Sabrina looked at me. "If the photo will suffice, I don't see any problem with it."

"Okay," I said, turning toward Russ. "You've got a deal."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out two copies of a contract. Figures he'd have that already.

We read it over—it was simple and straightforward. We changed the "fifty" to "fifteen" and all initialed it. Then we all signed both copies and gave him back one of them.

"So let's see the painting," I said.

"Not until I get the story."

"Let me at least see the signature, so I know you're not trying to con us. You seem to have a reputation for doing that."

The comment just rolled right off him. He must have cheated so many people, it was just a way of life for him. He pulled away a piece of the paper on the bottom right of the painting. There it was: Lando Ford.

So we gave him the story. Obviously not all of it. He didn't rate that. We told him enough so he'd know why we were looking for the painting, but nothing that could give him any ammunition to go out on his own—not that we had a whole lot of ammunition ourselves. We told him about the museum robbery and how it was all because of this painting. We told him about the Guidrys, without revealing their name, and about Izzy and how the search began.

He seemed satisfied.

He ripped off the rest of the paper wrapping, wrapping that he had so carefully re-taped after looking at it earlier, then held it up for us to see.

I couldn't fault his taste. He was right, it was ugly. The funny thing was, it wasn't just hurriedly dashed off, it really looked as if it was painted by someone who was trying. Mr. Lando Ford just wasn't very good.

We already knew that the painting wasn't going to reveal anything obvious, or Russ would have run with it. We just hoped it would tell us something … something at all. But it didn't look as if that was going to happen.

It was a simple scene: A white, one-story wooden house set on a newly cut lawn, a bright sun hovering overhead, and a single tree in the yard. The tree had a white rounded gash about a foot long down its trunk. About ten feet from the tree—assuming the perspective was correct—was a single headstone. On it was RIP. No name. No date. Just RIP.

The house resembled an old Cape Cod vacation cottage—but there was something that told me it wasn't in the states. Or maybe a southern state. Maybe it was the apparent lack of insulation on the house, but I couldn't tell for sure. But really, the picture reminded me vaguely of the tropics. Anyway, at first glance, that was it. That was the whole painting. Disappointment hung in the air. I looked at Sabrina. I could see it in her eyes. We came all this way for this?