“Oh God,” Katrina said, and she could not repress a shudder. “I’ve met him.”
“Yeah, we have, too,” the cop said, and his buddy shook his head.
“Is he implicated in some way?” Katrina asked.
“We thought maybe you could tell us,” he said.
“My client has told you she barely knows Mr. Fitch,” Tyler said.
“Yeah? I’m sorry. I didn’t get that,” the cop said.
“Can you tell us about the paintings Irene Caldwell sold you?” his partner said.
“Were they insured?” the first cop asked.
Katrina described the painting, but the cops kept interrupting, steering her into one narrow area. All they really seemed to care about was how much she’d paid, how much the painting was really worth, why she let Irene Caldwell rip her off, and if her insurance would cover the loss. This last area began to expand, until Katrina understood that the cops wanted to implicate her in the scheme somehow. When she realized that, Katrina looked at Tyler, whose frown had been growing over the last few minutes.
“This is going nowhere,” she told him, and he nodded.
“That’s all, gentlemen,” Tyler told the cops.
The older one frowned. “We may have more questions later,” he said.
“I doubt it,” Tyler said crisply. “I’m fairly confident the FBI will take over—probably by this evening. But if not—please get in touch with me, and I’ll arrange something again.” He stood up. “And now if you’ll excuse us?”
The cops looked at each other, but they got up, and after a significant glance or two, they left.
“I’m sorry about that, Katrina,” Tyler said when the cops were gone. “If I’d known they would try to implicate you—”
“It’s ridiculous!” Katrina fumed. “Goddamn it, I’m the victim here! And to try to connect me to that loathsome Elmore Fitch—”
“Yes,” he said. “But you’re both rich, and they’re cops.”
“Jesus Christ,” Katrina said. “I hope that woman rots in jail ’til she dies.”
“Probably not that long,” Tyler said. “But she’ll do some time.”
It was small consolation for Katrina. She was still furious when she got home. She had trusted Irene, and she had loved that painting—and goddamn it, it was fake? She felt offended, abused, even violated. She was so angry that it wasn’t until she sat down in her half-finished living room that she realized that on top of everything else, she needed to find a new decorator.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.” That seemed like the capping insult to the whole situation, that she would have to call around and get recommendations from friends, and each one of them would want all the details about how on earth oh-so-art-savvy Katrina had been tricked out of a few million bucks. And then it was 50-50 whether whoever her friends recommended would be any good at all—and the way things were going, she’d probably end up with a few more art forgeries anyway. They were popping up all over the place lately! She really didn’t want to put herself through that. But how could she avoid it? Apparently, as much as she thought she knew about modern art, she could not spot a fake. So what she really needed was a decent decorator she could trust who knew modern art and could spot a fake.
With that thought, of course, Katrina also thought of somebody who fit the bill. And the fact that just thinking of him sent a little flutter rippling through her stomach had nothing to do with anything. She grabbed her purse and rummaged for the business card, pulling it out and setting it on the couch beside her while she dialed.
It rang four times, and then a crisp male voice said, “Randall Miller.”
“Hello, Randall,” Katrina said. “This is Katrina Hobson. From the awful banquet?”
“Of course! How are you today?”
Katrina thought he sounded glad to hear from her, which was nice. “A little pissed off right now, I’m afraid,” she said.
“There’s a lot of that going around right now,” he said. “Damn it, no! Excuse me a second . . .”
Katrina heard Randall’s phone clunk down onto a hard surface, and then his voice in the background berating someone—she couldn’t quite make out why. A few moments later, he came back on the line.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s this shipment of Mexican tile. And the workers are trying to—” He blew out a long breath. “Never mind, that’s my problem. How are you—oh, I already said that, didn’t I?”
Katrina laughed in spite of herself. “You did. But I think I can forgive you,” she said. “Especially if you’ll tell me you can come finish my redecoration.”