The Art of Murder

by Claire Ripley

  I caught sight of the piece of paper in his hand. "What do you have?"

  "Your travel information for New York next week."

  My patience with him snapped. "What the hell? You went in my purse?"

  "You shouldn't go."

  "Shouldn't or can't?"

  Jaw set, he walked toward the door. "I'll check with the station about your car and arrange to get it back here. Have a good night, Ms. Elliott. Make sure you lock your door." He nodded and was gone.

  ✽✽✽

  The pounding drums of Green Day thumped through his headphones and with the next song queuing up, Connor pushed himself for the last mile of his run. He liked taking advantage of the warmer South Carolina winters while he was here in Charleston on this case, away from DC. He could keep up with his morning runs to the river. Watching the pavement for ice and dodging snow and wind was no fun. But then again, after all the training and service he had been through, he shouldn't be such a pansy about running in the snow, he thought wryly.

  The riverfront was just up ahead, and he surged forward, the last quarter mile. Reaching the low wall that divided the pathway from the river below, he leaned over the wall, gazing out at the dim gray sky, his chest heaving to catch his breath. A near daily six mile run kept him in shape and kept his mind sharp. Lifting weights and boxing kept him in fighting shape, but the runs gave him time to mull over investigations and piece things together. Plan his next move.

  His mind turned over the case from the weekend. The witness's account corroborated that it was Sgambati-related. It had all the hallmarks that they were involved with this one too. Murder on the run from a robbery. Art theft was new for them, but he wouldn't dismiss it completely. The white van.

  And the witness. Jesus Christ. Was there a connection between her and the gallery? He thought back to Emma in the interview room, looking shell-shocked and scared. He'd slipped into the interview because he really did hate Officer Steven's style of questioning. Stevens had so many missed opportunities during questioning witnesses and suspects and he wanted to keep an eye on the interview. But he hadn't hated the few minutes he'd gotten of listening to her account. She was spellbinding. Something about her grabbed his attention and he'd wanted to keep watching her. Regardless of how riveting he found her, he'd have to maintain his professional distance. He was so close to arresting the Sgambatis and closing out this investigation and it would serve him well to remain focused on that. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and ran his hands through his hair.

  He couldn't deny the suspicion that stirred in him, nor the protective instinct that flared over him when he watched her in the pizzeria. Emma Elliott had no idea what mess she had just gotten involved in. She lived alone; she had told him. Keeping her alive and safe was going to be a full-time job.

  Her plane ticket to New York was bothering him too. She wouldn't have told him had her purse not spilled over and the ticket fallen out. She hadn't wanted to tell him what was in New York and why she was going alone. Something wasn't sitting right with him and he planned on finding out exactly what that was. He had told her he would be accompanying her, and then proceeded to watch Emma throw her version of a fit. She was gorgeous even when pissed. He told himself he had his own suspicions of her involvement, but also that whether or not she knew it, the Sgambatis stole her painting for a reason. In the back of his mind, he knew he would be taking a trip to New York. She brought out a fierce protectiveness in him, the same one he'd honed back in his military days. The same one he hadn't felt in years.

  He'd enlisted as soon as he turned eighteen his senior year of high school. His sister had raised him, and he knew he was preventing her from finishing her own college degree. The four years for him to finish high school had been rough on the both of them, but somehow, they'd made it. Enlisting gave him direction and got him out of her hair. He was well aware of the stress his sister carried back then, from watching out for him to paying the rent and keeping the two of them fed. The Navy gave him something to do, and along the way he had hoped it would help him figure out what he wanted to do with his life. Save the world. Right the wrongs. Catch the bad guys. Keep what had happened to him and Abby from happening to someone else. Even if it was just one kid.

  And it had worked out. Promotion after promotion, he served overseas as a SEAL, something his sister never shut up about. He was just doing his duty. Following orders and completing a mission. A few years ago, he'd retired from his SEAL Team and took up an offer from the FBI in white collar crime. A nice way of saying he investigated Wall Street cheats and organized crime. Those criminals dressed nice and looked the part, sure, but they were just as ruthless.

