From the chair I said, “So how do you fellows figure it happened?”

“You ready to talk?” said McDeiss.

“I’m ready to listen,” I said. “And then I’ll talk.”

McDeiss shook his head in exasperation, but Slocum gave him a nod.

“This Ralph Ciulla had been married twice, divorced twice,” said McDeiss. “His mother died five years ago, and after that he lived here alone. He apparently let the shooter inside, closed the door behind him. Best we could tell, there was no struggle. The shooter was standing there, the victim was here. The victim turned toward the liquor cart, maybe to fix some drinks. First shot went into the knee from behind, shattered it. A lot of bleeding. None of the neighbors heard the shot, so it was probably an automatic with a silencer, though no shells were found. Ballistics will tell us the caliber, but it looked medium-sized, like a thirty-eight. After he was on the ground, the shooter put two in the right side of the skull.”

“Left-handed?”

“That would be my guess.”

“How long between the knee shot and the head shots?” I said.

“Impossible to tell. Maybe the coroner can give an estimate. But the knee was wrapped with a towel from the kitchen, which was a little strange.”

“Was there a trail of blood into the kitchen?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then the shooter wrapped the wound,” I said.

“That’s what we figure,” said McDeiss. “Maybe he was looking for something and hoped the victim would tell him where it was. That’s why we were so intrigued when we found your card. We hoped you could tell us what might have been going on with the victim.”

“Who called the murder in?”

“A 911 call from a pay phone not far from here. Panicky voice, didn’t identify himself, but he knew the victim’s name.”

“The shooter?”

“Whoever did this doesn’t seem the panicky type. In any event we dusted the handset and the change in the box for prints.”

“Anybody see anything?”

“We have a squad going door-to-door. Nothing yet.”

“Anything taken?”

“Doesn’t look like it. A valuable ring still on his finger, a watch, and his wallet was still in his pocket, with your card inside and a credit card, but no cash.”

“What about his money clip?”

“A money clip?”

I lifted up my head, looked out a window onto the street, thought I saw a flash of yellow slipping by. “That’s what he had on him today,” I said. “Gold, with some sort of a medallion on it, clipped around a pretty thick wad.”

McDeiss looked at Slocum, who shrugged.

“You were with this Ralph Ciulla today?” said McDeiss.

“I was.”

“What were you boys talking about?”

I stood up from the chair, closed my eyes for a moment, fought to regain my stomach.

“Go ahead, Victor,” said Slocum.

“Ralph Ciulla was an old friend of Charlie Kalakos,” I said.

Slocum didn’t even blink, he already knew.

“Ralph was trying to inject himself in the negotiations for the missing Rembrandt. He and another old friend, Joey Pride, believed they could sell the painting to some high roller, and they met with me in an attempt to get Charlie to go along.”

“How’d they get in touch with you?” said Slocum.

“By phone.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Hollywood Tavern.”

“That’s near where your father lives, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“When did you meet?”

“About two.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just Ralph and Joey Pride and myself.”

“You know where this Joey Pride lives?”

“Nope.”

“What he looks like?”

“Same age as Ralph. Thin, nervous, talks a lot. African-American. Drives a Yellow Cab. That’s it.”

“If he gets in touch with you, you’ll get in touch with us?”

“Count on it.”

“They say who the high roller is who wants to buy the painting?”

“No, but Ralph showed me a couple hundred-dollar bills he received up front. That’s how I knew about the money clip.”

“And now they’re gone. What did you tell them?”

“I told them the painting legally belonged to the museum.”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t going to be involved in anything illegal.”

Slocum looked at me impassively, withholding judgment as to whether I was being only partially insincere or was flat-out lying.

“Spare us the act,” said McDeiss, not withholding anything. “We’ve both known you too long.”

“How’d they take your rejection of their deal?” said Slocum.

“Not so well.”

“But you gave him your card,” said McDeiss.

“I’m a businessman,” I said. “I give my card out to panhandlers and delivery boys, to babies in strollers.”

“Why did this Ralph Ciulla fellow and that Joey Pride think they had the right to get a piece of that painting?” said McDeiss.

“From what they told me, it was because they were in on the theft.”

Slocum and McDeiss turned toward each other, as if the theory had already been discussed.

“What does your client say about it?” said Slocum.

“Whatever he says is privileged,” I said.

“But as far as you know, the only people who knew about the hundreds were you, the guy who gave them to Ciulla, and this Joey Pride.”

“Do you really think Ralph was killed for a couple hundred bucks?”

“You been in this job as long as I have, Carl, you’d be amazed at how cheap a life can be measured by a guy on the trigger side of a gun.”

“We’d like to talk to your client,” said Slocum.

“You want to talk to my client, you get Hathaway to get off of her high white horse. It’s getting dangerous here, and she’s not helping.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to tell Charlie?” said Slocum.

“When I get hold of him finally,” I said, “I’m going to tell him the truth. That things have escalated in a very bad way, that murder is afoot, and maybe his best bet is to bury the damn painting and stay the hell out of Dodge.”

She was waiting for us by the front door, long and lean, pretty and hard, blond hair, black roots, hoop earrings dangling, bracelets jangling, lips painted bright red, the darting, vicious eyes of a middle linebacker. Her portfolio was brown leather, her heels were black and high, her silver Escalade was parked out front. When she saw us approach, she glanced at her watch and tapped her toe, and she terrified the hell out of me, just standing there. But of course she did.

She was a Realtor.

“I think you’ll adore this one, Beth,” she said in a tight, energized voice as we climbed the cement steps in front of the narrow row house. “I know it was a little sudden, but I wanted to get a jump on some other buyers who are coming to look this afternoon. The interest in this house is through the roof. It won’t be available much longer.”

“Thanks, Sheila,” said Beth.

“And is this your boyfriend?”

“Just my partner, Victor,” said Beth.

“Just,” I said.

“Nice to meet you, Victor. Are you life partners or something like that? It’s so hard to keep the nomenclature straight.”

“Legal partners,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, placing a hand lightly on my forearm. She smelled edgy and dangerous, like she had doused herself in a new perfume from Revlon called Barracuda. “It’s nice of you to come and provide support. So are we ready?”

“I think,” said Beth.

“Now, use your imagination, Beth,” said Sheila as she fiddled with her keys. “The buyers haven’t prepped it for sale, so it will look a little dingy, but that’s to our advantage, because it will keep the price down. You have to envision it with fresh paint, sanded floors, new fixtures throughout, especially the sconces.”

“The sconces?” I said.

“Oh, the things they have now are simply beastly. But with something a little art deco and bright, maybe some frosted glass, the walls will look fabulous.” She found a key that fit, twisted it, shouldered open the door. “Let’s take a look.”