by Nupur Tustin
Chapter Thirteen
It was 3:05 a.m. when Amtrak Thruway Coach 4768 pulled up at the Paso Robles Intermodal Station. The man seated on a black metal bench within the vestibule, formed by the station’s gable roof and its green walls, waited until the coach eased alongside the curb directly in front of the entrance.
When the bus came to a stop and the two passengers ahead of him had finished boarding, he emerged from his shelter, took a cautious look around him, and got onto the bus.
Finally, he thought, finally, barely acknowledging the conductor’s greeting. After what he’d seen, the sooner he could escape from El Paso de Robles—Pass of the Oaks—the better.
Eventually, they’d track him down. He was under no illusions about that. But he was about to bring the trail to an end. And if all went well, the General’s men would be going around in circles following the crumbs he intended to leave for them.
He took a seat at the rear of the bus and settled down for the forty-minute drive out of the city. His muscles still ached from the distances he’d walked. From 13th Street to his motel room on Spring Street, where he’d changed into a fresh set of clothes. A dark jacket, denim jeans, and a clean white shirt.
He’d stuffed the wine-stained tee shirt and jeans he’d been wearing earlier into his duffel bag and had left it in plain sight on the chair facing the bed. Let them think he was still in the city. By the time they realized he’d departed, he’d be long gone.
Not wanting any trouble at the motel, he’d taken the time to check himself out. He’d waited until the clerk on duty left his desk before slipping his room key and a pile of hundred-dollar notes under a clipboard. He didn’t want to leave any unpaid bills in his wake. Didn’t want to be hounded.
Still, it would take some time for the motel to realize he’d checked out. And as for the bozos after him—they’d never think to make inquiries at the desk.
He caught sight of his reflection in the window and smiled. That eased the expression of tension in his face, but his blue eyes remained narrow and wary. His hair was disheveled, one brown lock falling across his forehead. He brushed it back as best he could.
His toilette case with his comb was back at the motel. No problem. He’d buy himself another. He passed his tongue over his teeth. He’d been tempted to brush his teeth, but leaving behind a wet toothbrush would have given the game away. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d returned to his room.
He peered at his reflection. Good! There was already a prickly, brown-gray growth of stubble on his upper lip and chin. A few more days of shunning a razor and shaving cream, and he’d have a full-on beard and mustache. No disguise necessary. He’d slip back home and merge seamlessly with the crowds.
He looked away, stretched his legs out, and winced. Boy, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to walk that fast. It had taken him all of seven minutes to get to his motel. From there to the newsstand on 13th Street had been another seven or eight minutes. Then he’d hightailed it back to Spring Street and the Paso Robles Intermodal Station for the first ticket out of town.
He put his head against the backrest, closed his eyes, and made a mental note of the items he’d purchase with the prepaid card he’d bought for himself at the newsstand. His smile broadened.
That would be the first crumb.
The purchases were necessary. But paying for them with a prepaid Visa card was not.
“You poor girl,” Julia said when she arrived. She drew Celine into her arms and held her tightly. “What you must be going through.”
She released Celine and gazed at the front door of the Delft. Unable to stand being inside a minute longer than she had to, Celine had emerged from the front door and stood waiting in the chilly night air on 13th Street.
“I had a bad feeling,” Julia confessed. “Couldn’t sleep. When you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you sometimes . . . you get this feeling in your gut. You just know that something bad will go down.” She shrugged. “Nothing you can do about it but wait.”
“I know the feeling,” Celine said softly, thinking back to her visions earlier that evening. A thought popped into her brain and before she could analyze it the words were out of her mouth: “You’re from the FBI—a federal agent, right?”
Julia’s head swiveled sharply up to meet her gaze. Then she smiled. “That obvious, is it?” Her smile broadened. “No, don’t answer. I’m sure it is. I’ve been an agent for thirty years. It rubs off on you.”
