exactly a hotbed of crime, either.
“Wow, you’ve been quite the eager beaver, haven’t you?” Colin remarked as he snapped a pair of handcuffs on the thief’s wrists.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the thief declared. “Never saw these other paintings before in my life,” he swore, disavowing any previous connection.
“And yet you came here to hide the one you stole this morning,” Colin pointed out. “Small world, wouldn’t you say?”
“I never saw these before!” the slight man repeated loudly.
Colin shook his head as he led the thief out to his waiting car. “Didn’t your mama teach you not to lie?” he asked.
“I’m not saying another word without my lawyer,” the thief announced, and dramatically closed his mouth.
“Good move,” Colin said in approval. “Not much left to say anyway, seeing as how all these paintings speak for themselves.”
Desperate, the thief made one last attempt to move Colin as he was being put into the backseat. “Look, this is just a big misunderstanding.”
“Uh-huh.”
Panic had entered the man’s face, making Colin wonder if he was working for someone else, someone he feared. “I can make it worth your while if you just look the other way, let me go. I’ll leave the paintings. You can just tell everyone you found them.”
Colin smiled to himself. It never ceased to amaze him just how dumb some people could be. “Maybe you should have thought of the consequences before you started putting this private collection together for yourself.” He saw the thief opening his mouth and sensed there was just more of the same coming. “Too late now,” he told the man.
With that, he took out his cell phone and called in to the station for backup to come and collect all the paintings. There were going to be a lot of happy art owners today, he mused. They wouldn’t be reunited with their paintings immediately, since for now, the pieces were all being kept as evidence, but at least they knew the art had been recovered and was safe.
He glanced at his watch as he waited for his call to go through.
It was just nine thirty, he realized. Nine thirty on a Monday morning. His week was off and running.
Maizie put as much stock in fate as the next person. She didn’t, however, sit back and just assume that fate would step in and handle all the small details that were always involved in making things happen. That was up to her.
Which was why she was on the phone that morning calling Edward Blake, an old friend of her late husband’s as well as a recent client she’d brought to Theresa’s attention. The latter had involved Edward’s youngest daughter, Sophia. Theresa had catered her wedding reception at less than her usual going rate.
Maizie used that as her opening when she placed her call to the news station’s story director.
What had prompted her call was a story she heard on her radio as she was driving into work. The opportunity seemed too good to pass up. That, she felt, had been fate’s part. The rest would require her help.
“Edward,” she said cheerfully the moment she heard him respond on the other end of the line, “this is Maizie Sommers.”
There was a pause, and then recognition set in. “Maizie, of course. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you,” she replied as if she had all the time in the world rather than what she assumed was a clock ticking the minutes away. She knew how the news world worked. “I just called to see how the newlyweds were doing.”
“Fine, fine,” Blake asserted in his booming baritone voice. “They’re not looking for a house yet, though,” he told her, obviously assuming that was why she was checking in with him.
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” she answered with a laugh. “It’s much too early to start thinking about dealing with things like escrow and closing costs and homeowner associations.” She paused for just a beat, then forged ahead. “But I did call to ask you a favor.”
Their friendship dated back to the final year in college. Edward had been a friend of her late husband’s. They had pulled all-nighters, helping each other study and pass final exams. “Name it.”
“That news reporter you have working for you, Elliana King,” Maizie began, then paused so that the woman’s name sank in.
“Ah, yes, great girl, hardest worker I’ve ever had,” the station manager testified fondly with feeling. “What about her?”
“I just heard about what could be a good human-interest story for your station and thought you could send the King girl to cover it.”
“Go on,” Blake encouraged, intrigued. He genuinely liked and respected Maizie and was open to anything she had to pass on.
“According to the news blurb, a police detective in Bedford chased down this supposedly small-time art thief and wound up uncovering an entire cache of paintings in a storage unit that had been stolen in the last eighteen months. I thought you might want to send someone down to the precinct to interview this detective.” And then she played what she felt was her ace card in this little venture. “So little of the news we hear is upbeat these days.”
“Don’t I know it,” Blake said with a sigh. And then he chuckled. “So you’re passing on assignments to me now, Maizie?”
“Just this one, Edward.”
There was more to this and he knew it. Moreover, he knew that Maizie knew he knew, but he played his line out slowly like a fisherman intent on reeling in an elusive catch than a station manager in a newsroom that moved sometimes faster than the speed of light. “And you think I should assign King to follow up on it.”
“Absolutely,” Maizie enthused, adding, “She has a nice way about her.”
“Oh, I agree with you. She definitely has a rapport with her audience,” Blake said. When he heard nothing more illuminating on the other end, he asked, “Okay, what’s really going on, Maizie? Is this some kind of a matchmaking thing?”
“I have no idea what you mean, Edward,” Maizie told him in far too innocent a voice.
“Right. Belinda told me what you and your friends are up to in your spare time,” Blake said, referring to his wife. And then he became serious. “If you think you’ve found a way to get the pain out of King’s eyes, go for it. You’ve got my vote.”
Relieved that the man was so easily on board, Maizie tactfully pointed out, “What we need is your assignment, Edward.”
“That, too. Okay, give me the details one more time,” he instructed, pulling over a pad and pencil, two staples of his work desk that he absolutely refused to surrender no matter how many electronic gadgets littered his desk and his office. His defense was that a pad and pencil never failed.
* * *
