Chapter 19

The search warrant for both of Priscilla Kroyn's San Diego homes—her mansion on Presidio Drive, and her penthouse condo in the Astor Place Towers—arrived just after lunchtime. Word was that Ophelia Jackson's boss, the district attorney, while begrudgingly recognizing the legal merits of the warrants, was not happy that one of San Diego's leading citizens—not to mention her closefriend—was even being discussed with regards to the art theft case. Apparently, however, Jackson's arguments had been persuasive.

Emily rode along in Tom's car when he and his team of detectives, along with five uniformed officers, executed each warrant, but she was not allowed to accompany the police inside, and had to wait in the car.

The mansion had been the first stop. While waiting, Emily had been struck by the beauty of the estate. It was a post-modernist work of art, and she allowed her mind to stray from that matter at hand to look at the house from a different perspective.

It was—to put it crudely—a panty-wetting sight. It screamed wealth and luxury and an amazing life without a care in the world. Emily was certain that the assortment of debutantes, bored housewives, ingénues, actresses, and pop stars that Priscilla Kroyn was known to have flings with had more than willingly shed their clothes—and quite a few of their inhibitions—just by being in that house. And she had to admit that she wouldn't mind finding out what having a night of no-holds-barred sex within those doors would be like.

Staring at the house also had the effect of convincing Emily one thing—that is, once she had gotten her mind out of the gutter.

The Young Shepherdesswas in there. She felt it. She knew this was where Priscilla would have taken the painting—this lovely setting overlooking the ocean.

Unsurprisingly, however, the search turned up nothing. As much as she had expected that result, Emily had felt disappointed.

"Nothing!" Tom had said, getting back into the car. Emily could sense the barely contained hostility within him. "I'm telling you, Ms. Bacon, you tipped her off and she fucking hid it!" He had then picked up the second search warrant—the one for the penthouse—from the center console of the car's interior, and waved it in front of her face. "Do we even need to bother executing this one? I'm telling you…that painting is in someone's closet in Mongolia by now, thanks to you!"

At that moment, Emily had actually felt awful…like she had in fact screwed up. Tom's outburst—particularly the thanks to you part—had stung. It had reminded her of past mistakes when her impetuosity and win-at-all-costs attitude had made others say to her some iteration of Tom's barb…

"All because of you…"

"Way to fuck this one up…"

"You dropped the ball on this one, Em…"

Emily had sat there, wondering if she had underestimated Priscilla Kroyn, and perhaps caused The Young Shepherdess to remain hidden forever.

Naturally, they did execute the penthouse search warrant. Again, Emily remained in the car, waiting, where she was now, nervously biting one of her thumbnails as she considered her options.

Suddenly, her phone started chirping….multiple times.

Activating the screen, she then realized that Tom's sarcasm had reached new heights…

From upstairs, he had sent her a text message.

Any chance this one is stolen?

Attached to the message was a picture from Picasso's Rose Period that was hanging on Priscilla's wall.

On the heels of that message was another one.

What about this one? Anybody looking for this one?

The picture attached to that message showed a Mondrian.

And he continued…

Any museums missing whatever the hell this is?

Whatever the hell this ishappened to be a Georgia O'Keeffe—one of her decidedly vulva-esque flower paintings, done in New Mexico.

Emily sighed and started grinding her teeth.

Fucking smartass!

She put the phone back in her handbag, even though it continued pinging with additional messages.

About twenty minutes later, Tom and his team exited the Astor Place Towers.

"Did you have fun with all those messages?" Emily snarkily asked.

"I'll admit I got a certain guilty pleasure out of that, yes," he said. "Oh, by the way…no trace of the girl."

Emily gave him her best side-eye.

"Yeah, I figured that when you didn't walk out with it, thank you," she said.

"On the plus side," Tom went on, "I'm beginning to believe you're right."

Emily snapped her head to the left, her brow furrowed with her confusion.

"You do?" she asked.

Tom nodded.

"If anyone could have pulled this off, it's that woman," he said. "She has the money to do all that James Bond shit, and she had plenty of spare time to plan it. I mean, it's not like she has to worry about paying her bills like the rest of us poor slobs. Also, it's obvious she's crazy about art, and is used to getting whatever she wants. Plus…"

He made a face as though trying to figure something out, and he held his hands in front of him as though wanting to grab an object he couldn't quite see.

"There's just something about being in her house," he said. "Or I should say, houses. You just get the feeling that she would do something like that! But I can't explain why, and it's driving me crazy!"

"She'll slip up!" Emily said with insistence. "She's a fucking smug bitch who can't imagine losing! But she will lose focus and become her own worst enemy!"

"Yeah?" Tom began. "And exactly what's gonna make a woman like that lose focus?"

Emily stopped looking at him and stared out the car's front window.

"Me," she told him.

***

Emily exited the high-rise building which contained her downtown condo at exactly 7 p.m. that night. Waiting for her at the curb in front of the building was a blue Bentley limo, complete with a chauffeur standing beside it, who opened the rear door as she approached.

"Hello," she purred to Priscilla once she was inside.

"Hello," Priscilla replied. "You look gorgeous."

Emily smiled.

"Thank you," she said.

She had on a Champagne-colored Galia Lahav sheath dress with a plunging neckline.

Priscilla, meanwhile, was beyond gorgeous herself, and Emily couldn't prevent her eyes from looking her over from head to toe, despite her pledge to herself to be what she called warmly cool.

Priscilla was wearing a cocktail dress, the hem of which was higher than that on Emily's garment. It also had a plunging neckline, but it was how it showed off Priscilla's legs that was making Emily yearn for this woman…whom she suspected of stealing a work of art.