  His life today continued in military time, benchmarked by which investigation he was working on. He relished it for the precision. His investigations were black and white, right and wrong so clearly defined. His comfort zone was guns and the high from an arrest after an undercover operation. The pursuit. His coworkers weren't much better. They blew off steam the best way they knew how. Grab beers and pick up women. None of them had a home life. The White Collar Crime division he worked for was depressing enough. The drug division was even worse. He couldn't afford to lose his edge. It kept him alive in investigations and kept his instincts sharp.

  This mess with the Sgambati brothers was getting messier and he would be damned if he lost their tail now. He had been dutifully shadowing the two men and their whereabouts, gleaning information from an inside source and building his case. One robbery wasn't enough. He knew without a doubt the Sgambati brothers were connected to a trail of murders and robberies that dotted up and down the East coast. He needed solid evidence that wouldn't slip through the cracks of the system. And of course, he got the tip that the robbery was taking place at the art gallery and stationed himself accordingly to record it. And then he had seen Emma Elliott, in the wide open on the sidewalk, knocked down by the runner and on her hands and knees. Perched within their crosshairs and frozen in place. Connor got the footage he needed, but he'd called off the team he had with them, fearing Emma's position would compromise their ambush. Emma's safety now posed another layer of security and complications.

  He could have easily called Chief Jacobson at the Charleston PD for protective custody and had the woman safely guarded within the hour.

  But he didn't. Instead, he stalked her at the pizza restaurant, came on to her, and in the next breath, threatened her. He wanted to oversee her safety himself. He knew how the Sgambatis worked, and Emma had a unique role that he hadn't yet figured out.

  Five

  I took another long sip of my coffee and squinted at the scrawl on the legal pad. It was already midmorning and I was relieved for the distraction of work. The rest of the weekend had been long, and I couldn't shake the nagging feeling of looking over my shoulder for something or someone. It didn't help that I lived alone, and Agent Jackson had been quick to remind me of the fact. After a quiet Sunday holed up in my apartment, I was never so glad to see Monday morning. I was ready to put the weekend and the disturbing events behind me and get started on the work week.

  As usual, I was up early, starting the day painting, listening to an opera and getting lost in something I loved. When the weather was warm enough, I opened a window to hear the birds. To cheer myself up and shake off the nerves and bad dreams, I dressed in one of my favorite outfits, a high-waisted gray pencil skirt and silky pink blouse. My pumps were a matching pale pink, and while I knew the dress code at the office was ultra conservative, I didn't care. I was an artist first, and pink pumps were what I needed today. Dress code be damned.

  True to his word, Agent Jackson had my car delivered in front of my apartment Sunday. The towing agency knocked on my door yesterday afternoon, scaring the living daylights out of me. The driver handed over two keys, advised the paperwork had been processed, and wished me a good day. After the shock wore off, I had silently thanked Agent Jackson for his helpfulness and immediately felt conflicted, remembering the suspicions he ha
d voiced the day before.

  Regardless, having my car towed and re-keyed was a hassle and an expense I couldn't afford and he had it taken care of swiftly. I remembered the business card he'd handed me Saturday, demanding that I put his number in my phone as a precaution. As I drove into work I thought I should thank him for his help, and then decided against it, assuming he was too busy for bothersome texts.

  He didn't give me his number so I could text him!

  Arriving at the office, I went through my usual routine: poured myself a cup of coffee in the office kitchen, then checking my inbox and voicemail.

  "You'll never guess what I did this weekend!" Caty's voice cut through my concentration, and I glanced up to see her leaning excitedly over the cubicle wall, a secretive smile stretching over her face. Today her blond hair was pulled back in a top knot, accenting her face and the hint of pink lipstick on her lips. I silently wished I could look that effortless.

