Peyton Riley Read Online Free

shoulder.
    "Walk," he barked.
    They emerged on the Brouwersgracht, on the bank of one of the many canals criss-crossing the city. Tall, stately houses in rich brown brick flanked the water. Carson squinted in the silvery light as he scanned the ground-level doors. "Should be here somewhere," he said, looking around. "Gustave said…right around this corner…gotcha!" He gave her a big smile and headed toward one of the buildings. It was adorned with red doors, and large red shutters flanked the windows pocking the facade. He punched in a code and entered.
    "This is one of the old warehouses. This used to be the shipping district, you know. That's why the windows are so big! They'd crane stuff up through one of those big boys, load it through." Carson sounded as geeky as he did when he was explaining karsts back at Cosa Imbah'i, where they'd first met. Not even adding Peyton's bag to his burden as they climbed the pale wood stairwell could dampen his enthusiasm.
    "Whoop-de-doo," muttered Peyton. It was fractionally less cold than outdoors, and she shivered as they made their way to the highest floor. There was a sigh of relief when they stopped at the last door along the hallway and entered a small flat.
    "Home base," said Carson, setting the bags down and hanging his coat up on the rack behind the door. "What did I tell you?"
    Peyton surveyed the tiny room. It faced the canal and the huge windows did, in fact, afford a marvelous view, high up in the stately old house. There was a functional kitchenette in one corner. Bare white walls. A scuffed wooden table with two chairs. An old dresser, also painted white. In the middle of it all was a low bed covered with a white duvet. She glanced up and saw Carson looking at her through his long, thick lashes.
    "You better be comfortable sleeping on the floor."
    He walked around the bed, bent over and pulled out a trundle with a flourish.  "Ta-dah! IKEA," he said fondly.
    She scowled and turned back to the view. "Now what?"
    He smiled like the sun shone through her eye sockets. "I was hoping you'd take us through the next step."
    "Really."
    "I'm the art guy. You're the—well, whatever it is you call your profession."
    Sighing, Peyton crossed the room, flung her coat on the bed, and took a seat at the table. After a beat, he followed, taking the dossier with him.
    "Let's go over the details again," she said.
    He opened the folder and brought out a black and white photo of a woman with straight, fair hair; then a photo of a painting. She squinted at it; in the picture the painting was propped against the wall, and judging from the small chair photographed beside it, perhaps a couple of feet long. Easily portable. 
    "It's the Vida Dolor by Tamsin Magraith. Painted in 1948." He caressed the picture, his fingernail short and square against the squiggly lines of the painting. "Very rare piece. Wonderful example of postwar abstract expressionism. It's said that if you see it, the colors—the brushstrokes—you can feel the violence of it, the agitation of a world at war." She looked up and saw his face seized by a sudden glow. Their eyes met for a split second and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. "Magraith painted only a dozen known pieces, all between 1922 and 1948. The postwar pieces are the most valuable. Not much is known about Magraith. It was said she suffered from depression, the things she'd seen were too much—" He broke off and fixed her a stare. "She killed herself, in 1949. This was the last picture she painted. Since then it was believed to be in the family of Viscount D'Agnelli. Around a year ago there were rumors that it was out in the open, and available."
    He slid the picture of the fair-haired woman towards Peyton. "This is Anja Rubinstein. Art dealer. She's been on the radar since brokering a deal six months ago, selling an O'Keefe that was long thought lost. From what I've heard, through none-too-kosher means, too. We believe she's selling the Vida Dolor.