One of the riverboats is docked, tourists are lined up to board for the trip down to the fort and back. A child spies me and makes a bee line in my direction. I take evasive action and reach the tunnel under Factors Walk. It is cool inside the cobbled archway and I slip behind a newspaper dispenser and catch my breath. The pain in my hind quarters is now a constant throb but not unbearable. I don’t understand this sudden need to rest but rest I must. After a few minutes I’m panting less. Time to move on. The sun has passed its crest and I still have many blocks to travel to reach Julia’s house.
The stone steps up to Bay Street are a struggle but I reach the top and size up the traffic. Normally I would take the nearer route straight across but I know my strength has been sapped by my injury and therefore, my speed. This is not a time to play dodge with tons of motorized metal. I walk to the crossing and sit and wait for the pedestrian light to turn green.
A car comes to a stop at the traffic light. A woman lowers her window, puts her head out, and calls to me. “Here, kitty, kitty. Are you hurt?”
I can’t allow myself to be sidetracked by the solicitous concern of strangers. I hurry across Bay Street, past the Holiday Inn and down Bryan Street. If I can only keep up this pace I’ll soon reach Calhoun Square. Surely there will still be law enforcement hanging around.
Chapter Ten
Mitch closed the file and returned it to the coffee table. He was no closer to a clue as to Julia’s whereabouts than he had been at the beginning of his search. They were checking with Uber and city cabs but so far nothing had turned up.
She had the cat with her and that helped to a degree. He would limit the range of possibilities.
Her car was in its usual parking space in the garage. A call to the manager of The Cloister had given them nothing. The shipping company that had handled the two Russian losses was located in Miami. The owners of the Fechin were in Cozumel for a family wedding and not due to return for another week. Tallulah Youngblood was supposedly in Milan, Italy. Mitch had agents trying to determine if that was the case or not. It didn’t help when you were dealing with people with the means for flying on private jets.
Chappie sat on the sofa in Julia’s living room, his legs crossed at the knees, and an ebony cane with a gold knob leaning against it. He looked the picture of health except for the small clear bandage on his left cheek and not at all put out by having been summoned to another interview.
Mitch remembered Rocco Sullivan’s comments on Chappie’s penchant to gossip. He moved to the windows overlooking the street and said, “Tell me about Rocco Sullivan.”
“Which version?”
“How many versions are there?”
“Well,” Chappie settled more comfortably into the cushions of the sofa, “there’s the factual stuff. You know, his profession, friends, involvement in the community.” He smiled. “Then there’s the innuendo, the half-truths, the back-of-the-hand whispers.” He arched an eyebrow at Mitch. “I imagine you’re interested in the latter.”
“So tell me.” Mitch settled in a chair across from Chappie. “Let’s start with the back-of-the-hand whispers.”
From his expression, Mitch knew Chappie found this avenue to his liking. “Well, he came to Savannah some thirty-five to forty years ago. Set up his little antique shop and, I suppose, managed to make a living. Then about thirty years ago he began to deal in art, not just the occasional interesting piece that came his way through an estate or lucky find at a yard sale. He was suddenly dealing in serious art. He caught the fancy of Aloyis Mercer and she pretty much made him. People began to believe his claims that he was an expert.”
“And you doubt his competence?”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. I mean, anyone can educate themselves to a certain level of proficiency in any given field and I suppose all those years of grubbing around in dusty attics did help refine his eye for detail.”
“But he wouldn’t be your choice of authority if you were planning a major art purchase?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know about the stolen Fechin?”
“Savannah is a small town, Deputy. Besides, it was all over the news when it happened.”
Mitch glanced at his watch then studied Chappie. “And Adoni. What does he know about art?”
Chappie sighed. “Well, he is art, isn’t he? A living, breathing, walking piece of art.”
“You met him in Milan?”
“Yes.”
Mitch looked over Chappie’s shoulders and out the windows at the trees in Calhoun Square. “Did Tallulah Youngblood also know Adoni in Milan?”
