Angel With a Bullet Read Online Free Page B

white business card with raised gold ink. He holds it out proudly as though it is a double-0 license signed by M herself.
    Frank storms forward, using his height to all its intimidating advantage, glances at the card, and snorts.
    â€œAre you saying the officers allowed you up here because you own a damn art gallery?”
    The man sniffs. “I don’t own the gallery.”
    Frank shoots me a look that says I better swallow the sarcastic comment rising in my throat.
    The man puffs out his bird-like chest indignantly. “I happen to represent a very influential art collector in our city. And I am here to take possession of Mr. Chino’s final work before something unforeseen happens.”
    â€œYou mean like me taking a knife to it?” Frank asks as he produces a small whittling knife from his pocket.
    â€œPlease, sir. I beg you not to deface that painting. It’s so …” His voice is full of wonder. “Incredible. Perhaps his finest work.”
    Frank waves the knife lazily in the air, a two-inch blade rising from the handle at the flick of a gnarled thumbnail. “And you knew this bloody thing would be here, how?”
    â€œMr. Chino left instructions via text message, which detailed when I was to arrive at this location and take possession of his latest work.”
    â€œA suicide note?” Frank asks. “By text?”
    â€œI suppose so, although I did not know that at the time.”
    â€œAnd yet, you don’t seem too surprised at finding a body on the floor and its head used as a friggin’ paint pot!”
    The man shivers like a frightened rabbit, but I have to give him props for not backing down.
    He sniffs again. “Mr. Chino has been depressed of late, and he has always had a flair for the dramatic. So although I was hopeful for a …” He pauses to consider his words. “Less messy affair, I cannot say that I am completely shocked.”
    â€œWell, that makes one of us, Mister—Hey, you never did tell me your Goddamn name.”
    â€œIt’s written on the card.”
    Frank stares at him like a hungry grizzly on a salmon run.
    â€œIt’s Blymouth,” says the man. “Casper Blymouth.”
    â€œAnd who’s the collector?”
    â€œI don’t see the need—”
    The man freezes as Frank moves back to the painting and begins scraping some of the blood from the bottom, right-hand corner.
    â€œKingston!” he blurts. “I represent Sir Roger Kingston.”
    Frank lets out a low whistle. “I’m impressed. You can’t blurt a name much bigger than that.” Frank scrapes more of the blood.
    Blymouth gasps. “Please.” His voice drops to a whine, and his eyes actually begin to fill with frightened tears.
    Frank stops scraping and turns to catch my attention. His grin can now frighten serial killers.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” he says. “This bloody thing is signed.”
    â€œOf course it’s signed,” Blymouth sniffs. “It would be worthless otherwise, and Mr. Chino would not—”
    â€œYou don’t find that twisted?” Frank returns to his full height, wincing slightly as both knees crack. “I understand texting the suicide note, that’s human nature. I can even see blowing your brains over a canvas. Why not? But signing it first? That’s whacked.”
    â€œWhacked?” I pipe in.
    Frank’s mouth twitches.
    Blymouth sighs loudly. “If you two are quite done, I would like to take possession of the painting and leave. The smell is really quite dread—”
    â€œAir conditioning,” I blurt.
    Frank cocks one of his thick barbed-wire eyebrows.
    â€œThat’s why it doesn’t smell,” I explain. “I didn’t take off my jacket, and with the front door open it’s less noticeable, but the air conditioning is on.”
    â€œYeah, the place was real cold when we first entered,” agrees saggy