Celine nodded, processing the older woman’s response. Julia had been waiting for her call—had she told Celine that? Or had it been Sister Mary Catherine? Celine couldn’t remember, but it left her more perplexed than ever.
“So, you’re a federal agent, and you’re here because . . . because you thought Dirck might be killed?” She frowned. “You knew?”
Julia shook her head vigorously. “No. No, I had no idea . . . I’m retired, Celine. I’m here on vacation. But . . .” She shook her head. “We can talk about all that later. First, tell me what we have here.”
She strode into the bar, Celine at her heels. But once inside, the former federal agent slowed down, walking around the perimeter of the bar, apparently absorbed in her surroundings. The tilt of her head, cocked back toward Celine, was the only indication that Julia was paying any attention to the younger woman’s account.
Unlike the 911 dispatcher, Julia heard her out with barely an interruption or two.
Her lips clenched when she saw Dirck’s body. “Yes, I see,” she said when Celine pointed out the burn marks on his cheek and the angry red gash around his neck. “Tortured and garroted,” she murmured to herself, but Celine caught the words, nevertheless.
“I’d like to return the paintings,” Celine began as they returned to the main area of the bar, but Julia shook her head.
“No, I’m afraid you can’t do that. That’s evidence.” She paused and looked over her shoulder at Celine. “All of it is evidence.”
“Fingerprints?” Celine ventured. Could they get DNA from the picture frames and canvasses—from sweat, perhaps? Celine didn’t know.
Julia came to a halt at one end of the horseshoe-shaped bar counter. “More than fingerprints. We need to know why Dirck’s attackers were interested in these works.”
Celine sighed. “I don’t know what they thought they’d find. Those are inexpensive works—charming and picturesque in their own right, but not worth much.”
“Ostensibly worthless,” Julia said. She turned to look at Celine. “We don’t know what’s beneath the surface of any of these works.”
“What could there be but gesso or some type of primer?” Celine wanted to know.
“Oh, my dear, you’d be surprised.”
Julia walked around the counter and stared at the painting that had been slashed.
“About fifteen years ago, we nabbed a forger on the East Coast. His name won’t mean anything to you, so I won’t bother mentioning it. But he was a well-known crook, and we’d been after him for some time. He’d developed an almost foolproof method to hand over stolen works of art to the shady collectors who’d commissioned their thefts.
“Know what he did?”
Celine shook her head, although Julia, absorbed in the painting, couldn’t have seen the gesture. She was about to speak up when Julia went on.
“The wily son-of-a-gun covered each stolen piece with this sort of”—Julia waved a disparaging hand over the paintings on the bar counter—“touristy stuff. Then he’d have the owner of a local bar display the works on consignment. I’m sure you can guess the rest. Collector walks in, takes a fancy to some piece or the other, and hands over a few thousand for a painting worth millions. No one’s any the wiser.”
“That’s not something Dirck would’ve done,” Celine said, instantly protective of her employer’s reputation. She felt tears welling up and angrily brushed them aside. “He wasn’t like that.”
Julia regarded her. “I’m not saying he knew what was going on, bu
t”—she turned back to gaze at the paintings—“you have to admit, something was. Going on, I mean.”
A moment’s silence followed, then Julia pointed to the painting that had been slashed. “Who is this by, do you know?”
Celine walked over to where she stood and gazed down at the painted waters of Morro Bay. “It’s by Simon—”
“Simon?” Julia broke in, her brow furrowing. “Simon who?”
“Simon Underwood,” Celine said. “He’s a local painter. Originally from—”
“Boston?”
“Yes, how did you—?”
But Julia ignored the question.
“So the rumors are true. Simon is alive.”
Chapter Fourteen
A hard rap on the door startled them both. “You reported a dead body, ma’am?”
Celine whirled around. An officer stood by the door, one hand on his belt, the other, encased in a cream-colored latex glove, lightly touching the door. He looked from Celine to Julia, his eyebrows raised, his eyes wide.
