nod. We had already decided we'd go as high as twenty, so we were making out on the deal.

  "Okay."

  "With the agreement," added Sabrina, "that your contribution ends here. Don't get it in your head that you're coming with us. The fact is, I don't like you, and I don't want you anywhere near us." Thoughts of how he cheated the sweet couple in Fairfield were obviously at the forefront of her thoughts.

  He was staring at her—more specifically to one area of her anatomy.

  "And if I catch you staring at my boobs one more time, I'm going to shove that painting down your throat."

  That was the thing I was learning about Sabrina. She was all sweet and kind—even shy—most of the time, but if you got in her space … look out. I was beginning to learn what space must mean to a prisoner.

  Russ quickly looked away. Somehow he could sense she meant business. I wasn't sure if he had planned to ask to come along for the ride—wherever that was—or if he was only out for the money. Sabrina settled that quickly with her comment.

  "And one more condition," he said. "I keep the painting."

  "No way!" I exclaimed.

  "You can take all the pictures of it you want, but it stays in my possession. Just a little proof if down the line you try to screw me out of my share."

  "Forget it," I said. "What's to stop you from going after it yourself?"

  "You think I haven't already taken pictures?" he asked, as if I was really stupid. "If I wanted to go after it, I certainly wouldn't have brought it to you." He thought for a minute. "If we all determine that you need the physical painting, then take it, but I've looked it over. You're not going to want it."

  Sabrina looked at me. "If the photo will suffice, I don't see any problem with it."

  "Okay," I said, turning toward Russ. "You've got a deal."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out two copies of a contract. Figures he'd have that already.

  We read it over—it was simple and straightforward. We changed the "fifty" to "fifteen" and all initialed it. Then we all signed both copies and gave him back one of them.

  "So let's see the painting," I said.

  "Not until I get the story."

  "Let me at least see the signature, so I know you're not trying to con us. You seem to have a reputation for doing that."

  The comment just rolled right off him. He must have cheated so many people, it was just a way of life for him. He pulled away a piece of the paper on the bottom right of the painting. There it was: Lando Ford.

  So we gave him the story. Obviously not all of it. He didn't rate that. We told him enough so he'd know why we were looking for the painting, but nothing that could give him any ammunition to go out on his own—not that we had a whole lot of ammunition ourselves. We told him about the museum robbery and how it was all because of this painting. We told him about the Guidrys, without revealing their name, and about Izzy and how the search began.

  He seemed satisfied.

  He ripped off the rest of the paper wrapping, wrapping that he had so carefully re-taped after looking at it earlier, then held it up for us to see.

  I couldn't fault his taste. He was right, it was ugly. The funny thing was, it wasn't just hurriedly dashed off, it really looked as if it was painted by someone who was trying. Mr. Lando Ford just wasn't very good.

  We already knew that the painting wasn't going to reveal anything obvious, or Russ would have run with it. We just hoped it would tell us something … something at all. But it didn't look as if that was going to happen.

  It was a simple scene: A white, one-story wooden house set on a newly cut lawn, a bright sun hovering overhead, and a single tree in the yard. The tree had a white rounded gash about a foot long down its trunk. About ten feet from the tree—assuming the perspective was correct—was a single headstone. On it was RIP. No name. No date. Just RIP.

  The house resembled an old Cape Cod vacation cottage—but there was something that told me it wasn't in the states. Or maybe a southern state. Maybe it was the apparent lack of insulation on the house, but I couldn't tell for sure. But really, the picture reminded me vaguely of the tropics. Anyway, at first glance, that was it. That was the whole painting. Disappointment hung in the air. I looked at Sabrina. I could see it in her eyes. We came all this way for this?

  "Well?" asked Russ.

  "Well, nothing," I answered. "I don't have a clue. It means nothing to me."

  "Don't fuck with me."

  "He's not," said Sabrina, coming to my aid. "It tells us nothing. There isn't anything in the picture to indicate where this house could be. No signs, no people … nothing." She was avoiding mentioning the tree. Would he catch it?

  He caught it.

  "That slash in the tree," he said. "Could be a clue. The headstone.
Or maybe the type of tree itself. Do you know what it is?"

  "I don't," I replied, "and we will research it. There might be a clue there, but at best it might lead us to a general area of the world. What then? We Google Earth it and hope we hit on this scene? And remember, this was painted in the '30s—what are the chances of that house still being there? Or even the tree? The painting might be of some use further down the line if we can find some other clues, but for now, it's pretty worthless."

  While I was talking, Sabrina was taking pictures of the painting with her cell phone—all different angles. Then she picked it up and scoured every inch—front, back, and the edge of the canvas—for any writing that may have faded over time. Then she gave it to me and I did the same thing. I didn't bother handing it to Russ when I was finished. I was sure he had already inspected it from top to bottom.

  Russ stayed another few minutes, getting our cell phone numbers—and trying them in case we were giving him fake numbers. A trusting soul. We took his information, and he left, painting in hand, with a simple statement. "Keep me informed."

  *****

  There was nothing more we could do about it that night, so Sabrina took some time to answer emails from her publisher and agent. Then we took a long shower together and headed for bed.

  We had just closed our eyes when our door burst open and two men rushed in.

  So much for security locks.

  Both carried guns, and both guns were pointed at us.

  Chapter 19

  I didn't see where Sabrina's magic could get us out of this one. We were under the covers. They had us just where they wanted us. But they also knew that the noise of breaking through a hotel door at two in the morning left them precious little time to do what they came for.

  They were pretty nondescript—average height, average weight, late-twenties to early thirties, and dark hair. It's not like they were twins or anything; they just had the same general look. The only distinguishing feature was a full arm tattoo of a dragon on one of them. The artwork wasn't very good.

  "Where's the painting?" demanded tattoo-guy.

  "What painting?" I asked with a dumb expression. My strong point.