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  I didn't get the chance to respond. We were passing an alleyway, when hands reached out and roughly pulled us in. I was thrown to the ground, landing on my left shoulder. I cried out in pain. I heard an exclamation from Sabrina, as well.

  I looked up at a big guy holding a gun on me. I glanced over at Sabrina. She was sitting up, rubbing her elbow. An even bigger guy stood over her. I couldn't see a gun.

  "What do you want?" I asked, knowing full well he wanted the painting.

  "The painting."

  I must be psychic.

  "What painting?" I asked innocently. But I wasn't fooling anyone.

  He kicked me in the side. It was meant to hurt, not to disable, and it did its job. As bad as East Boston was, I had never been mugged before. It was scary. I was wishing Mo and her martial arts skills were with us just then. But I needn't have worried. Turns out, I had Sabrina.

  "You must be two of the stupidest crooks I've ever seen," she said. "And I've seen a lot of stupid ones. Do you think if we had the fucking painting," I had never heard her swear, "that we'd be strolling around the town? Don't you think it would have been a little more intelligent to just follow us until you saw the painting? God, you guys are an embarrassment to the crook business."

  She had them off guard. And then she kicked her leg up from the sitting position and got the bigger guy right in the balls. It was vicious. He didn't utter a sound more than "umph," and dropped like a sack of manure. Then she swept her leg around and caught my guy in the back of the knee. He went down backwards and landed with a thud. She was up in a second and gave him a kick in the family jewels just as hard as the other guy. He dropped his gun and reached for his groin. Little good that was going to do. I took a shot there once. There is nothing you can do to stop the pain.

  I quickly got up and grabbed his gun and held it on the two men. It was a pretty needless exercise. Both men were throwing up and had no interest in me. Meanwhile, Sabrina looked down at her guy and asked, "Who are you working for?"

  "Fuck you," he answered between gasps.

  She kicked him in the kidney and he screamed out. I was pretty sure she had done some damage. She moved over to my guy.

  "You want a shot to the kidney too?"

  The guy tried to roll over on his back to protect himself from her kick, but another rumble of vomit came up and he had to go back on his side.

  "You've got two seconds," she said quietly, but with the kind of tone you don't ignore.

  "Mario," he gasped. "Mario Guidry. He hired us to get a painting from you, that's all."

  Sabrina nodded to me. I dialed 911 on my cell phone. I told the dispatcher that two men had attempted to mug us. She asked where we were, and of course, I had no idea. I walked out to the end of the alley and gave her a landmark. She assured me a car would be right there. I laid the gun on the ground out of reach of the two thugs. The last thing I wanted was to be mistaken for one of the attackers.

  "You were fast," I said to Sabrina. "Where did you learn that?"

  "Self-defense classes," she said off-handedly. I didn't believe her. However, I dropped it. But there was definitely more to this girl than met the eye.

  The police arrived a few minutes later and we rode with them to the station. Before they got there, we decided we would tell them a piece of the story—just enough to implicate Mario.

  When we were in the police station, I explained to the detective in charge that my great-grandfather had lent a Fairfield gallery a painting that I was trying to recover. Somehow, a guy named Mario Guidry got wind of it and tried to steal it. Supposedly his great-grandfather had tried to take it from my great-grandfather back in the 30s. I told them I had no idea why someone would want the painting. We embellished it a bit, but stayed pretty much to the truth.

  It took them about five minutes to break one of the crooks, who confirmed that they were sent to steal the painting. While we were there, we asked if anyone if they had heard of the Simpson Gallery, just in case they could provide us with more information than our elderly friends, but again we struck out.

  We were out of there in less than two hours. We told them we wanted to press charges, but they'd have to let us know if they wanted us to come back. They doubted it, seeing as how the muggers were admitting to everything.

  As we were walking back to the car, I asked, "What did you mean back there when you said you had seen a lot of crooks? Are you some kind of cop and you're just not telling me?"

  She laughed. "No. I'm just an author. In my research I've met with a number of crooks."

