The Icon Thief by Alec Nevala-Lee Page B

sedan, tucking the file up his sleeve. Although the day was warm, he had gloves on both hands. Crossing the street, he made for the row house, glancing up and down the deserted block.
    When he reached the house, instead of going up to the porch, he headed around to the side, where a set ofconcrete steps led to a second door. Through a dusty pane of glass, he could see into the kitchen beyond. He took the bump key from his pocket, inserted it all the way into the lock, then withdrew it one notch. Straightening his arm, he let the file up his sleeve slide into his hand.
    A sharp tap against the key was all it took. Going inside, he closed the door behind him, then paused to listen. The kitchen was silent. Dishes had been stacked in the drying rack by the sink, the fixtures old but clean. The refrigerator droned quietly. Opening it, he saw cubes of raw meat, probably lamb, marinating on the top shelf.
    He went into the darkened parlor, the boards creaking softly beneath his feet. Thick rug, heavy furniture. A Siroun cross above the television. Against the far wall, a curio was filled with decorative plates and photographs.
    Powell took a closer look at the pictures. The first was of a baby with a wide fissure on its upper lip. The next picture showed the same child at the age of three or so, his cleft palate repaired, leaving a faint scar. Other photos depicted the same boy at various ages. The last shot was of him as a teenager, standing beside his grandmother, his shoulders in an adolescent slump.
    Turning away from the photos, Powell checked the rest of the floor, then went downstairs. At the foot of the steps, a rock poster had been taped to a closed door.
System of a Down
.
    Entering the bedroom, he saw that more posters covered the walls, along with cutouts of pinups and action stars. A stereo was surrounded by stacks of pirated discs. There was a pile of textbooks on the floor. The bed had been made, its sheets black, its pillowcases clean butfaded. It seemed far too tidy for a teenager’s room, which meant that the boy’s grandmother had accessed it freely.
    In any case, there was no harm in checking the obvious places. Powell looked under the mattress, then searched the dresser, feeling under the drawers and beneath the sheets of contact paper. He was about to try the closet when his eye was caught by the heap of textbooks, which struck him as out of place. The boy in this room had not been especially studious.
    Examining the books, he found that the thickest volume had been hollowed out. Inside, a rectangular compartment disclosed a disposable lighter, two joints in a plastic bag, and a folded piece of paper. Removing these, he observed that the inside of the compartment bore a number of dark scratches, as if it had formerly contained something that had rubbed against the pages. He put the book to his nose. Inhaling, he caught a whiff of old gunmetal and grease.
    He turned his attention to the piece of paper, which had been torn from a racing magazine. When he unfolded it, he found that it was a photo of a pickup truck the color of a fire engine, a double eagle emblazoned on its ample hood. An old man was leaning against the truck. It was Sharkovsky.
    Powell studied the photo for a moment, then refolded the page and put it back into the compartment, along with the lighter and plastic bag. Satisfied, he returned the textbook to its former place, then headed for the door.
    As he was about to leave, he paused and looked back at the bedroom. In the yard outside, the weeds had grown above the level of the basement window, staining the sunlight the color of grass. Something in the greenquality of the light reminded him of a room on the other side of the ocean, in another house where the lawn had long gone untended. He lingered there for a second longer, allowing himself, for once, to think of home. Then he turned and went softly upstairs.
    Outside, the day had grown cooler. Powell left the house through the kitchen, locking