He replenished the petty cash in his desk drawer, then went out and bought a prepaid phone with some of the rest of it. He sat in the car, setting it up and trying to remember all he could of the Anningers’ man who worked with Marcelline. John replayed the conversations he’d heard, what she’d told the guy in setting up the sale, listening to her play up the notoriety of the painting because she’d said the Anningers liked a side dish of darkness with whatever they were buying.

He tried to imagine what that night had looked like from that other guy’s vantage point, across the alley from Roy’s poor performance. Was any of this still an option?

A little cybersearching turned up a number for an Anninger-held business back near his old life, not far from the gallery where John had met Marcelline. He set his tone for harried, but friendly, ready to plead his case to the clipped, professional drone at the other end of the call.

“Hi. I’m wondering if you can help me. My phone died and I’ve lost all my contacts. I’m screwed. Everything’s gone. I was working on setting up a sale with one of Mr. Anninger’s associates, a big guy named—”

“Let me put you through to sales.”

“No, no wait. I just—”

Click. Hold music.

Call after call. Calls transferred. New numbers suggested. Exasperated verbal shrugs.

“I’m trying to locate one of their associates. He’s a real big guy. His name is Oscar or Otis or something. . . . I’m almost sure his name started with an O. I’m terrible with names.”

The man laughed through his nose, but John heard promise in it. The car had gone stifling with heat and with the boredom of too many dead ends. Goose bumps on John’s scalp was almost as good as a cool breeze.

“I think you mean Owen Haig.”

“Owen! Yes! That was it.”

“Yeah.” There was tapping on the line, a keyboard in the background. “Except now all I’m going to be able to think is Otis next time I see him, and that’ll get me killed for laughing at him. So, thanks for that.” The guy chuckled again. “Otis. Fan-friggin’-tastic. Here’s a number for their call service. Just tell them to put you through to Owen Haig’s voice mail. Got a pen?”

John Cooper looked at the number now typed onto the screen of the throwaway phone in his hand. His pulse throbbed in his head. He watched it banging into his eyes, hypnotizing him. His mind wanted to run away to anything, even into the strobe of his own heartbeat.

He was worried about pinging the Anningers. He was worried about getting this wrong. And he almost couldn’t take any more worry on top of everything else. But just doing nothing was a constant needling itch in his skin.