  "Oh."

  Did I believe it? I didn't have much choice, so I decided to go with it—for now, anyway.

  "You think they will pick up Mario?" Sabrina asked, maybe to change the subject?

  "No. He'll be long gone. If nothing else, his name is now on record related to this stuff."

  "Back to the hotel?"

  "Yeah, we can figure out what we're going to eat, and find out how many Simpsons live in Fairfield, Iowa. Tomorrow we talk to them. Hopefully we won't hit a brick wall."

  "Even if we do, I'm determined to continue this"

  "Me too. Otherwise it means I'll have to start job hunting. Oh, please let there be a Simpson who knows something about that gallery or the painting."

  Chapter 14

  We made love again that night, and again Sabrina clung to me like I was the last man on earth. Could this possibly be the same person who didn't think twice about crushing a man's kidney? It was dawning on me how little I knew about her.

  After breakfast the next morning we looked up Simpson in the phone book and found six of them. We decided it would be better to go see them in person, rather than calling, and we wrote down the six addresses. It was a beautiful morning, warm and sunny, so our raincoat disguises weren't necessary. We weren't worried, seeing as how Mario's men had been arrested. There was no way he would have anyone else watching us, so we felt pretty safe.

  The first two visits were washouts—in both cases people who had recently moved to Fairfield—and the next two weren't home. The fifth turned out to be the one. An old guy answered the door. He was limping badly, most likely a bad case of arthritis, and seemed to be in a fair amount of pain. Despite the obvious discomfort, he was pleasant as he greeted us.

  "Mr. Simpson?" I asked.

  "That would be me. I'm Harry Simpson. If you're selling me religion though, I already have one, thanks."

  Sabrina and I looked at each other. Sheesh! Did we really look the part? Even without the raincoats? I was seriously starting to wonder.

  I gave him the friendliest, non-religious smile I had and said, "No. My name is Del Honeycutt, and this is Sabrina Spencer…"

  "Like the mystery writer," he said, interrupting me.

  "Actually, one and the same, Mr. Simpson," said Sabrina. "Nice to meet you. We are tracking down an old mystery and were hoping you could help us."

  "Seriously? You're the mystery writer?"

  "I am."

  I may as well have disappeared.

  "Yeah, you look like your book cover." He turned toward the inner part of the house. "Edna. Get out here. There's someone you have to meet."

  A large woman of about the same age waddled in from the kitchen.

  "Edna, This here is Sabrina Spencer, the mystery writer."

  "Oh my word!" exclaimed Edna. She touched her hair, as if it would magically fix anything that was out of place. "You look like your picture."

  Duh…

  "Come in, come in," she said. "Harry, get out of the way. Let them in."

  Harry was moving as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast at all. I felt for him. At this point, even if they knew nothing about the gallery, we had to visit. The delight in their faces upon meeting a real live mystery author was priceless.

  They were rattling on to Sabrina about what great fans they were and that they had all of her books. They did, too. They brought them out for Sabrina to see, and she offered to sign them. You'd think they'd just w
on the lottery.

  "My new one is coming out around Christmas," said Sabrina. "I'll get some copies earlier than that. If you give me your address, I will send you a signed one."

  Edna screamed with joy, then got up and went into the bathroom. Could she have peed her pants in excitement?

  Things eventually calmed down and Edna returned from the bathroom.

  "How can we help you?" Harry finally said.

  Sabrina turned it over to me. I had reappeared.

  "We were wondering if you knew anything about an old gallery in town called the Simpson Gallery."

  "That was my grandfather's place," said Harry.

  We had found it!

  "We're trying to locate a painting," I began, then told them the abbreviated version of my great-grandfather's story. "Do you know when the gallery closed?"

  "Yeah, sometime right before the war. When he went to jail."

  "What did he do?" I asked.

  "What didn't he do? He was a real crook. You name it, he was involved in it. You say your great-grandfather was a friend of his? Was your great-grandfather a crook too?"

