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debts a few years later.”
    “Yes, I heard something about that.” I had a cloudy memory of my parents arguing because Roman had bailed Zach out again, but I shook it away, anxious to deflect Kiernan from the direction he was headed in. “You can’t think Zach had anything to do with the burglary? He’s one of my father’s oldest friends.”
    “We have to examine
all
possibilities, Miss James. I’m sure you want us to find whoever is responsible for doing this to your father.” He tilted his chin in Roman’s direction and stopped. Following his gaze I saw that my father’s eyes were flickering open. I got up and moved quickly to his side.
    “Dad? Can you hear me?” Roman’s eyes opened and focused on me. His lips stretched apart—an attempted smile that turned into a grimace of pain. “Dad, it’s okay. You’re in St. Vincent’s. You were shot but you’re going to be okay.” I looked up at Detective Kiernan, who had moved to the other side of the bed and was studying Roman’s face. “Please get the nurse!” I said. Kiernan hesitated a fraction of an instant, then turned and strode quickly from the room. When I was sure he was out of the room, I looked back down at my father and took his hand.
    “There was a burglary, Dad. Three men broke in and stole the paintings in the safe. Do you remember if you locked the safe after Zach left?” Then, lowering my voice to a whisper: “Did you give the safe combination to Zach?”
    “It’s okay, dear,” Roman said. I felt his fingers moving; he was trying to pat my hand but barely had the strength. “They were insured. As long as you’re all right, Margot, everything . . . everything . . .”
    “It’s me, Dad,” I said wincing at the sound of my mother’s name on my father’s lips. “It’s Garet. Mom’s . . . mom’s not here.”
    My father tried to smile again, but another pain contorted his face. “Garet,” he said. “You look more and more like your mother every day . . .” Then his eyelids fluttered closed. The detective returned with the nurse and a doctor, who examined Roman and said his vital signs were strong.
    “So there’s probably no danger in Miss James leaving for anhour?” Kiernan said to the doctor. “She lives just a few blocks away and I need her to go over the crime scene with me.”
    The doctor not only concurred, but urged me to go out and get some air. He assured me that the floor nurse would call my cell phone if there was any change. Within minutes Detective Kiernan and I were on the street walking west toward the town house. It did feel good to be out in the air. Yesterday’s storm had passed leaving a blue sky and crisp, cold air; the morning sun had banished the ominous shadows from the avenue. Detective Kiernan didn’t bring up Zach Reese again during our walk. Instead he asked about the paintings that had been in the safe.
    “I’ll have to look at the inventory, of course,” I told him. “But I remember them.” I listed each painting and its estimated value, ending with the Pissarros.
    “Of course value’s a relative term in the art market, isn’t it?” Detective Kiernan asked. “Those Pissarros didn’t sell at auction. That must bring down their value.”
    “I’m just giving you the valuation the insurance company assigned when the current policy was renewed several months ago.”
    “So that was prior to the current downturn in the market. Conceivably the paintings might be insured for more than they’re worth in this market, couldn’t they be?”
    We’d reached the steps to the brownstone, but the detective’s question brought me up short.
The insurance.
My father had just reassured me that the paintings were insured. And last night before he went to bed he had said,
Something will turn up.
But he wouldn’t have . . . ? Detective Kiernan
couldn’t
think that my father had arranged the theft and beingshot to collect the insurance? He was smiling at me, his face as bland and mild as