"Where do you think you're going?"
West halted. "Just got in," he said. "Looking for a friend of mine. By the name of Nevin."
Inside the pocket of his suit, he felt Annabelle stirring restlessly. Probably she was getting cold.
"Nevin?" asked the man, a note of alarm chilling his voice. "What do you want of Nevin?"
"He's got a painting," West declared.
The man's voice turned silky and dangerous. "How much do you know about Nevin and his painting?"
"Not much," said West. "That's why I'm here. Wanted to talk with him about it."
Annabelle turned a somersault inside West's zippered pocket. The man's eyes caught the movement.
"What you got in there?" he demanded, suspiciously.
"Annabelle," said West. "She's—well, she's something like a skinned rat, partly, with a face that's almost human, except it's practically all mouth."