Page 115 of Burning Caine
“Sofia told me that’s what he said to you. ‘My heart weeps.’ What’s going on?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Did you hit him? Looked like a pretty nasty—”
I put up a hand and she stopped. The charred remains of the Chagall copy were secured in the back seat, and I pulled the report out of the envelope, flipping to the summation.
“Dammit!” I seriously debated smashing my head into the steering wheel.
“What?”
“The copyist.” I covered my face with the paperwork.
“Again, what?”
I shook my head and took a few breaths. “I know him. And I’m in just the fucking mood to talk to him.”
I tossed the papers to Lucy to put back in the envelope, hit the ignition, and programmed the address Antonio had provided into my GPS.
“Sam.” She fumbled with the papers. “There’s something in here.”
A hand-written note. Addressed to me. Not a chance I was reading it. I stuffed it in my purse before Lucy got any ideas.
When my phone rang, and I saw his number, my breath caught. I immediately declined the call.
“You know you can block his number, right?”
I’d done that Sunday morning, then undid it. Probably ten times, back and forth. Maybe I was a glutton for punishment, maybe I wanted to hold onto my anger so I wouldn’t forgive him.
I knocked on the door, Lucy at my side. She carried Antonio’s report and the painting case. I was fired up and ready for a fight. I rang the doorbell when no one arrived immediately, then knocked again.
The door opened, and the curator from Mason’s Gallery greeted us, a flicker of recognition crossing her face.
“I’m sorry. I must have the wrong address. I’m looking for Cam-ron Parker. I was told this was his residence?”
“Why are you looking for him?” She was apprehensive but obviously knew him.
“My name is Samantha Caine.” I held out my hand to shake. “And this is Lucy Chapman. We’re with Foster Mutual Insurance.”
“Paulette Johnson—Oh, wait, I remember you! You took care of fixingNumber Veefor him!” She broke into a smile. “Cam-ron’s my son, he lives downstairs.”
No wonder she’d thought that stupid painting was so clever. He’d paintedNumber Vee.
“Is he home? We have a few methodology questions about another piece he did.”
“Oh, he loves talking about his artwork.” She beamed with pride. Pride in her thirty-plus-year-old son who lived in her basement and who alienated women at restaurants because he was an asshole. Yeah, lots of pride to be had there.
She showed us to her dining room table and went to get him. The house was covered with artwork, likely all his. She returned to let us know he’d be right up, as he was putting the finishing touches on a new piece, then left to get us some water.
“How are we playing this?” asked Lucy when we were alone again.
“I’ve got it. You sit back and don’t learn anything from me on this one. This will be the least professional you’ve ever seen me.” I rolled my shoulders and blew out a deep breath.
When Cam-ron appeared in the dining room entry, I stood, with a wicked smile for him. Unlike his mother, he recognized me immediately.
“Hi, Cam-ron.” I grabbed for his wilted celery handshake. “Please, have a seat.”
His dirty blond hair was unkempt as though he’d rolled out of bed when we arrived. Finishing something up, my ass. He wore the same torn jeans and “Stay calm and paint on” T-shirt as when we’d first met.