  "Everything is pointing that way," I said. "Do you have any idea what might have happened to the paintings in the gallery?"

  "Most of them went back to their owners. But there were about twenty or so that my daddy inherited. I guess they couldn't find who they belonged to."

  The million-dollar question. "Do you know what happened to the twenty?"

  "I most certainly do. They are somewhere in my basement."

  Sabrina and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Could it be this easy?

  "Well some of them anyway. I gave some away."

  Of course it couldn't.

  "I could go down and look, if you like."

  "I know you're having trouble getting around," I said, "and I'm sure going down to your basement must be hard. We wouldn't ask it of you if it wasn't important."

  "No, I'd be happy to," said Harry. "It'll probably take me a couple of days to get to it though."

  My heart sank and I groaned inwardly—at least I hoped it was inwardly, because Sabrina shot me a glance. But Sabrina saved the day.

  "Unfortunately, we have to leave town soon," she said, "but I have an idea, if you and Edna would agree to it. Would you be okay if Del and I went down and searched for it? You could tell us where to look."

  Edna, who probably would have agreed to anything to make sure she got that free signed book, said quickly, "We'd be happy to let you, wouldn't we, Harry?"

  "I guess so. It's kind of messy down there, though."

  "Not a problem at all," I said, anxious to get the go-ahead.

  An hour later we were sifting through the most crowded basement I had ever seen. Edna said she and Harry had been married over fifty years, and had lived in the same house the entire time. I could believe it. There was about fifty years' worth of garbage piled around us. Harry had given us a general idea where to look, but I was honestly having questions about how long it had been since Harry had last been down there.

  Finally, we found the boxes we were looking for. There was a small corner devoted to junk from the gallery. There were about a half a dozen boxes in all. Two were labeled Sculptures, one labeled Records, one labeled Christmas Decorations, and two labeled Paintings. Each had about an inch of dust built up on it. I wiped off the boxes and said, "Here goes."

  It wasn't there.

  There were ten paintings in all, ranging in size from about three feet by three feet, to one that was only six inches in diameter. But the Lando Ford painting wasn't one of them.

  "Shit," I exclaimed. I felt like crying. "So what now?"

  "I guess we find out who he gave them to. If he knows, we continue on. If he gave them to Goodwill or someplace like that, then we go home."

  Disappointed, we wiped ourselves off, both looking forward to getting back to the hotel and showering, then went upstairs.

  "Any luck?" asked Harry.

  "I'm afraid not," I answered. "We found the paintings, but there were only ten there, and it wasn't one of the ten. Do you happen to remember who you gave the others to?"

  "My brother. We split them up when our father died." He held up his hand as I was about to say something. "And before you ask, my brother died about five years ago. I assume his son—his only kid—has them. What he did with them, I can't tell you. The fact is, I'm not in touch with my nephew. He's—excuse the language—an asshole."

  "Harry!" scolded Edna. "Don't use that language in this house."

  "Well he is."

  She turned to Sabrina and said in a conspiratorial voice, "He is, you know."

  "Last I knew," said Harry, "He lived in Wahoo, Nebraska. A few hours from here. We lost contact a long time ago when he cheated us out of some money my brother left us. He pulled a fast one, and we never saw a dime of it."

  "That's horrible," said Sabrina with a look of disgust. She struck me as someone who would always root for the underdog.

  "Wahoo?" I asked.

  "I assume he still lives there. This is the Midwest. People stay where they are. His name is Russell. Russ Simpson."

  "I probably have an address for him," said Edna. "I'll get it for you."

  She found the address and we slowly extracted ourselves from the house, and a few minutes later we were back in the hotel room. Sabrina was already in the shower and I was looking at a map online.

  This was going to be our last chance. Sabrina was right. If Russ didn't have it, we were going home. And I didn't want to go home.