Through the door, Celine could make out the black quarter panel of a Paso Robles Police Department patrol car. Intent upon examining the Delft’s art, neither she nor Julia had heard it ease up to the curb.
“Yes,” she said, gathering her swirling thoughts together. A quick glance at the clock told her it had been twenty minutes since she’d made her 911 call.
The officer must have noticed, for he shifted uneasily on his feet. “It’s been a busy night, ma’am, and there are only two cars out on patrol. And when the dispatcher called in a dead body . . .” He shrugged.
“You knew it wasn’t going anyplace anytime soon,” Julia offered. “Is that about, right?”
A sheepish expression had begun to descend upon the officer’s features, but, struck by a sudden thought, it quickly dissipated. He frowned. His gaze shifted toward Celine.
“Dispatch said you were alone, ma’am.”
“I was when I made the call,” Celine confirmed. “But I didn’t want to wait alone, so I called Ms. Hood.”
“In the middle of the night?” The question was quietly uttered, the officer’s voice barely rising, but his gray eyes were cold and steely.
“I’m a federal agent, Officer,” Julia said, showing the officer her badge. “I’m used to being called out at all hours of the night. And Celine was aware of that.”
It was a small lie, and Celine was grateful for it. It stalled any further questions on the matter. It would have been hard to explain why she’d thought of calling Julia or been so sure her call would not go unanswered in the middle of the night.
The officer seemed to accept the explanation.
“Has anything been touched or handled? Detectives will want to know.” He walked toward the bar counter, his eyes on the paintings. He stopped a few inches from them and looked up. “Where is the body?”
“In there.” Julia pointed. “As you can imagine, Officer, this isn’t my first rodeo, so, no, I didn’t touch anything. Did you, Celine?”
Celine shook her head. “My fingers may have brushed against the wine glasses in there. And the dispatcher had me check whether Dirck was breathing.”
“What about doors, windows, light switches?”
“The back door was locked. That was unusual. I banged against it and tried to twist the knob open. But the front door was ajar. I may have pushed it open a little wider to let myself in. The main area of the bar was in darkness. I turned on the light switch later when I noticed those”—she indicated the paintings behind her—“but the light was still on where Dirck is.”
While she’d been speaking the officer had walked around the bar, and then poked his head into what Celine had always considered Dirck’s sanctum—the room, concealed behind a wall panel, where his body lay.
“There was a strong smell of cigarette smoke when I first came in. That’s what alerted me to the fact that there may have been intruders.”
The officer turned around. His gaze circled around in search of elusive smoke tendrils as he took a cautious sniff.
“It’s dissipated now,” Julia added. “But you’ll find splotches of gray cigarette ash on the rug.” Celine turned to her in surprise as Julia continued to speak; she herself hadn’t spotted any traces of cigarette ash, but some had to have dropped on the floor near Dirck. The former federal agent’s eyes were clearly still sharp enough to detect such minute quantities. “And then there are the burn marks on the victim’s face. Clearly done with the butt-end of a cigarette.”
The officer nodded. “I’ll have the Coroner’s Unit come out,” he said. “The Sheriff’s detectives roll with them, and they’ll take your statement. In the meantime, I’ll need you to wait outside the bar.”
“No problem.” Julia propelled Celine toward the door. At the door, she turned and gestured toward the paintings on the bar counter.
“Let them know, Officer, that the man, or men, who attacked the victim was after the art he sold on consignment. This is probably not just a case of gang or mob violence. There’s more to it than meets the eye.”
Celine looked over her shoulder as she and Julia passed through the Delft’s front door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cold air hit her hard, making her shiver, and she buried her hands deep inside the pockets of her sweatshirt.
What had Dirck’s attackers been expecting to find concealed in the art the Delft sold on consignment? And who were they? The sporadic impressions she’d received inside had failed to reveal their faces.
It’s your point of view, Celine. Sister Mary Catherine’s voice made itself heard above Celine’s thoughts. It limits what you can see.
