Page 9 of Finding Forever

Riley looked at Sherlock. “Now I know why you have a dog called Sherlock. Has he helped you find other dead bodies?”

“Not yet. This was his first.” I could kick myself. I’d told Riley too much. “I’d appreciate you not telling anyone I’m a writer.”

“You don’t want everyone to know you kill people for a living?”

I forced a smile. “Something like that. I have to finish my latest book, and there are fewer distractions here.”

The smile on his face disappeared. “That must be my cue to leave.”

“I don’t mean you’re a distraction.” I stumbled over my apology. “I meant in general terms. At least here, no one knows me.” That didn’t sound any better than telling Riley he wasn’t a distraction.

He must have realized I was digging an even deeper hole for myself. “That’s okay, I know what you mean.” He adjusted the strap on his bag and patted Sherlock’s head. “I’ll be gone for about an hour.”

As I nodded and called Sherlock to me, my cell phone rang. Riley’s mouth tilted into a smile. “It sounds as though civilization has caught up with you.”

With a frown, I looked at the number of the person calling me. “You’re right. I’ll see you when you get back.” As I watched Riley leave, I answered the call. “Hi, Alex.”

“You won’t believe what I’ve been reading.”

“You’re supposed to be working on your project.”

“I needed a break.”

“And your break involves something I’m not going to believe?” I watched Riley reverse down the driveway. I needed to stop thinking about him and write the next scene of my book.

“Are you listening to me?”

I frowned. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I was looking on the Internet and found an article about Riley. He’s considered one of the most up-and-coming artists of the twenty-first century. That’s not bad for someone who’s only thirty-two. He’s exhibited at galleries around the world and even had an exhibition at the Louvre.”

I opened my front door, and Sherlock followed me inside. “Sounds impressive.”

Alex sighed. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

“Riley told me he was an artist. I looked at his website last night, and it listed where he’d exhibited. Can you send me the link to the article you found?”

“I’ll email it now. There’s something else you need to know. His last three paintings sold for more than fifty thousand dollars each.”

My eyes widened. “Are you sure?” I didn’t know much about art, but there couldn’t be many artists who sell their work for that much money.

“I’m positive. I contacted a friend who works at a gallery in Los Angeles. Riley’s one of the most popular artists in America, but no one knows much about him.”

I already guessed that he valued his privacy as much as I did.

“Did you know two of his paintings were stolen?”

“I did.”

“There was a lot of hype about who was behind the burglary, but no one’s been arrested.”

“What kind of hype?” I didn’t know whether I was impressed or worried about the amount of time Alex must have spent looking for information about Riley.

“I’ll send you another article. The Italian police are looking at a mafia connection to the burglary.”

The coffeepot banged against the kitchen counter. “What kind of articles were you reading?”

“I know,” Alex said. “It sounds like something out of your novels, except it’s true. What if Riley left Venice because he’s worried the burglars will come back? There were three paintings in his studio, but only two were stolen.”