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Then he raised his head to look in their direction, and all such thoughts fled at the sight of narrowed gray eyes—cold eyes—thin lips pressed together in a firm line, heavy jowls.
It was not a kind face.
“You’re the detective who phoned yesterday?” His voice was husky, as rough as a blunt saw driving its way through wood.
“Yes, sir. Detective Gary Mitchell. This is Mr. Dan Porter.”
Mr. DiFanetti picked up the bookmark that lay on the table beside him, marked his place, closed the book, and set it aside. He waved his hand toward the two patio chairs facing the couch.
Gary figured that was all the invitation they’d get.
He walked over to the chairs and sat, Dan taking the other. Before Gary could get to the purpose of their visit, Mr. DiFanetti cleared his throat.
“I agreed to see you out of sheer curiosity. You said on the phone this was something to do with a cold case. I’m familiar with the term—I do watch television—but I fail to see how such a case could have anything to do with me.”
“We’re investigating the death of Cheryl Somers,” Gary began, keeping his voice low, even, and respectful.
“Who?” His shaggy eyebrows scrunched up.
“The artist you commissioned to copyYoung Woman in a White Turban, by Frederick Arthur Bridgman.” Gary smiled. “The painting hanging in the room we passed through to join you out here.” Dan had spotted it instantly and pointed it out.
“The same painting you sold in 1992,” Dan added.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mr. DiFanetti’s eyes gleamed. “I think you’d better leave.”
“The sale is a matter of public record,” Dan continued. “Whatwe’dlike to know is which one you sold—the original or the copy.”
“And I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. DiFanetti ground out through gritted teeth.
Gary held up a folder. “Cheryl kept records of everything, including the photos she took of the original. Photos clearly taken in this house.”
The air became frigid.
“That fucking….”
“Can I take a closer look?” Dan asked. Before Mr. DiFanetti could respond, he headed back indoors, Gary following.
“No, you maynot.” For an elderly man, DiFanetti moved fast. He hurried over to where Dan stood in front of the painting. “I asked you to leave.” His hands were at his sides, clenched into fists.
“And we will, in a moment.” Dan turned to look at Gary. “It’s signed.” He touched the frame. “This is the Bridgman.” Then he gazed at DiFanetti, and Gary was awed by his boldness. “You sold her copy, didn’t you? How did you do that? Auction the original, then swap it for the copy? Or maybe you went with a little bribery.”
“That’s a very serious accusation.”
Dan nodded. “Which is why I said maybe. It was just a suggestion. So what happened? Did Cheryl find out? Did she threaten to report the fraud?”
“How dare you come into my house and accuse me of such… nonsense?”
Except DiFanetti was pale.
“It isn’t nonsense if we have the painting checked out and discover we were right all along,” Gary said quietly.
“And what makes you think I would give you access? But Icanpromise you this.” DiFanetti’s eyes were like steel. “If you pursue this line of inquiry, you’ll regret it.”
Gary arched his eyebrows. “That sounds like a threat.”
Stirred up indeed.
DiFanetti regarded them with wide eyes. “Now, would I threaten a police detective? I’m a law-abiding citizen who happens to have friends in high places. I believe I’ve asked you twice to vacate these premises.”
