"Great guard dog you are," Lang muttered as he started to turn towards the bedroom.

He stopped again. Beside Grumps was a large grease spot. The intruders had occupied the dog with something to eat. As verifying the fact, Grumps burped loudly.

"Excuse you, bribe-taker. You better hope they didn't lace that hunk of meat with rat poison."

Unabashed, Grumps stretched and belched again.

At first, the bedroom seemed untouched.

Then Lang noticed that one of his silver hairbrushes was on the side of the dresser opposite where he normally left it. A photograph of Dawn faced the room at a slightly different angle. Someone had been careful but not careful enough.

Stepping around the bed, Lang opened the single drawer of the bedside table. The Browning nine-millimeter he had carried for years was where he kept it. Besides the gun and a box of ammunition, the drawer was empty.

Lang was certain he had put the Polaroid and appraisal of the picture there for temporary safekeeping. Who would steal a Polaroid?

The memory of the smoldering ruin in the Place des Vosges was his answer: someone who wanted to leave no trace of that picture.

He shook his head. Stealing the painting and the photo…

Lang took a quick inventory of his home. A few items were an inch or so out of place but nothing else was missing. Perhaps the disappearance of the three items made a sort of illogical sense. The thief had been unhurried but left the sterling silverware, a pair of gold cuff links and studs, and the pistol. The purpose of the break-in had clearly been the Poussin and all evidence of it.

Why?

Lang had no idea but every intention of finding out.

Atlanta

The next day

Lang was waiting at Ansley Galleries when it opened the next morning. The same purple-haired girl was behind the counter with the same bored expression.

"Our copy?" she asked. "Good thing we keep copies of all our appraisals, like I told you. You'd be surprised how many people keep 'em in the house. There's a fire or something and both the art and the appraisal's gone."

"And the Polaroid," Lang asked, "you said you keep an extra of it, too?" She nodded, chewing a wad of gum. "Yeah, the Polaroid, too."

He smiled weakly and shrugged, a man embarrassed by his own ineffectiveness. "Dumb me. Can't remember where I put the envelope with them in it. Be happy to pay for copies." The gum snapped. "No problem."

A minute later she was back. The copy of the photograph,. though not in color, was remarkably clear. He handed her a twenty.

She shook her head. "Happy to help. You lose that, we'll charge for the next set of copies."

Outside, he pretended to search his pockets for car keys while he checked up and down the street. If there were watchers, they were out of sight.

Atlanta

An hour later

"High Museum as in art museum?" Sara asked incredulously. "You want me to get the number of the art museum?"

Lang settled behind his desk, speaking through the open door. "What's the big surprise? I go to the museum, theater, ballet, et al, regular culture vulture. You don't remember my getting tickets for you for the opening of the Matisse exhibit?"

Sara shook her head without a gray hair moving out of place. "Lang, that was years ago. And it was one of your clients who got the tickets."

"Just find out who the director is, okay?"

Two hours later, Lang parked in the MARTA lot behind what appeared to be white building blocks dumped into a random pile by a giant child. The contemporary edifice had to be one of the ugliest in a town not known for its architectural treasures. Lang's theory was that Sherman's destruction of the city a century and a half before had given Atlanta an atavistic insensitivity to structural aesthetics. The High Museum was named for the donors of the site, the High family, not for any preeminence in the art world. In fact, the concrete and glass housed a collection surprising only in its modesty when compared to similar institutions in comparable cities.

Lang passed by the circular ramp inside the main hall and took an elevator to the top floor. Exiting, he passed a modern mural on canvas that an alert janitorial crew anywhere else would have recognized as a painter's drop cloth and hauled outside to the Dumpsters. At the end, he found a door marked "Administrative Offices."

Lang had the impression he had stepped through Alice's looking glass. Hair of every color, rings in every visible orifice, clothes from Star Wars. The clerk at Ansley Galleries had been conservative in comparison.

A young woman with half her head shaved and polished, the other covered by Astroturf-green hair, glanced up from the computer terminal on her desk. "May I help you?"

"I'm Langford Reilly. I have an appointment with Mr. Seitz."

The woman jabbed a dagger-length fingernail painted an ominous black. "In there." She picked up a phone. "Mr. Reilly's here to see you."

A man stepped from a doorway. Lang wasn't sure what he had expected but Mr. Seitz wasn't it. Instead, he was normal looking. Well-tailored dark suit, red power tie, shiny black wingtips. He was slender, just under six feet tall Early forties, judging by the dove-wings of gray over his ears. His chiseled face had recently seen the beach. Or the inside of a tanning booth.

A gold Rolex competed in dazzle with jeweled cuff links as he extended a manicured hand. "Jason Seitz, Mr. Reilly."

"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice," Lang said.

"Quite a colorful crew you have here."

His eyes followed Lang's stare. "Art students. We try to 47 hire from the art school," he said as if that explained the costumes. "Won't you step this way?"

They entered an office that was as traditional as the employees outside were weird. Seitz indicated a leather wing chair where Lang could admire the wall of photographs: Seitz shaking hands with or hugging local business leaders, politicians and celebrities. He slipped behind a dining room table-sized desk littered with snapshots of paintings, sculptures and some other objects Lang didn't immediately recognize.

Seitz leaned back, made a steeple of his fingers and said, "I usually don't have the pleasure of meeting with people I don't know, but Ms…"

"Mitford-Sara Mitford, my secretary." Seitz nodded. "Ms. Mitford was quite insistent, said it was urgent. Fortunately, I had a cancellation…"

His gaze had the practiced sincerity of someone used to soliciting money. It fitted nicely with the favor he wanted Lang to know he was doing him.

"I really appreciate your taking the time. I'm sure running this place keeps you busy."

The museum director smiled. Lang would have been astonished had he shown anything but perfect teeth. "Actually; the board of directors runs the museum. I am their humble servant."

"Yeah. Well…" Uncertain how to respond to the ill fitting humility, Lang opened his briefcase and leaned forward to hand the copy of the Polaroid across the expanse of mahogany. "I was wondering if you could tell me about that."

Seitz frowned, squinting at the picture. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Les Bergers d'Arcadie, Nicholas Poussin. Or at least a copy of it."

Seitz nodded. "Mid-seventeenth-century French, if I recall. The original of that picture hangs in the Louvre. What specifically is it you want to know?"

Lang had what he thought was a plausible explanation. ''I'm not sure. That is, I'm a lawyer and I have a case involving…"

The director held up his hands, palms outward. "Whoa, Mr. Reilly! The museum is not in a position to authenticate art for individuals. As an attorney, I'm sure you can understand the liability issues."