was arranged by a wealthy collector who intends to keep the paintings for himself. But why would a man like that put himself in the hands of two murderous hoodlums?
On Monday morning when Kemal got up, Dana fixed breakfast and dropped him off at school.
‘Have a good day, darling.’
‘See you, Dana.’
Dana watched Kemal walk into the front door of the school, and then she headed for the police station on Indiana Avenue.
It was snowing again and there was a sadistic wind tearing at everything in its path.
Detective Phoenix Wilson, in charge of the Gary Winthrop murder, was a street-smart misanthrope, with a few scars to show how he had gotten that way. He looked up as Dana walked into his office.
‘No interviews,’ he growled. ‘When there’s any new information on the Winthrop murder, you’ll hear it at the press conference with everybody else.’
‘I didn’t come to ask you about that,’ Dana said.
He eyed her skeptically. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Really. I’m interested in the paintings that were stolen. You have a list of them, I assume?’
‘So?’
‘Could you give me a copy?’
Detective Wilson asked suspiciously, ‘Why? What did you have in mind?’
‘I’d like to see what the killers took. I might do a segment on the air.’
Detective Wilson studied Dana a moment. ‘That’s not a bad idea. The more publicity these paintings get, the less chance the killers will have to sell them.‘ He rose. They took twelve paintings and left a lot more. I guess they were too lazy to carry them all. Good help is hard to find these days. I’ll get you a copy of that report.’
He was back in a few minutes with two photocopies. He handed them to Dana. ‘Here’s a list of the ones taken. Here’s the other list.’
Dana looked at him, puzzled. ‘What other list?’
‘All the paintings Gary Winthrop owned, including the paintings the killers left behind.’
‘Oh. Thank you. I appreciate it.’
Out in the corridor, Dana examined the two lists. What she was seeing was confusing. Dana walked out into the frigid air and headed for Christie’s, the world-famous auction house. It was snowing harder, and the crowds were hurrying to finish their Christmas shopping and get back to their warm homes and offices.
When Dana arrived at Christie’s, the manager recognized her immediately. ‘Well! This is an honor, Miss Evans. What can we do for you?’
Dana explained, ‘I have two lists of paintings here. I would appreciate it if someone could tell me what these paintings are worth.’
‘But of course. It would be our pleasure. Come this way, please …’
Two hours later Dana was in Matt Baker’s office.
‘There’s something very strange going on,’ Dana began.
‘We’re not back to the Chicken Little conspiracy theory again, are we?’
‘You tell me.’ Dana handed Matt the longer of the two lists. ‘This has all the artworks Gary Winthrop owned. I just had these paintings appraised at Christie’s.’
Matt Baker scanned the list. ‘Hey, I see some heavy hitters here. Vincent van Gogh, Hals, Matisse, Monet, Picasso, Manet.’ He looked up. ‘So?’
‘Now look at this list,’ Dana said. She handed Matt the shorter list, which had the stolen art on it.
Matt read them aloud. ‘Camille Pissarro, Marie Laurencin, Paul Klee, Maurice Utrillo, Henry Lebasque. So what’s your point?’
Dana said slowly, ‘A lot of the paintings on the complete list are worth more than ten million apiece.’ She paused. ‘Most of the paintings on the shorter list, which were stolen, are worth two hundred thousand apiece or less.’
Matt Baker blinked. ‘The burglars took the less valuable paintings?’
‘That’s right.’ Dana leaned forward. ‘Matt, if they were professional burglars, they would also have taken the cash and jewelry lying around. We were meant to assume that someone hired them to steal only the more valuable paintings. But according to these lists, they didn’t know a thing about art. So why were they really hired? Gary Winthrop wasn’t armed. Why did they kill him?’
‘Are you saying that the robbery was a cover-up, and the real motive for the break-in was murder?’
That’s the only explanation I can think of.’
Matt swallowed. ‘Let’s examine this. Suppose that Taylor Winthrop did make an enemy and was murdered – why would anyone want to wipe out his entire family?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dana said. ‘That’s what I want to find out.’
Dr Armand Deutsch was one of Washington’s most respected psychiatrists, an imposing-looking man in his seventies, with a broad forehead and appropriately probing blue eyes. He glanced up as Dana entered.
‘Miss Evans?’
‘Yes. I appreciate your seeing me. Doctor. What I need to see you about is really very important.’
‘And what is it that’s so very important?’
‘You’ve read about the deaths in the Winthrop family?’
‘Of course. Terrible tragedies. So many accidents.’
Dana said, ‘What if they weren’t accidents?’
‘What? What are you saying?’
‘That there’s a possibility they were all murdered.’
‘The Winthrops murdered? That seems very farfetched, Miss Evans. Very far-fetched.’
‘But possible.’
‘What makes you think they might have been murdered?’
‘It’s – it’s just a hunch,’ Dana admitted.
‘I see. A hunch.’ Dr Deutsch sat there, studying her. ‘I watched your broadcasts from Sarajevo. You are an excellent reporter.’
‘Thank you.’
Dr Deutsch leaned forward on his elbows, his blue eyes fixed on hers. ‘So, not long ago, you were in the middle of a terrible war. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Reporting about people being raped, killed, babies murdered …’
Dana was listening,
