"Well?" asked Russ.

"Well, nothing," I answered. "I don't have a clue. It means nothing to me."

"Don't fuck with me."

"He's not," said Sabrina, coming to my aid. "It tells us nothing. There isn't anything in the picture to indicate where this house could be. No signs, no people … nothing." She was avoiding mentioning the tree. Would he catch it?

He caught it.

"That slash in the tree," he said. "Could be a clue. The headstone. Or maybe the type of tree itself. Do you know what it is?"

"I don't," I replied, "and we will research it. There might be a clue there, but at best it might lead us to a general area of the world. What then? We Google Earth it and hope we hit on this scene? And remember, this was painted in the '30s—what are the chances of that house still being there? Or even the tree? The painting might be of some use further down the line if we can find some other clues, but for now, it's pretty worthless."

While I was talking, Sabrina was taking pictures of the painting with her cell phone—all different angles. Then she picked it up and scoured every inch—front, back, and the edge of the canvas—for any writing that may have faded over time. Then she gave it to me and I did the same thing. I didn't bother handing it to Russ when I was finished. I was sure he had already inspected it from top to bottom.

Russ stayed another few minutes, getting our cell phone numbers—and trying them in case we were giving him fake numbers. A trusting soul. We took his information, and he left, painting in hand, with a simple statement. "Keep me informed."

*****

There was nothing more we could do about it that night, so Sabrina took some time to answer emails from her publisher and agent. Then we took a long shower together and headed for bed.

We had just closed our eyes when our door burst open and two men rushed in.

So much for security locks.

Both carried guns, and both guns were pointed at us.

Chapter 19

I didn't see where Sabrina's magic could get us out of this one. We were under the covers. They had us just where they wanted us. But they also knew that the noise of breaking through a hotel door at two in the morning left them precious little time to do what they came for.

They were pretty nondescript—average height, average weight, late-twenties to early thirties, and dark hair. It's not like they were twins or anything; they just had the same general look. The only distinguishing feature was a full arm tattoo of a dragon on one of them. The artwork wasn't very good.

"Where's the painting?" demanded tattoo-guy.

"What painting?" I asked with a dumb expression. My strong point.

"Don't fuck with me. A man was seen coming in the hotel with a painting. Where is it?"