“Who else have you shown that emblem to?”
“Nobody.”
She shook her head.
“I’ve never painted it before today.”
“Why today?”
Sky met his eyes.
“Because today was the first time I found somewhere that deserved it.”
The silence lasted two more seconds.
Then Jimmy nodded once.
Short.
Decisive.
“You’re on.”
Sky blinked.
“Tips for the first week. We talk after that.”
Jimmy turned toward the room.
“Somebody set her up at the second bench. Move Carver’s stuff.”
Carver, to his credit, moved his things without complaint.
Actually, he moved them with enough enthusiasm that Strand noticed.
“What?” Carver asked.
“Nothing.”
Strand looked toward Sky.
“Luther used to work that bench.”
Sky froze.
“Left bench. Second from the window. That’s where he always set up.”
Something crossed her face.
“I know.”
Strand stared.
“He told me.”
Sky carried her brush case to the second bench.
She placed it down.
And for a moment, it felt as though everything had clicked into place.
The new arrangement had settled.
The room could breathe again.
But nothing about that day was going to remain simple.
Twenty minutes later, while Sky cleaned her brushes and Devlin explained the current project lineup, the side door opened again.
Not like Sky had opened it.
This was cautious.
A head appeared first.
Mid-forties.
Side-parted hair.
Clean-shaven.
Khaki jacket.
The kind of man who looked at a motorcycle garage the way someone looks at a dog they are not sure is friendly.
“I’m looking for…”
He stepped inside.
“I was told this was Garland’s.”
Jimmy did not turn around.
“It’s closed.”
The man looked around.
“Right. I can see that, but I was told…”
He carried a thick clasp folder beneath one arm.
His eyes moved around the room.
They stopped on Sky for only a moment.
But Sky noticed.
She immediately turned her back toward him.
Not casually.
Deliberately.
“I’m looking for someone,” the man said. “I’m a private investigator. Harlan Briggs, and I have…”
“I said it’s closed.”
Jimmy turned now.
When Jimmy Rourke gave someone his full attention, it was a specific experience.
“That means you. Whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it here.”
Harlan Briggs looked at him.
He was intelligent enough to understand what he was facing.
He visibly recalculated.
“I have documentation. I’m not here to cause problems. I’m looking for a minor.”
“There are no minors here.”
“She’s eighteen now, technically, but the party I represent has legal interest in her whereabouts as of…”
“You have a badge?” Jimmy asked.
“I’m a private investigator.”
“So no.”
Jimmy stepped slightly closer.
“Then you’ve got nothing. Private investigators don’t get to walk onto private property and interrogate people.”
Briggs said nothing.
“You know that. I know that.”
Jimmy pointed toward the door.
“So you can turn around and leave, or I can call somebody who knows that better than both of us and we can have a much longer conversation.”
He paused.
“Your choice. You’ve got about four seconds.”
Briggs stood there.
His eyes went once more toward the back.
Toward Sky.
She remained at the bench with her back to him.
Very still.