Chappie looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch. When was the last time you saw Tallulah.”
“Tuesday. She popped in briefly for coffee.”
“At your house?”
“Yes. Actually, Adoni picked her up at The Cloister. She was in town on business about her grandfather’s estate.”
“Is she on good terms with Adoni?”
“Adoni doesn’t discriminate, Deputy.”
“Good to know.” Mitch stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought, then glanced at Chappie. “Handel will take you home.”
Chappie stood and picked up his cane. At the doorway he turned back toward Mitch. “He was my friend, you know. I want you to find the bastard who did this.”
It seemed that in that moment the elegant façade slipped. For an instant Mitch saw before him an aging little man, rather ridiculous in this day and age with his pinstriped suit and vest, the bowtie a shocking pink, the gold tipped cane, the sparkle in his eye extinguished. It only lasted for a second and then Chappie was himself again as he gave a mock salute with his cane and went out the door.
Mitch glanced at his watch. He would have to tell Julia’s parents that she was missing. It was past time. He moved to the window and watched as Chappie was settled into the waiting sedan. Just as he was about to turn from the view, a movement caught his eye. It was a black cat, limping along the sidewalk in the shadow of the bushes along the perimeter of the square. “Trouble!”
He bolted down the stairs and out the door. He scooped the cat up and felt the sticky wetness on his fur.
“Yeow.”
The ground seemed to shift under Mitch’s feet. The cat was hurt. He had approached the house from the north along Abercorn. Julia had to be somewhere in that direction.
He cradled the cat in his left arm and dug his phone out of his pocket. “Set up a grid north to the river. Block by block foot search. Check every door, alley, garden.” He trotted toward his car. “She may be hurt.” He closed his eyes and swore. “And bring her father and mother to the apartment.”
The vet was just leaving the clinic when Mitch drew up, lights flashing, siren wailing. The receptionist had already locked the door. He pounded on it and she appeared on the other side, her eyes round as saucers in alarm. One glance at the cat in Mitch’s arms and she unlocked the door.
“What’s this?” The vet stood in the doorway separating the waiting area from the rest of the clinic.
“He’s hurt.” Mitch gently placed the cat in the vet’s arms. “There’s blood along his back legs.”
They went through to an examination room. The vet eased Trouble onto the table and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He probed Trouble’s hind quarters and the cat swiped at him with a forepaw and cried out.
“It’s a long straight line of broken skin along his left flank. Very symmetrical.” He took a bottle of clear liquid and doused a large cotton gauze. Gently he swabbed at the injury until it was clean of blood and debris from the streets of Savannah. “I’d say he slid down something extremely sharp. The muscle is cut but not all the way through. It’s not the least jagged so it would have been quick, before he had time to react and create a tearing pattern.”
“What could cause a wound like that?”
The vet shook his head. “I couldn’t say. I’ve never seen an animal injury quite this smooth
and clean.”
Mitch folded his arms, ignoring the blood on his jacket. “A gunshot?”
“Gunshot.” The vet stared up at him. “Here in the city? Surely not.”
“Will he be okay?”
The vet had been probing Troubles lower legs and underbelly. “Nothing else seems to be affected. I’ll stitch this up and we can keep him calm for a few days. It should heal nicely.”
The cat was the only clue to Julia’s whereabouts. Mitch wasn’t about to leave him at the vet’s office. “Bandage him up. I’ll wait.”
“You should leave him here. He needs to be crated so he doesn’t further injure himself.”
“I’ll take care of him.”
“I don’t know. Julia…”
“Julia will expect the cat to be at home when she returns.”
“Returns from where?”
“Good question.”
Mitch knew Woodrow and Audrey Hampton were already at Julia’s apartment when he returned with Trouble in tow. As he mounted the steps a long vintage town car pulled up, stopped in the middle of the street, and a chauffeur equally as vintage got out of the driver’s seat and proceeded around the rear of the vehicle at a slow, stately pace. He opened the rear passenger door and handed Ethel Hampton out onto the sidewalk. Mitch came forward and offered his free arm.
