“Tell me what that is,” she ordered Blake, nodding toward the contents of the envelope. “Tell me what it means.”
“It means,” he answered quietly, “that you and I are going to Savannah.”
“Savannah? The city?” she repeated blankly.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You know another one?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, but never mind that. Why are we going to Savannah?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he promised. “Let’s pack up.”
TARA WAITED until they were settled again into Blake’s pickup truck before saying, “Now tell me what was in the envelope, and why we’re going to Savannah.”
“What would you say,” Blake asked, instead, “if I told you I have reason to believe that the paintings stolen from Jackson Willfort’s apartment in Atlanta were fakes?”
“The paintings he was going to put on display? The ones he bought from the Pryce Gallery?”
Blake nodded.
Tara frowned. “I suppose the first thing I would wonder, considering what the dying man said to me, is who, exactly, knew they were fakes. And then I would ask what the chances are that the robbery was staged for the purpose of insurance fraud—especially after what Spider told us about them not showing up in the usual places where stolen goods are fenced.”
“The legal mind,” Blake murmured admiringly. “Those are both very good questions.”
Tara could probably have come up with several interesting scenarios, but she decided that would be a waste of time at the moment. “Do you have reason to believe the paintings were fakes?”
“If the papers I found in that envelope are legitimate, then yes, I do.”
“So someone in the gallery—presumably the man who was killed—knew the paintin
gs were frauds and contacted someone in the insurance company, who contacted you.”
“And someone else found out, and killed him for it. The killer was probably searching Botkin’s pockets when you came into the room and interrupted him.”
“Not that it would have done him any good, anyway.”
“Right. Because Botkin had already passed the papers to you, without your knowledge.”
Tara chewed her lower lip. “So we’re on our way to find out whether Willfort was involved.”
“Basically,” he agreed.
“Wouldn’t it be more logical for us to stay in Atlanta? Liz Pryce is in Atlanta. The forged paintings came from her gallery. The paintings were stolen from Willfort’s Atlanta apartment. Your informant was murdered in the gallery.”
“Atlanta is too hot for us right now. There are too many people looking for us there, including, most likely, the police. I have a feeling we’ll find some answers in Savannah.”
“These, er, feelings of yours. How reliable are they?”
“Very.”
“But they didn’t tell you something was going to go wrong at the gallery last night.”
He grimaced. “No.”
“So they aren’t infallible.”
“I never said I was infallible.”
“What are we going to do when we get to Savannah?”