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Anne sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. “So I’m being kidnapped again, only this time with company.”
“Not technically. I’ve got a couple of John Doe warrants. If you want to complicate things, there’s a building full of cops outside who’ll throw in with me.” He smiled, not unkindly. “‘Brothers in blue’ is more than just alliteration.”
Cooke rose. Anne hesitated, then uncrossed her arms and stood, ignoring the hand he offered.
At the front desk, Mapes accepted his side arm from the officer behind it. It was a blue steel semiautomatic with a checked walnut grip. He holstered it. The officer pushed a rectangle of paper toward Cooke. “Give this to the attendant at the impound, 15th and Madison. He’ll have someone bring your car around. No fine.”
The man gave no indication of curiosity at what had to have been an unusual turn of events, nor did he show signs of apology for the false arrest. That removed the last shred of doubt from the artist’s mind that Mapes was impersonating a federal agent. He might be fooled, but not the pros.
Outside, the sun was resting on the rooftops. The state police post was on a busy street. Even tainted with auto exhaust, the air of freedom smelled sweet.
Semi-freedom, anyway.
An oyster-colored Impala was parked in the red zone reserved for police. Anne was right: the trunk that belonged to the wide-bodied car was big enough for a medium-size human to fit inside without cramping.
Mapes gripped Cooke’s upper arm, firmly but not crushingly. “I’ll take you to the impound after a little drive. Then it’ll be up to you whether you throw in with me or move on. This is the second time I’ve committed a felony. I won’t make it three.”
“You already have,” Anne said.
“I’m offering you both a lift, that’s all. If you don’t want it, the impound’s a five-minute walk that way.” He tipped his head up the block. “I passed it on the way here.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I do,” Cooke said.
She stared at him. He shrugged.
“It all sounds too screwy not to be real,” he said. “I want to hear the rest. If you’ll wait for me at the impound, I’ll take you back to Kansas City and you can pick up your car.”
“If you’re still around to drive me.” But she stared at the ground, lips pursed. Finally she looked up again. “You’re right. At this point I’m more interested in seeing how this comes out than if I ever make it to Reno.”
CHAPTER 20
DENNIS COOKE NEVER did learn the name of the Topeka suburb they were driving through. The string of National Savings and Loans, Midwest Auto Supplies, and Cosmopolitan Cleaners was unenlightening. The country had become so homogeneous you seldom saw a Terre Haute Hardware or a Kokomo Koin Laundry. Had Norman Rockwell lived another forty years, he’d have been at a loss for a homey subject to immortalize on canvas.
Then again, if there were identification signs, Cooke wouldn’t have noticed them. He’d started out looking for a simple commission and wound up in a painting so surreal it made Dalí’s melting clocks look like business as usual.
Philip Mapes drove casually, steering with one hand on the wheel, an elbow on the armrest. The Impala’s motor made inconspicuous use of six cylinders, two more than the Corolla’s; there was power in reserve. Cooke sat on the passenger’s side in front, Anne in back behind Mapes. From time to time, Cooke turned his head her way. She never broke eye contact with the scenery sliding past her window, no expression evident in her clean profile. Somewhere along the line she’d found time to straighten herself out. She’d had nothing to freshen her makeup, but even so she could walk into any elegant restaurant in town without raising an eyebrow, apart from the admiring kind.
“Your turn, Michelangelo,” Mapes said. “When I got your name from your license registration I looked up your site on my cell phone. You’re pretty good, with Photoshop, anyway. Hard to tell these days.”
“I don’t use it. You’ll have to take my word for that. I didn’t bring along my portfolio.”
“Don’t get testy. I was just making conversation. If you’re working for Plevin, how come you’re not standing in front of an easel? Whatever else you can say about him, he doesn’t waste talent sending it across country to pick up his dry cleaning.”
Cooke told him about his interview in Chicago, the terms of his employment, and the trip as far as Kansas City, where Mapes had entered the—well, the picture. The agent was right; a man who regarded everything inside the composition of a work of art had no business running errands, much less playing Magnum, PI.
The only thing he left out was his talk with Anne in the hotel bar in Missouri. He deliberately avoided looking back at her to see how she was taking it. When he finished, he heard a small gush of air from in back. She’d been holding her breath.
Mapes drove a couple of blocks without speaking. Then: “What else?”
“That’s it. You were there for the rest.”
“I’m a book juggler, don’t forget. I know when something’s been left out.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “You mentioned Reno back there. What was that about?”
“Just thinking out loud,” Anne said after a moment. “I don’t like the idea of sleeping with a crook. Reno’s the remedy for that.”
Cooke spoke up, desperate to break the flow of the discussion. “Yourturn, Mapes. You can’t just say Plevin’s a blackmailer and leave it at that.”
