Tristan exited the gallery through the rear door that led into the small parking lot behind the building.
As he climbed into his Prius, his gaze flicked back to the gallery, half expecting to see Phillip standing outside, watching him. But the bodyguard wasn’t there.
Quit overthinking, he told himself.
Even if Mr. Duchamp had seen Monica Reyes come into the gallery, there was no way he would have known who she was. And Mr. Duchamp had not been in the main gallery when she visited. Tristan was sure about that.
He pulled onto the street and headed east toward his place in Echo Park, anxiety burning a hole in his stomach.
“Dammit, Joshua.”
What had he been thinking, giving the woman Tristan’s number?
It’s not like Tristan had firsthand knowledge of anything.
Tristan had met Joshua more than a year ago, when Joshua had come to the shop to pick up something. He hadn’t worked for any of the galleries but did what he’d called special projects for Mr. Duchamp.
They’d struck up a friendship, and over time, Joshua told Tristan about Mr. Duchamp’s illegal activities. He said his job was to deliver stolen artwork to buyers.
The stories had been riveting, but the truth was, Tristan had never fully believed him. That is, not until Joshua died and something he’d said began playing on repeat in Tristan’s head. “If I turn up dead someday, it’ll be because Mr. D doesn’t want me around.”
Tristan had laughed then, like it was some kind of joke, but he wasn’t laughing now.
“Shit.”
He swerved into the left-turn lane.
He’d stop by the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel and tell the woman enough to ease his mind, then never talk to her again.
He could do that much for his dead friend.
Stone, Monica, and Dino dined at Koi on La Cienega, then made their way to the Roosevelt, where a pair of valets opened the doors.
“Do me a favor,” Stone said to the one who took his keys. “Keep it close.” He slipped the man a hundred-dollar bill.
“No problem, sir.”
Stone joined Dino and Monica on the sidewalk.
“What time do you have?” she asked.
Stone checked his watch. “Ten to eight.”
“I doubt he’ll be here yet.”
“If he comes at all,” Dino said.
“I’ll go in first,” she said. “Wish me luck.”
“It’ll be fine,” Stone said.
She crossed her fingers, then walked into the hotel.
They gave her a five-minute head start, then went inside.
“Wow,” Dino said as they stepped into the chandelier-lit lobby. “Not bad. Reminds me of old Hollywood.”
“This is old Hollywood. The first Academy Awards were held here.”
“In this room?”
“In one of the ballrooms, I believe.”
“I guess that makes more sense. Be strange if someone was trying to check in while Clark Gable was getting an Oscar.”
“Your deductive reasoning never fails to amaze me.”
They made their way to the bar, took the table two away from Monica’s, and signaled for the waiter.
Phillip watched Tristan through the spy hole in the gallery’s rear door. As soon as the Prius pulled out of the lot, Phillip jogged outside. After seeing which way Tristan turned on Melrose, he hopped into the town car and took up pursuit.
Tristan headed east, but instead of continuing to his home in Echo Park, he stopped in Hollywood and parked down a side street near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
Phillip drove past him and found an empty spot half a block down. Watching through the rear window, he saw Tristan exit his car and start walking toward Hollywood Boulevard. He hopped out and followed.
Tristan was a half block from the boulevard when he turned into a parking lot, vanishing from sight. Phillip quickened his pace and caught a brief glimpse of Tristan right before he disappeared again, this time through the entrance of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel.
Phillip could wait until the kid reemerged, but he needed to find out what Tristan was up to.
He entered the hotel and paused long enough to scan the lobby and determine Tristan wasn’t present. If he’d gone to one of the rooms, then Phillip wasn’t going to find him, but that wasn’t the only place Tristan could be.
Phillip approached one of the hotel employees. “Does this place have a bar?”
Chapter 28
The moment Tristan stepped into the bar’s entrance, he almost turned around and left. The only thing that stopped him was that Monica had already spotted him and was waving him over to her table.
He swore under his breath and joined her.
“Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”
“I... I can only give you five minutes. That’s it.”
“I’ll take it.”
He reluctantly sat.
“Something to drink?” she asked. “My treat?”
“Um, thank you. Wine.”
“Any preference?”
He shook his head.
She asked the waiter to bring him a glass of chardonnay.
“How long have you worked at Duchamp Gallery?”
“Why is that important?”
“It isn’t. I’m just asking.”
“Oh. Sorry. Uh, almost two years.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s okay, I guess. I like meeting the artists and talking to them about their work.”
“What about your job don’t you like?”
Tristan was saved from answering by the return of the waiter with his wine. “Thanks,” he said, then gulped down half in one go.
“Are you all right?” Monica asked.
“I’m fine. Why?”
She looked pointedly at his glass.
“I... I was thirsty.”
She nodded as if that was an acceptable answer, then her expression softened. “I should have said this first. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My loss?”
“Joshua Paskota. I assume he was your friend.”
“He was.”
“I was supposed to talk to him in Santa Fe, but I didn’t get the chance before the accident.”
Tristan huffed. “Accident. Right.”
“You know something about it?”
He hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud. He shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“You know, he gave me your number because he thought you could help me.”
“He actually told you that?”
She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and showed it to him. It was a note that included Tristan’s name and number. Tristan recognized Joshua’s handwriting.
“When you called me, you said this was about an art theft?”
“Several actually. I believe they are being carried out by the same group. Anything you may know would be a great help.”
He downed the rest of his wine and glanced toward the bar’s entrance to gather his thoughts.
At first, he didn’t notice the man sitting on a chair outside the bar, but then the man shifted his position, drawing Tristan’s attention.
It was Phillip.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Monica said. “When was the first time—”
Tristan shot to his feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”
He scanned for an alternate way out, but there was none. Head down, he walked briskly to the exit, then hurried out of the hotel.
As soon as he was outside, he broke into a run and didn’t glance back until he reached his car.
But before he could open the door, Phillip clamped down on his shoulder and whirled him around. Tristan would have opened his mouth to scream, but Phillip’s fist smashed into his face before a sound could leave his lips.
Monica watched Tristan all but sprint from the bar, then she turned to Stone and Dino. “What happened?”