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Mize lay down, rolled slowly over onto his side, and passed out.
He had no idea how long he’d been there asleep when the sharp sound of knocking woke him. Mize looked around, dazed, then glanced in a mirror on the wall of the shop and saw the Dunaway look with nary a hair out of place.
More knocking.
Mize’s head began to pound, but he got up and walked around a corner to the front door, where a muscular guy in a white button-down shirt and a tie was peering in and pressing a police badge to the window.
Chapter
63
Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office detective Richard S. Johnson saw the woman coming to the door of Mize Fine Arts and stepped back.
The lock was thrown. The door swung open, revealing a stunningly attractive woman with flawless hair that looked copper, strawberry, and blond.
She smiled, said in a soft Southern accent, “Can I help you?”
Detective Johnson had never backed down from a fight in his life. He had been in combat six times in Afghanistan and never flinched. But he had also never done well around women in this class of beauty.
“I’m, uh, Detective Johnson, uh, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Yes?” she asked, seeming to sense the effect she was having on him, sliding her hand up the doorjamb like some movie star.
“I’m looking for Jeffrey Mize,” Johnson said.
“He’s not here. He usually doesn’t come in for another hour or so.”
“Oh,” Johnson said. “I went by his house and he wasn’t there either.”
“He goes out for breakfast. Come back in an hour and I’m sure he’ll see you. Can I tell him what it’s about, Detective?”
“Routine, follow-up stuff on a case I’m working. And you are?”
“Coco,” she said. “I consult and appraise for Mr. Mize.”
“Can I come in and wait, Coco?”
Coco gave him an uncomfortable sigh. “Detective, I’m not an employee. I work for Mr. Mize on contract and I come in early so I can do my job when it’s quiet. Could you give me an hour? There’s a nice coffee shop down the street.”
“I’ll see you in an hour,” Johnson said.
“Unfortunately, I’ll be off by then,” Coco cooed. “But thanks, Detective.”
“You’re welcome, Coco,” he said, and walked down the sidewalk feeling like he’d been mildly hypnotized by the woman.
Johnson shook his head as he went to the coffee shop. He’d grown up in a tough part of Miami. He’d joined the Marines and done two tours in Afghanistan, and he still fell apart around certain women. He laughed when he thought of the first time he’d met his wife, Angela, how tongue-tied he’d been.
His phone rang. Detective Sergeant Drummond.
“Anything?” Drummond asked.
“I’m supposed to talk to Mize in an hour,” Johnson said. “You?”
“I chatted with Marie Purcell’s chief of staff,” the sergeant said. “She fired Francie four months ago. Suspicion of stealing rare coins.”
“Were we notified?”
“No,” Drummond said. “People like the Purcells don’t like to get police involved. They have their own security people and take care of things quietly.”