Aunt Ethel looked smaller, if possible, and ashen, but her spine was straight and her eyes blazed.
“Well, young man, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing. It’s all my fault.”
“I’m afraid Woodrow will agree with you.” She patted him on the arm. “But I know how hard it is to ride herd on the Mercer women.”
“Mercer?”
“My mother was a Mercer.” She looked up at Mitch. “You didn’t know.”
He shook his head. He should have known. It was his job to know things like that. It explained a lot, why her father was so protective, why, for all her bravado, there was a shadow of self-doubt beneath Julia’s assured, light-hearted façade. Not only were the Mercers known for their wealth and philanthropic activities, but for the fatal kidnapping of Christian Mercer nearly forty years ago.
Audrey Hampton sat on the sofa, back erect, legs crossed at the ankle, her hands folded in her lap. She looked up when Mitch and Aunt Ethel appeared in the doorway. Her husband was pacing the floor, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped and stared at Mitch as if he were an alien being.
Mitch handed Trouble off to Aunt Ethel and stepped forward. “Mr. Hampton-”
Woodrow Hampton caught Mitch unprepared with a right hook that made him stagger. Gerty started forward and Mitch held up his hand to stop her. For a moment he thought Julia’s father would strike him again but instead Woodrow turned his back and crossed the room to stand staring out the window.
Audrey Hampton rose to her feet. “Well, now that you’ve got that out of your system, Woodrow, perhaps we can find out what happened and what’s being done to find Julia.”
“Every man we have as well as local cops and the FBI are combing the city.” Mitch refrained from rubbing his jaw. “We know Julia left Dr. Claiborne’s office at nine forty.”
“You let her go to the vet on her own?” Woodrow Hampton faced him now, murder in his eyes.
“No. She had a detail but your daughter is clever, Mr. Hampton. And persuasive.”
Aunt Ethel moved to the armchair and collapsed into it with Trouble still in her grasp. “You know it’s true, Woodrow. When Julia makes up her mind to something it’s impossible to stop her.”
He wasn’t ready to be dissuaded from his anger. “And the crime scene? You let her go to Trip’s house, to see his dead body?” He ran his hand through his hair. “What kind of law officer are you?”
“Stop it!” Audrey Hampton took a deep breath. “What’s being done and what else can be done? What kind of resources do you need?”
“We feel she is north of here, somewhere between here and the river.” He glanced at the cat. “It’s the direction the cat came from.”
“What does the cat have to do with it?” Woodrow turned his glare on Trouble.
“He was with Julia when she lost her detail.”
Audrey crouched by the sofa and held out her hand to Trouble. “He’s injured.” She glanced up at Mitch, her already fair complexion paler than death. “You don’t think…”
Trouble sniffed Audrey’s fingers then hopped onto the coffee table. Woodrow sneezed. The cat sat on top of the files and looked up at Mitch. He blinked slowly three times.
Woodrow sneezed again. “What do you think, Lawson?”
Trouble adjusted his position and a paw snaked out and pushed the files to the floor.
“I think the cat wants to tell us something.” He bent over and scooped up the papers that had fallen from the top folder. The top sheet was a bill of laden from The Fine Art and Antiques Shipping Company. The address read Miami, but the receiving stamp showed a date and a partial address in Savannah.
“Boss.” A young female officer poked her head around the doorway to the kitchen. “We’ve cracked it. The password to her laptop.”
“What was it?” Mitch asked as he and Woodrow crowded into the kitchen on the heels of the computer tech.
“Russian for Fechin fan.”
It would be funny if it wasn’t so serious. “Her browser history. Now.”
The tech moved the mouse and clicked on the computer’s history. They scanned the last half dozen web addresses. She had looked at the auction house in charge of the Youngblood estate, the gallery that sold the Fechin to the Peltiers, and twice at the Fine Art and Antiques Shipping Company. Mitch clicked on the last link for the shipping company and saw the dockside address and a convenient Google map.
