Relatively Risky by Pauline Baird Jones

her to be decently good. But she was better than that. Not that he was an art critic, but he liked what he saw.
    It wasn’t just the white of the page and gray of the pencil that made it so surprising. The sketches were small, but well done. There was one of him getting jacked by the kid. She’d caught the humor of it. The contrast. He gave her a quick glance and got an apologetic grimace. His gaze got caught by another sketch, across from his. He blinked. Tapped it.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asked, even though he knew.
    She angled her head to look. “Oh, a client. Sarah had an appointment so I had to meet with him.”
    â€œDimitri Afoniki was here? In this house?” It had to be a weird coincidence.
    Her brow wrinkled. “His uncle hired us to cater his dinner party.”
    In one day, she’d had contact with a wise geezer who died and the evil nephew of another. And got shot at. Hi gut twitched, but it refused to tell him what or why. And his brain couldn’t find the connection between the three events, though he pressed it.
    â€œYou ever met him before?”
    She shook her head. It helped. Some. Though his gut still twitched with unease.
    â€œWhy does it matter?”
    Alex hesitated. “New Orleans has a mob trifecta we call the three wise geezers, or rather we did,” he added, casting a glance at the frozen television screen.
    â€œGeezers?”
    â€œThey’re really, really old.”
    Nell straightened. “St. Cyr, Afoniki and—”
    â€œCalvino.” He half expected to hear she’d met him today, too. She frowned. “Don’t tell me you met him?”
    Nell half grinned, shook her head, then paused. “Might have served him canapés, but not even sure about that. We did this big fundraiser last week with some other catering companies. Seems like I’ve heard the name, but it doesn’t mean he was there…”
    Not sure whether to be relieved or not, he returned his attention to her sketched mental dump—yeah, that was St. Cyr. No question. She’d managed to capture the moment. And the sinister quality of both men.
    The river, the Moon Walk, the old man on the bench. He even got the impression of light and dark, of sun and cloud, all with a pencil. In one cameo, the old man leaned toward her. The angle was from the ground, the other man standing aloof, behind him, though his hand was outstretched. Reluctance in every line. Hard-faced, cold eyes. Alex shifted his attention to the old man. She’d caught something in his eyes, though he didn’t know what—the more he looked, the more the drawing flattened out. It was like he had to glance, then look away, and think about it. He leaned back, trying to figure out what he’d seen. When he couldn’t, he sighed, looking down again. Something bothered him— “His cane was tucked in.” He tapped the drawing.
    Nell shrugged. “Maybe he’d started to stand. I was looking at the river when it happened, trying to get by without making eye contact.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t have stuck it out to stand up.” If anything, it would have been closer to his body. “You sure you didn’t trip on his foot?”
    She tipped her head to one side. “Only if he has a wooden leg.”
    Could St. Cyr have tripped her on purpose? But why? Nell wasn’t a stripper or under twenty-five. Not remotely St. Cyr’s type. But he’d smiled at her. Noticed her at least once before tripping her. He looked at the drawing again, and this time he caught it—the look that puzzled him. He’d known he was going to die. Alex had seen too many men on the brink of death not to recognize the look. So he could have tripped Nell to—what? Tell her she needed to use sunscreen?
    â€œThis is going to sound weird,” Nell said, shifting uneasily in her chair, “but I thought he did it on purpose. It’s like he knew I didn’t