Invisible Prey by John Sandford Page B

a huge sprawling place put together from two condos, bought when condos were cheap. Now the place was worth a million, if you could get it for that. The balcony looked out over the Mississippi, and windows were open and the faint smell of riverbank carp mixed with the closer odor of spoiled milk, the odor that hangs around babies; and maybe a touch of oil paint, or turpentine.
    “Ah, God,” Kidd called. “Lauren, we’re gonna need a change here. He’s really wet. Ah…shit.”
    “Just a minute…” Lauren was a slender, dark-haired, small-hipped woman with a wide mouth and shower-wet hair down to her shoulders. She was barefoot, wearing a black blouse and faded boot-cut jeans. She came out of the back, buttoning the jeans. “You could do it, you ain’t crippled,” she said to Kidd.
    Kidd said, “Yeah, yeah. This is Detective Davenport…He’s probably got an art problem?” This last was phrased as a question, and they both looked at Lucas as Lauren took the baby.
    Lucas nodded. “You heard about the killings up on Summit?”
    “Yeah. Fuckin’ maniacs,” Kidd said.
    “We’re wondering if it might not be a cover for a crime…” Lucas explained about the murders, about the china cabinet swept of pots, and his theory that real art experts wouldn’t have broken the good stuff, and about getting restorers and antique experts. “But there’s this kid, the nephew of one of the dead women, who said he thinks a couple of old paintings are missing from the attic. All he knows is that they’re old, and one of them had the word ‘reckless’ written on the back. Actually, he said it was painted on the back. I wonder if that might mean something to you? You know of any paintings called Reckless ? Or databases that might list it? Or anything?”
    Kidd’s eyes narrowed, then he said, “Capital r in ‘reckless’?”
    “I don’t know,” Lucas said. “Should there be?”
    “There was an American painter, first half of the twentieth century named Reckless. I might have something on him…”
    Lucas followed him through a studio, into a library, a narrow, darker space, four walls jammed with art books, Lauren and the baby trailing behind. Kidd took down a huge book, flipped through it…“Alphabetical,” he muttered to himself, and he turned more pages, and finally, “Here we go. Stanley Reckless. Sort of funky impressionism. Not bad, but not quite the best.”
    He showed Lucas a color illustration, a riverside scene. Next to them, the baby made a bad smell and seemed pleased. Lucas asked, “How much would a painting like that be worth?”
    Kidd shook his head: “We’ll have to go to the computer for that…I subscribe to an auction survey service.”
    “I want to hear this,” Lauren said. “Bring the laptop into the baby’s room while I change the diaper.” To the baby: “Did you just poop? Did you just poop, you little man? Did you just…”
    Kidd had a black Lenovo laptop in the living room, and they followed Lauren to the baby’s room, a bright little cube with its own view of the river. Kidd had painted cheerful, dancing children all around the lemon-colored walls.
    “Really nice,” Lucas said, looking around.
    “Uh.” Kidd brought up the laptop and Lauren began wiping the baby’s butt with high-end baby-butt cleaner that Lucas recognized from his own changing table. Then Kidd started typing, and a moment later he said, “Says his paintings are rare. Auction record is four hundred fifteen thousand dollars, that was two years ago, and prices are up since then. He had a relatively small oeuvre. The range is down to thirty-two thousand dollars…but that was for a watercolor.”
    “Four hundred fifteen thousand dollars,” Lucas repeated.
    “Yup.”
    “That seems like a lot for one painting, but then, my wife tells me that I’m out of touch,” Lucas said.
    “Shoot, Kidd makes that much,” Lauren said. “He’s not even dead.”
    “Not for one painting,” Kidd said.
    “Not