“How in the hell didn’t we know they had an office in Savannah?” He glared at the tech, then Gerty before he turned and headed out the door and down the stairs. He was on the phone as he went. “Cordon the whole docks area this side of the Talmadge bridge. All the manpower we have. Go in silent.”
I almost made it. Aunt Ethel is quick for a woman her age. If my injuries hadn’t slowed me down I’d be with the Lawman right now. They’ll never find her without my help. I limp to the window. It is closed and locked. How am I going to get out of here?
Gentle hands scoop me up from my perch.
“Come on you. Keep an old woman company.” She holds me close and whispers. “I’m frightened for the child.”
I can feel a mild tremor in the hands that lovingly caress my back. I begin to purr and nestle my face against her neck. It is all I can do for Julia at the moment.
Julia sat with her back against the side of the shipping container. Her hands were torn and raw from digging away at the metal around the hinge of the door. She held them between her knees and pressed, hoping to distract herself from the pain. The nub of a hair clip lay at her feet. She had kicked and kicked against the unyielding corner of the door. The only reward for her effort was a slender separation from the wall of the container. If she pressed her face against the door, she could see a sliver of the building opposite her with her right eye.
The view allowed her to judge the time. Shadows from the stacks of containers reached half way to the roof of the building opposite her. She closed her eyes and pictured the waterfront in the fall. The sun rode low in the southern sky at this time of year. The positioning of the containers was toward the river, to the northeast. Early afternoon, then. That wasn’t so bad. As she labored away at the rusty hinge she had imagined the day almost at an end. Still plenty of time, she thought. Someone would find her. Mitch would find her.
She rested her head against the side of her prison. Her arms trembled with fatigue. Her throat was parched. She felt lethargic with the warmth of the container. Her eyes closed and her mind drifted, lighting on one random thought after the other: Aunt Ethel with Trouble in her arms, Mitch smiling down at her, Debbie with her head buried in a file with Doug…”
Her e
yes flew open. What was it about that scene? The file folder that disappeared the moment Doug blocked her view of the desk. What did she know about Debbie?
Julia struggled to her feet and began to pace the container. She needed to move, to dispel the lethargy. There was something in that behavior, she knew it in her bones.
She only knew Debbie through Sandra. When had she started working for the Weatherby Insurance Agency? Julia tried to force the memory. An older woman with steel gray hair had been the claims secretary at one time. When had Sandra first mentioned Debbie? Julia couldn’t remember.
Okay, she told herself. Focus on Viktor. His photo had been familiar to her because she had seen him at the agency at some point in time over the summer. He hadn’t piqued her interest enough then for her to even remember having seen him.
Let it go, she told herself. Let it go and it’ll come back to you. Another approach then. Viktor was the agent on the two art thefts but not the estate jewelry. But the watch Viktor wore was from the Youngblood estate, Julia was sure of it. She couldn’t get past the doubt that Viktor had stolen the art. It was too easy to connect to him. The jewelry, on the other hand, who would think an agent with the company was involved.
“There are two thieves.” Julia stopped in her tracks. She was suddenly convinced this was the case. Viktor had thought he could regain his standing with the FBI in spite of stealing the jewelry. If he had killed Trip Youngblood, he would know there was no going back. “And I would be dead.” She shivered at the thought.
Julia went to the door of the container, laid flat on her back on the grimy floor and began kicking with both feet at the loosened corner. Trip had been murdered for the Russian painting, not because he had blown Viktor Letov’s cover. Peter Ryder was missing and Julia feared he was dead. Who was behind it? She had to get out of the container. Other lives might be at risk.
The fine art and Antiques Shipping Company warehouse was surrounded by plain-clothed officers. The entire six blocks on either side of the area locked down tight. Mitch and Jones took the lead. The door was unlocked. They rounded the opening, guns drawn. No one was in the reception area. They listened to the sounds of the building for a minute then repeated the procedure into the warehouse proper.
Trouble in Dixie (Familiar Legacy Book 2) Page 14