Celine frowned, not understanding what the nun was trying to say. Did Sister Mary Catherine think Celine was letting her biases get in the way of her intuition? But that simply wasn’t true.
She heard Julia’s voice speaking, but didn’t catch the words over the din in her own head.
“I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere. What did you want to know?”
Julia tipped her head in the direction of the door. “Has anyone expressed more than a casual interest in those works of art recently?”
“No, our patrons—” Celine was beginning to say when a memory surfaced. “B-aw-ston Greg,” she said with a gasp.
“Who?”
“I’ve never seen him before. A tourist, I imagine. He didn’t seem the type to appreciate either wine or art. But he asked several questions about those works.” She paused. “The only thing is he seemed more interested in Dirck’s works than the ones we have for sale.”
She turned to face Julia. “He even asked to see some of Dirck’s art. And Dirck agreed, surprisingly enough.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw the two Merlot-filled wine glasses in Dirck’s sanctum. Had Dirck arranged to meet Greg later that evening? Was that why he’d hustled her out of the bar? And had that fatal decision led to his death?
They’d have to find Greg, but how?
“Does the interior of the bar have security cameras?” Julia’s brisk voice broke into Celine’s musings.
Celine’s head jerked up. “Yes, yes, as a matter of fact we do. You think that’ll help?”
For the first time, she felt a twinge of hope. And Julia’s response was especially reassuring.
“It gives us a face and an image to work with.” A determined expression settled on Julia’s features.
Greg would have to disguise himself if he wanted to stay hidden. But with law enforcement officials sending out images of him, he’d be found in no time at all.
“It’s a start. A very good start, really,” she assured Celine.
The former federal agent hugged herself tight and stomped her feet, clad in sensible black shoes, on the gray sidewalk.
“I could do with some coffee. Wish I’d thought to bring some in a flask with me. But when you called, all I could think of was getting here as quickly as I could.”
Celine looked wistfully out over 13th Street. Vic’s Café, right across the
street, didn’t open until 7 a.m. It was the earliest any of the cafés in the vicinity of the Delft opened. She could almost taste the hot, strong, aromatic espresso she’d order when Vic’s finally did open.
“If Dirck remembered to turn the pot on,” she said, “there’ll be coffee ready to brew right here in the bar. But it won’t start until 10:30 in the morning, a half-hour before we open.”
“Damn!” Julia cursed under her breath.
She rubbed her hands together. “Any other impressions of the scene of the crime?” she asked.
Celine stared. This wasn’t her first crime scene, but no law enforcement official, retired or otherwise, had ever expressed any curiosity about her opinions of a crime.
Julia stared back. “You do get impressions, don’t you? Keith Elliot—”
“Detective Keith Elliot?” Celine asked. “Of the Durham Police Department?”
He’d helped solve the murders of her college friends, Sonia and Nicole. That had been many years ago, but Celine would never forget the man who’d recognized her psychic visions for what they were.
There’d been the Montague Museum case, a few years after that. But despite her visions and Elliot’s efforts, it had gone nowhere. At the time, he’d mentioned having an FBI contact. Julia? If he’d provided a name, she couldn’t remember it.
“Lieutenant Elliot,” Julia said. “But yeah same guy. Retired now.”
“He sent you here?” Detective Elliot had been gifted with second sight as well, although his visions weren’t as strong as Celine’s.
“Thought you might be in trouble. He wanted me to make contact with you, keep an eye on you. I didn’t say anything earlier because . . . Well, I didn’t want to spook you. And quite frankly, I was skeptical.”
She looked back at the bar with a sigh. “Not anymore, though.”
An impression filled Celine’s mind, and she decided to confirm it. “That’s not the only reason you’re here, is it Julia?”
Julia looked at her, then slowly shook her head. “No, it’s not. Keith thought I might find answers to a case I’ve devoted most of my career to. A nearly thirty-year-old case that’s yet to be solved. The Gardner Museum heist.”