Priscilla's legs were just so long, and their skin seemed absolutely silky! What's more, Emily could swear they shimmered slightly.

She blinked rapidly to ensure she didn't lose her composure.

"So…how are you?" she asked as the car began driving away.

"How am I?" Priscilla said thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling. "Hmm…it was a busy day for me! I worked from home, and ended up making a few new friends who are associated with the San Diego Police Department. Oh, we had a grand old time while they searched my house. I believe I've been invited to their annual year-end ball in December."

Emily laughed.

"I hope they didn't make too much of a mess of things," she said.

Priscilla shook her head.

"Not at all," she answered. "As it turned out, my attorney happened to be there with me."

Emily blinked.

"Is that right?" she prodded. Tom hadn't mentioned that. Had the attorney being there been a coincidence, or the result of their brief interaction last night?

"Mm," Priscilla hummed, nodding. "She made sure things didn't get too aggressive. As did one of the partners at her firm when the police visited my penthouse."

She had been expecting us…

"Well, it must have made you feel rather pleased when they came up empty-handed," she said.

Priscilla sucked her teeth and furrowed her brow.

"More like it made me think they didn't look hard enough," she said.

Emily barely prevented herself from gasping at the audacity of that statement. She tried to think of a more powerful word for the thought that was running through her head, but her mental thesaurus was not functioning…

Smug bitch!

"So, where are we going for dinner?" she asked cavalierly.

"Addison," Priscilla answered.

This time, Emily did gasp. It took a lot to impress her, but this did it.

Addison was the only Michelin-starred restaurant in San Diego. And it had three of those! One did not just show up and expect to be seated. But Priscilla had only invited her out to dinner last night. So how did…

"I'm impressed you got a reservation on such short notice," she said, fishing.

Priscilla did one of those throat laughs—a barely audible snicker that could be mistaken for someone trying to discreetly cough. On her lips was an amused little grin as she looked at Emily with something akin to pity.

"Reservation," she said, actually letting out a chuckle as she said it. "You're cute."

She reached forward and tucked a stray strand of Emily's hair behind her ear.

Emily's clit went bam!

***

Sure enough, at Addison, they just walked right in.

Emily wanted to laugh.

She had managed to build a good life for herself, and to most people, she was quite rich. Her base salary from Geneva Excess—for art authenticating and appraising—was upper tax bracket in most countries. But her big money came from finding stolen paintings. To many folks, five percent of anything didn't sound like a lot. But when they did the math on five percent of, say, $20,000,000, or $50,000,000, they came to realize that finding stolen artworks meant a huge payday for her. And when that commission was invested wisely, it meant she was very comfortable.

But she was not in Priscilla Kroyn's league.

She wouldn't have been able to walk into Addison with at most twelve hours' notice. And she certainly wouldn't have been treated by the staff as though they were afraid she would change her mind and go somewhere else.

Once they were seated—at a prime table, no less—their server asked what they would like to drink.

"Bring me my usual, please, Ingrid," Priscilla said. She then looked at Emily. "And my companion here will have a boulevardier…with a twist of lemon instead of orange."

"Right away," Ingrid said, leaving their table.

Emily chuckled.

"Nice," she said. "Very well done."

"Well, you have your sources…I have mine," Priscilla replied. "I can't imagine that the one—or is it two—bars in Elm Village, Indiana have even heard of a boulevardier, let alone know how to make one."

Careful, Em…

Even more than before, Emily was beginning to realize that her opponent was formidable. Who knew what else Priscilla had been able to dig up about her past.

"It's definitely more of a beer town," she said. "One of the reasons why I wanted to be sure I left."

"Your brothers stayed, though," Priscilla stated. "That's interesting."

Emily met Priscilla's eyes.

"They like beer," she returned.

She had always been the odd duck in her family. Not only growing up realizing she liked girls—which she had kept very secret in that town—but also having a strong interest in what her mother jokingly termed fancy-schmancy stuff, including art and classical music. She had also hated Elm Village itself. It was a limiting, homogenous town where kids grew up expecting to never leave and to become just like their parents. That typically meant the girls were pregnant between sixteen and eighteen, and the boys became mechanics or factory workers. It was a place where the two bars were in fact the only places to go for entertainment—so no wonder so many residents had drinking problems—and where everyone seemed to wear their blue-collar status like fur-lined mantles.

Their drinks arrived quickly, considering how busy the restaurant was. Once more, Emily was certain that was due to Priscilla's influence.

After Ingrid had placed Priscilla's martini before her, Priscilla said, "Do me a favor, Ingrid. Send a bottle of Cabernet to the two gentlemen outside, sitting in a brown Ford."

"Absolutely," Ingrid replied. If she thought the request odd, she didn't show it.

Priscilla looked back at Emily.

"They strike me as red wine drinkers," she quipped.

Emily couldn't help but laugh.

"It wasn't my idea," she said.

She didn't know how Tom had done it, but he had convinced Lieutenant Randolph to authorize surveillance on Priscilla. It probably shouldn't have surprised her that the surveillance had already been noticed.

Priscilla lifted her martini.

"To…the chase," she said, cocking an eyebrow at Emily.

Emily narrowed her eyes, but lifted her glass.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a smug bitch?" she asked.

"My mother does so quite frequently," Priscilla said. "Which is why she's safely tucked away in a townhouse in London. Cheers."

They clinked glasses and drank, Emily staring at Priscilla over the rim of hers.

Careful Em…