  "Hmm, ditched your friend Saturday?" I couldn't resist. I rarely let people get close to me and was annoyed we didn't have the chance to talk over the weekend. Caty had no way of knowing what had happened to me, but nevertheless, we made plans twice, and she bailed on me both times. No call, no show.

  "Emma, I'm so sorry! I got pulled into research last minute Friday", she said with a mock pout. "Drinks on me next time, okay?"

  "And what happened to you Saturday? I was waiting for over hour before I realized you weren't coming—or even calling."

  The pout disappeared and a frown creased her face. "It was an honest oversight, okay? I made plans with you, and then had a blind date at the same time. This guy I was telling you about, and I don't know why I double-booked myself, I just totally spaced."

  What could I do? She was my only friend in Charleston. Caty's mood could fluctuate faster than a tech stock on Wall Street and I struggled to make sense of it. I was torn between pressing the issue, thinking of the unanswered texts sent to her before Agent Jackson showed up. "It's fine, Caty. I was really worried about you Saturday. Just answer your phone next time, okay?"

  She smiled widely again and filled me in on her weekend and the blind date that didn't turn out to be half-bad.

  "Is there a date number two?" I asked, watching Caty brim with excitement. The girl seemed to vibrate with enthusiasm.

  "Tomorrow night. He's—”

  "Emma, I need this report typed and submitted by noon." Linda's terse voice interrupted our conversation as she approached my cubicle, dropping the file on my desk.

  "Thanks, I have what I need," Caty cut in, quickly covering for me. She grinned and left.

  With a pointed look, Linda blessedly left as well. I exhaled, opened the folder, and began to work.

  ✽✽✽

  The knock sounded on my apartment door, signaling Caty's arrival. We had agreed to have dinner and catch-up after work. I'd already changed into yoga pants and a long sleeve t-shirt and opened the door.

  "Hi!" Caty chirped. Like me, she was outfitted in athleisure thanks to a gym bag she kept at the office. She came in and dropped her purse on the floor. "You really should get a dog or something in here. It would be so much more friendly. I brought wine," she said, beaming as she held up the bottle. She rooted through several kitchen drawerss until she found a cork-screw.

  "The last thing I need is to be responsible for another living being," I laughed. "Besides, this is a tiny apartment and my art studio. I have paint everywhere." I lifted the lid to the pot on the stove. "Vegetable soup for us tonight."

  "It smells amazing. Did you make it?"

  "I opened two cans and dumped it in the pot, if that counts?"

  "Totally counts. What'd you do this weekend?"

  We settled at the counter in the kitchenette and I recapped the weekend's events, focusing on Friday night's crimes and eliminating details about Agent Jackson driving me home. I wasn't sure what to make of him, and it felt odd telling Caty how he suspected me of being involved.

  "Oh my God, Emma. That is just...insane," Caty breathed, once I finished. She nibbled on a cracker and dunked in the bowl of soup before speaking again. "Are you safe? Do you want to stay with me?"

  "No, no, it's fine. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you. Plus I have all these canvases that are nearly finished and will be delivered for my show soon, so..." I drifted off, and glanced toward the paintings. The murder had certainly complicated the upcoming show.

  "You mentioned the FBI agent when you were at the police station. Is he hot?" Caty giggled, effectively changing the subject.

  Leave it to Caty to focus on the opposite sex, I thought with an eye roll. "Only you would bring up something like that!" I replied and reached for my wine. "It doesn't matter. He's too busy finding suspects and questioning people connected to the gallery."

  "So he is hot, and an FBI agent."

  "Seriously, he's off the table. He's way older than me and too involved in this thing. It's not happening. Besides, I'm busy holding down two jobs," I told her defensively.

  "Have it your way" she said sarcastically, clearly not buying my explanation. "I can't believe you're a witness. Do you have any idea who's behind it?"

  I shook my head. "No clue. I'm not exactly trying to solve the case, but baffled why they'd take one of my paintings."

  "Whoa."

  "Yeah, no kidding. I mean, through Nina's connections I have a very small following of clients. I don't know how this has anything to do with my work."

