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"Yes. The third was three years ago in New York City. An elevator malfunctioned, and Chuck Hernan plunged thirty-seven stories to his death. He was a private collector. He lived in a penthouse on the top floor. His housekeeper said she had seen the painting earlier that day and that Chuck had seemed upset. He'd told her he was leaving town for a business trip. His suitcases were also in the elevator."
"And the fourth?"
"That was about eighteen months ago. It was a woman."
"Interesting—a twist."
He smiled at her rapt gaze. "She ran a gallery in New Orleans. Her assistant took photos of every art piece that was delivered to the gallery. As you might have guessed, the picture had arrived a day earlier."
"How did she die?"
"She was found dead, floating in her swimming pool. The third-floor railing above the pool was broken. It looked like she was shoved over the rail."
"Just like Arthur. And all four were involved with art in some way."
"And in every case the painting disappeared, replaced by the photo."
"Except now." Her gaze moved to the painting. "That's why they broke into Arthur's house last night. They were looking for the painting."
"I think so."
"But the painting was here, in a house no one knew about."
"The home must be in the name of a sham corporation, something that can't be traced to him."
"But it wasn't that big of a secret. I knew about it, and so did my mom. Layana and Moira at the very least knew that Arthur came to Palm Springs. But even if they had come here, they never would have found his secret room. I certainly didn't, and I was here for three days."
"Arthur was clever," he said, feeling a pit of anger and disappointment deep in his soul. "Another liar."
"It sounds like the killer of all these people believes they are handing out a deserved punishment. Why would Arthur have to be punished?"
"He was dealing in stolen art. He was having an affair. Who knows what else he was doing?"
"Well, the murderer has to be someone in the art world, someone who knew the legend. Frankly, it sounds like a mad, evil artist. Maybe Layana is the killer."
"You mean the woman you confronted all by yourself?" he asked pointedly.
"I'm beginning to realize the stupidity of that move."
"Good. Maybe that will stop you from being so impulsive again."
Callie started as her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse. "It's Dr. Clarke. I need to take this."
"Go ahead."
"Hello?" she said. "Hello? Can you hear me?" She frowned, moving around the room. "Hello? Hold on, I'm going to move to another location. There's no reception down here."
"I'll meet you upstairs," he told her. "I want to take a few photos before we go."
She gave a quick nod and hurried upstairs. He turned his gaze back on the painting. He couldn't believe he was holding it in his hands. It looked so innocuous. Its size alone was barely bigger than a laptop. To the ordinary observer, it was just a run-of-the-mill flower painting, but it was so much more.
Positioning his phone, he snapped photos of it as well as the paintings on the walls. He'd have his team secure the house and the art, but he was taking the belladonna painting with him.
As he moved up the steps and through the closet, an uneasy feeling ran down his spine. It was very quiet. He couldn't hear Callie on the phone.Had she gone outside?
He took out his gun as he neared the door to the guest room. Setting down the painting, he stepped into the hallway. His heart stopped at the sight of Callie facedown on the floor fifteen feet away.
He rushed forward, but he hadn't taken more than two steps, when he heard someone behind him. He whirled around, gun drawn, but the man was on him before he could fire a shot. He was slammed into the wall, his weapon flying out of his hand and sliding down the slick hallway floor. There was no time to go for it. He needed to disarm his assailant.