“You shouldn’t have pulled that little sneaking act, Lily. Some bad stuff could happen. We’re in their neck of the woods again, and I—”

“We’re in this together, Russo, don’t forget it,” she said. She gave him a long look, then glanced out the back window of their rental car to study the three cars behind them. None appeared to be following them. She said, “You’re acting like I’ve cut off your ego. This isn’t your show, Russo. They’re my paintings. Back off.”

“I promised your brother I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

“Fine. Okay, keep your promise. Where are we going? I was thinking it would be to Abe Turkle. You said maybe you could get something out of him, not about the collector he was working for, but maybe about the Frasiers. Since he’s here, that pretty well proves he’s involved with them, doesn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“You said Abraham Turkle is staying in a beach house just up the coast from Hemlock Bay. Do we know who owns it? Don’t tell me it’s my soon-to-be-ex-husband.”

Simon gave it up. He turned to her as he said, “No, it’s not Tennyson Frasier. It’s close, but no, the cottage is in Daddy Frasier’s name.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? That really nails it, doesn’t it? Isn’t that enough proof?”

“Not yet. Just be patient. Everything will come together. Highway 211 is a very gnarly road, just like you told me. Are we going to be passing the place where you lost your brakes and plowed into that redwood?”

“Yes, just ahead.” But Lily didn’t look at the tree as they passed it. The events of that night were growing more faint, the terror fading a bit, but it was still too close to her.

Simon said, “Turns out that Abraham Turkle has no bank account, no visible means of support. So the Frasiers must be paying him in cash.”

“I still can’t get over their going to all this trouble,” Lily said.

“After we verify that Mr. Olaf Jorgenson of Sweden now has three in his possession—no, we want him to have all four of the paintings, it’d keep things simple—we may be able to find out how much he’s paid for them. I’m thinking in the neighborhood of two to three million per painting. Maybe higher. Depends on how obsessed he is. From what I hear, he’s single-minded when he wants a certain painting.”

“Three million? That’s a whole lot of money. But to go to all this trouble—”

“I can tell you stories you don’t want to hear about how far some collectors will go. There was one German guy who collected rare stamps. He found out that his mother had one that he’d wanted for years, only she wanted to keep it for herself. He hit her over the head with a large bag of coins, killed her. Does that give you an idea of how completely obsessed some of these folk are?”

Lily could only stare at him. “It’s just hard to believe. This Olaf Jorgenson—you told me he’s very old and nearly blind in the bargain.”

“It is amazing that he can’t control his obsession, not even for something as incidental as, say, going blind. I guess it won’t stop until he’s dead.”

“Do you think his son Ian has the real Night Watch aboard his yacht?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

“Are you going to tell the people at the Rijksmuseum?”

“Yeah, but trust me on this, they won’t want to hear it. They’ll have a couple of experts examine the painting on the sly. If the experts agree that it’s a forgery, they’ll try to get it back, but will they announce it? Doubtful.

“We’ve been checking out Mr. Monk, the curator of the Eureka Art Museum. He does have a Ph.D. from George Washington, and a pedigree as long as your arm. If something’s off there, Savich hasn’t found it yet. We’re going deeper on that, got some feelers out to a couple of museums where he worked. You keep looking back there. Is anyone following us?”

Lily shifted in her seat to face his profile. “No, no one’s back there. I can’t help it. To me, this is enemy territory.”

“You’re entitled. You had a very bad experience here. You met Mr. Monk, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

Lily said slowly, “When I first met Mr. Monk, I thought he had the most intense black eyes, quite beautiful really, ‘bedroom eyes’ I guess you could call them. But he looked hungry. Isn’t that odd?”