  Caty cocked an eyebrow at me. "Do you need a lawyer? I happen to know a few."

  I laughed. "I don't think I'm at that point yet, but thanks." Hopefully I wouldn't need a lawyer to make it through the investigation as the witness, but the uneasy feeling returned.

  I refilled our soup bowls and we ate in comfortable silence.

  Caty finished first, taking her things to the sink and returning with the bottle of wine. "So I have something to tell you, and I'm not sure what to make of it." She folded her legs under her on the sofa. "I mean, I probably shouldn't make too much of it or say anything in the first place, but you know how my parents have the restaurant, right?"

  Caty's parents owned a seafood restaurant in downtown Charleston that bore their family's name, Drake's. It was fancy and way out of my price range, but I'd heard it was a desirable place for a business or dinner date.

  "I was helping out at the restaurant last night. It was late. I went back in the kitchen to drop off the reservation book in the office and overheard a conversation between my dad and someone else. It just seemed off."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know the business had trouble recently with some debts, but thought things were okay now. I mean, my father hasn't really said much. He just seemed stressed."

  I finished my soup, returned the bowl to the kitchen and topped-off our wine. "So, what's the problem? He's a little stressed with the restaurant. Restaurants are busy—you know that better than anyone, and being stressed about business isn't all that unusual."

  "I overheard him with someone whose voice I didn't recognize. Something he said bugged me. He's lending my dad money, with interest, and said it has to be repaid in one month. It gave me the creeps."

  "Did you see who it was?"

  "No, I ducked out of there and went home. I didn't want Dad to know I heard their conversation. It gave me a bad feeling."

  "I'm sure it's fine," I reassured her. "So your dad borrowed some cash and he'll repay the loan. Is it a lot of money?"

  "No idea."

  "You're practically a lawyer, but not an investigator. I would just stay out of it."

  "You're right. It's probably nothing." Caty refilled her empty glass. "I forgot to tell you about the paralegals I saw making out in the stairwell at work," she said mischievously and brought me up to speed on office gossip.

  Caty left shortly after finishing the wine and my small studio suddenly felt larger and lonelier than before. I've never minded being alone. Having grown up as an orphan, I was accustomed to it. But to
night was different, the familiar pangs of uneasiness settled back in. Following tonight's conversation with Caty about the murder, I was reminded of Agent Jackson's warning that as a witness, I needed to be careful. "Get a grip," I said out loud, the sound of my voice more soothing than the words themselves. I sat on the couch and stared at my canvases – evidence of my career as an artist and reason for moving here, and now, a reminder of a murder and robbery. I'd been happy to leave Alabama and its memories and enjoyed life in Charleston. I knew living alone in a strange city would have its ups and downs.

  Tonight, it was hard.

  Six

  Tuesday morning came all too soon. Even after a deep sleep, the wine and stress left me groggy. I stumbled around my studio getting ready for work. I was late, and rather than blow-drying my hair, fluffed it with my hands, stared into my closet as I often did, and pondered what to wear. I opted for a tweed dress with a white button down underneath, a recent consignment find that looked brand new. I slipped into my clothes in record time and planned to discreetly apply minimal make-up—mascara and lip gloss—at my desk. Locking the door, I heard someone calling my name.

  Trevor was clearly just getting home and stood at his doorway. He looked spent, his long blond hair disheveled and shadows beginning to show on his face. This morning's shirt read Cleverly disguised as an adult.

  "Good morning to you too," I responded with a smile. Given our less than gentrified neighborhood, I appreciated Trevor checking in on me and despite my reluctance to ask others for help, found his presence across the hall comforting.

  "Headed to work?" He shoved a hand through his hair and propped himself up against the doorframe. Trevor was all charm and fun and easygoing personality. He was a good neighbor, with an easygoing smile and willing to help his neighbors when needed. For all his good traits I could look past the not-so-quiet late night comings and goings and the revolving door of women. Still, he was like the little brother I never had, and I enjoyed what I had seen of him so far since moving in.