Chapter LXXVI
CHAPTER LXXVI
When we arrived at Zetta Nadeau’s studio, the gate was locked, her truck was absent, and the house looked deserted. Locking up hadn’t saved her from an encounter with Louis before, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble of breaking in just to confirm no one was home. I called Zetta, but the number rang out without going to voicemail. She either couldn’t get to her phone or she’d made herself scarce.
On the other hand, two SUVs and a pair of panel vans were parked in front of Mark Triton’s cottage, while a trio of men who didn’t resemble art aficionados were watching us with the kind of interest that might have caused less hardy souls to quail. Triton’s front gate was closed. I hit the intercom set into the pillar. A woman’s voice answered, and I identified myself and asked if it might be possible to speak with Mr. Triton. The gate opened, and after a moment’s pause for reflection, I asked Louis to drive us up to the cottage.
“In case we have to bust our way out later?”
“No,” I replied. “Because my falling over while walking would make an abject first impression.”
We pulled up outside the front door and got out. Two of the art nonlovers were keeping a marginally less close eye on us than a third, who had shadowed us on foot from the front gate. He was short and stocky and, in common with his colleagues, didn’t carry himself like regular private security. He was too relaxed—even down to his clothing, which could have done with a wash and an iron—but the casualness didn’t quite tip into cockiness. He was relaxed because he knew what he was doing and had carried out more difficult tasks elsewhere. I couldn’t see a gun, but one would be concealed beneath his black Alpha Industries jacket, the weapon likely to be as worn but well maintained as the jacket itself.
“You think we should thank him for his service?” asked Angel quietly.
“While we’re at it, we can ask him if Wyatt Riggins snores,” I replied, “because I’ll bet he has personal knowledge.”
The front door opened and Mark Triton stepped outside, which saved having to invite us in. Behind him hovered a younger Native American woman. She appeared unhappy to see us, but that might just have been my face.
“Mr. Parker,” said Triton. “It seems you’ve been in the wars.”
I’d met Triton once before, when Zetta was having dinner with him at Boda on Congress. I wondered whether he’d have remembered me had I not first identified myself at the gate. I thought he might, because I was beginning to put together a picture that included him, Zetta, and Wyatt Riggins.
“Stepped on a rake,” I said. “It might have been funny had it been caught on camera. I was looking for Zetta Nadeau.”
“She’s gone away, I believe.” He peered past me to where Louis was standing. “An intruder made her concerned for her safety.”
I gestured at the ex-military goon who had taken up a position to our left, giving him an uninterrupted field of fire. We weren’t the threat, but no one had informed him.
“She doesn’t strike me as the only one with safety concerns,” I said.
“I’m planning a sale of items from my collection,” said Triton. “Some of them are very valuable. These men will guarantee that all goes off without a hitch.”
The Native American woman had quickly left us to our conversation; at least, I could no longer see her. If she was listening, she wouldn’t learn anything because nobody here was telling the truth, or not all of it.
I turned my attention to the goon in the Alpha Industries jacket.
“Did you serve with Wyatt Riggins?” I asked.
His expression didn’t alter. He had the fixed smile of a dead clown.
“Did Riggins own the rake you stepped on, Mr. Parker?” Triton asked. “Through Zetta, I’m aware that you’ve been searching for him.”
“He was reluctant to be found,” I said. “Emphatically so.”
“Then perhaps you should leave him be, and Zetta too.”
“A lot of the people I look for don’t want to be found,” I said. “If I followed your advice, I’d never leave the house.”
“Given your current condition, that might be for the best,” said Triton. “When I see Zetta, I’ll tell her you were asking after her, but I really must be getting back to work.”
I’d kept my right hand in my trouser pocket throughout. It wasn’t as though I’d be much use anyway if Triton decided to have us thrown out. I had my finger on the call button of my cell phone, and now I pressed it. From somewhere inside the house, just before the door closed behind Mark Triton, I heard another cell phone ringing.
Zetta Nadeau’s cell phone.