  Chapter 15

  We spent a quiet evening in our room, after dining at one of Fairfield's finer establishments. We were both subdued after the high and then quick low at the Simpsons' house. We certainly didn't want to have to go home. It wasn't so much about the supposed treasure as it was the curiosity of why people died for it. Plus, I think we were both wondering what would become of our relationship if we had to return to our normal lives.

  It occurred to me over dinner that we had, in fact, solved one mystery. The Brooklyn Museum heist had been unsolved all these years. We thought we should inform them of the news. Then we figured that they had waited this long, they could wait a few more days or weeks.

  We made love again that evening, and again it was strange. Not bad strange, just unusual. If she had been a virgin, I could maybe understand it, but she had been married. Then it hit me. It was like making love to a puppy dog. She was crying out for affection and couldn't get close enough to me. And yet, to protect me—protect us—she laid into those attackers like nothing I'd ever seen before.

  "You're a very complex individual," I said just before we drifted off.

  "Mmm," she replied, half asleep.

  We slept in the next morning, then I went out for bagels and coffee. When I got back, she was on the phone to her editor talking book business.

  While she was involved with that, I went back onto Ancestry.com to see if anything else popped out at me regarding my family. But no. My family—for better or worse—was as clear as it was ever going to be.

  Sabrina was still deep in her conversation, so just for fun, I typed in Sabrina Spencer, with the parameters that would narrow it down. Nothing. That was strange. I thought for a minute and typed Isobel Worth, along with the same parameters. I found her almost immediately. Like my father, her death hadn't yet been added, but it was the right person, showing that she was forty-one.

  I clicked onto her parents. It displayed their birth and death dates and locations, and also showed their children, Isobel and Patricia. Patricia? Patricia was adopted, and would now be thirty-four. Sabrina was Patricia? Why wouldn't she have told me that? Hadn't we reached a point of trust in our relationship?

  She was off the phone and had opened her laptop to check her emails. Casually, I asked her, "So is Sabrina Spencer a pen name?"

  Without looking up from her computer, she answered. "No. My real name. Why?"

  Her response may have sounded relaxed, bu
t it wasn't. Her radar had gone on alert, I could feel it.

  "No reason. Just curious." I counted to ten silently. "So do you go by Patricia or Patty?"

  I looked over at her. She was unmoving, still staring down at her computer, but now seeing nothing in front of her. And then slowly, tears began to form and she started to shake.

  "How did you find out?" It came as a whisper. "Were you checking up on me? Didn't you trust me?"

  She attempted for it to come out as an accusation, but it failed miserably, and she knew it.

  "I was on Ancestry.com and I just did it for fun. But to answer your question, yes, I trusted you implicitly. Now I don't know what to believe."

  "I was going to tell you, I promise I was." The tears were flowing freely now. She wasn't faking it. These tears were real.

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Because I didn't want you to question my character. If you found out about me and my history, you would lump me in with Izzy, and I'm nothing like Izzy."

  And then she broke down—a break-down like I had never seen before. Starting as almost hiccups, they quickly turned into sobs, sobs that seemed to emanate from the deepest part of her soul. At one point she couldn't catch her breath and began to hyperventilate. She was beginning to scare me. I went over and put my arms around her and helped her to the floor. She latched onto me the way she did in bed, as if I was all she had in the world. Suddenly, I could see that she was going to throw up. The waste basket was within reach, so I grabbed it and put it in front of her. Just in time. She threw up, while at the same time choking on her lack of breath. I tried to pull her hair back, but wasn't in time. The ends were caked in vomit. I had never seen an emotional reaction like this. Whatever was in there was ever so dark. I wasn't so sure I wanted to hear what was behind it. What could scar somebody so horribly as to leave them in this state?

  We just sat there for what seemed like an hour—and maybe it was. When she was able to sit on her own, I extracted myself from her arms and went into the bathroom for a couple of wet face cloths. One, I gave her for her face. The other I used to gently wipe the vomit from her hair. Finally, she spoke. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, and had a distinct quaver. It dawned on me: it was fear—an all-consuming fear, like I had unearthed something that was better buried.