They rushed outside, then stumbled to a stop when they caught sight of the blaze. It had grown to cover a large portion of the slope at the back of the property.
The wife grabbed her husband’s arm. “Come on. We need to go!”
He blinked, then nodded. They raced toward the garage and, a few moments later, sped away in a Range Rover.
Once they were out of sight, Benji spoke into his radio, “Sticks, you know what to do. Devin, with me.”
He and Devin hurried through the open door and into a large living room. Benji scanned the walls for their target, but it wasn’t there.
“I’ll take the first floor,” he said, then nodded toward the stairs. “You take the second.”
Devin nodded and took off.
Benji ran into the dining room and searched the walls. No dice. He made a quick pass through the kitchen, doubtful it would be there, but checking just in case. It wasn’t.
As he rushed to the hallway that led to the other side of the house, he clicked on his mic. “Devin, anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Sticks, how’s it going?” He was outside, placing the devices that would set the house’s exterior on fire.
“I’m busy. Don’t bother me.”
If Sticks wasn’t so damn good at setting fires, Benji would have cut him from his crew a long time ago. “We’ve talked about this. Answer the question.”
Sticks huffed, then said, “Everything’s fine. Okay?”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
The first room Benji reached was a bedroom. On its walls were several expensive-looking illustrations, but none was the piece he wanted.
The damn thing wasn’t in the next bedroom, either.
Frustrated, he moved to the third room and shoved the door open so hard it bounced against the wall and closed again. Swearing under his breath, he opened it with a little less force and moved inside.
Instead of a bedroom, he found himself in a well-appointed home office. And there it was, the painting he was hunting, hanging on the wall behind the desk. The artist was Andrew something. Wyatt? Wayland?
Wyeth. That was it.
He compared it to a photo he had of it on his phone so that there was no mistake, then grinned.
“Found it,” he said. “First floor. Office.”
“On my way,” Devin said.
Benji lifted the painting off the wall and set it on the floor, picture side down. A quick examination revealed how the frame was attached.
“Devin, I need the pliers!”
Feet pounded down the hallway. “Where are you?” Devin called.
“In here.”
Devin rushed in huffing and puffing and set the small canvas bag that held their tools next to Benji. Benji set to work and soon removed the brackets holding the picture to the frame.
“Sticks, if you’re done out there, we need you here now.”
“Two minutes,” Sticks said.
Benji lifted the painting out of the frame and placed it against the wall, out of the way. He then leaned the frame against the desk and held out a hand.
“Ashes.”
Devin handed Benji a Ziploc bag filled with the ashes of a similarly sized canvas that had been created during the same era as the painting.
Benji spilled the contents on the floor, directly below where the painting had hung. He then moved the frame to the same area and laid it on the floor. The empty Ziploc went back into the duffel.
“Sticks, where are you?”
“Chill out. I’ll be right there.”
“How’s the fire?”
“Gorgeous.”
“I meant, how close is it to the house?”
“We have maybe five minutes.”
Devin shot a wide-eyed look at Benji. Benji maintained his neutral expression, but he shared Devin’s surprise. Five minutes away was cutting it a lot closer than they usually did.
By the time Sticks arrived, Benji was standing at the doorway, holding the painting. “Do what you need to do, and let’s get out of here.”
Sticks stepped over to the window and fingered the curtains. “These’ll do.”
Using a long-necked, barbecue lighter, he first set the empty picture frame ablaze, moved to the curtains next, then made his way around the room, lighting up whatever else would burn.
When he reached the door, he smiled at his creation. “So pretty.”
“Back to the car,” Benji said.
They hurried outside and stowed the painting inside the protective box in the trunk.
Once they were all in the car and the engine was running, Benji said to Sticks, “Set the rest off.” Then he put the car in drive and whipped around toward the gate.
Using the same phone-call method as earlier, Sticks set off the additional four igniters that he’d placed strategically around the house and garage while Benji and Devin had been searching for the painting.
If the brushfire that now dominated the slope didn’t reach the mansion, the house would still burn down. And everyone would believe that the Andrew Wyeth painting had been lost in the fire.
The perfect crime.
Chapter 3
The next morning, Stone’s phone woke him from a deep sleep. He groaned and blindly grabbed for it.
“Hello,” he croaked.
“So, you are still alive,” his secretary, Joan, said.
He blinked, then sat up, and immediately regretted it. His head throbbed from one too many Knob Creeks the night before.
“Dino called and said you might need a little help getting started today,” Joan said. “Don’t worry. I shifted your schedule around. You have nothing pressing until this afternoon.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
“Small? Do you think I just snapped my fingers and your schedule rearranged itself?”
“Forgive me. For large favors.”
“That’s more like it. I hear Carly has flown the coop.”
“Dino has a big mouth.”
“That was from Fred. You told him on the ride home last night.”
Flashes of the previous evening played in his head, including snippets of a diatribe about how Carly was making the biggest mistake in her life.
“Then Fred has the big mouth.”
“You told him to tell me.”
Stone didn’t recall that, but if Fred said it happened, then it had to be true.
“Shall I have Helene send up your breakfast?”
“Just toast and coffee.”
“Poor baby,” she said and hung up.
Stone dragged himself into the bathroom, and after downing a couple of aspirin, took a hot shower. By the time he reentered his bedroom, he was feeling much better.
His light breakfast was waiting in the dumbwaiter. He ate a single piece of toast and drank a full cup of coffee before making his way to his office downstairs.
“You don’t look nearly as bad as I thought you would,” Joan said when he arrived.
“Your compliments need some work.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation.”
“Would it be too much to ask for some coffee?”
“I thought you already had one.”
“More coffee.”
“I’ll bring it right in.”
Stone spent the next few hours working through several e-mails and reviewing a contract for a client.
It was closing in on one in the afternoon when Joan buzzed him. “Herb Fisher on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Hello, Herb. What can I do for you?”
“Are you free today at four?”
“Let me check.” Stone placed a hand over the phone and called out to Joan, “What’s my afternoon look like?”
She appeared in his doorway. “Only a conference call with Steele Insurance in thirty minutes. I moved everything else to later in the week.”