Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2)

by J. J. Henderson

  "Hello." Rooney ignored his outstretched hand. "Lucy, could you step into the office a minute? I need a word."

  "You guys want to get out the camera and tripod and set up?" Lucy said. She looked around. "Si, see if you can figure out the best angle for this room. Looks like thataway." She pointed. "From over here. I'll be back in a minute." She followed Rooney into the office.

  "Sit down," said Madeleine, waving at the chair facing her glass-topped desk. Lucy sat. Madeleine threw a brochure on the desk and sat down behind it, put out her smoke and lit another. "Here's the catalogue. I thought you might want to see the results of your work."

  Lucy picked it up. Sleek, expensive stock, four color printing, an auction date a few days away. She riffled through. Along with some items she didn't recognize, the six pieces she'd photographed were there, in living lovely color, with brief italic descriptions beneath. Full provenance and certification available. She'd done a good job, the pictures looked great. The pieces looked great. The whole nine yards. Sleek and professional and full of lies. "So, you're going to go ahead and have your sale, in spite of the authenticity question."

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Madeleine said. "The sale's been cancelled. The pieces were stolen the night before last."

  "Stolen? From here?" Lucy stared at the woman, who looked back steadily. "Are you serious? Someone broke in here and took them?" Lucy couldn't keep a smirk off her face. This was too much.

  "They jimmied the back door and de-activated the alarm system. First time I've been robbed in the eight years I've been in business. The police were here yesterday. They dusted for fingerprints but it looks like it was a professional job. That's why I needed to talk to you. You'll be hearing from my insurance company, because you were one of the few people who actually saw the pieces on the premises. Believe me when I tell you I had no interest in you're getting involved in this, but when the adjuster saw the photographs yesterday—I had to show them to him so he could verify the pieces—he insisted that he wanted to talk to you. So—his name is Wyatt. Kelly Wyatt. He works for Brueton Insurance International. He'll be getting in touch."

  "But you realize I have to tell him what I know, Mrs.Rooney. I have to tell him the truth. The pieces are forgeries."

  "That may be your opinion, but it's not what Herman Forte and the Letters of Authentication and the Appraisal say, Lucy," she said. "Would you like to see the Letters?"

  "Those letters are bogus, Madeleine, you know that. Don't tell me you're not aware of what happened to the men who wrote them."

  "I'm not interested in what happened to them. I have legal documentation on the pieces, and now they've been stolen."

  "What about Quentin and Beth? They're not going to sit back and let this bullshit fly."

  "I don't think Quentin's really interested in sticking his nose into this affair at this point, Lucy," Rooney said, and gave her a look. "He has enough to worry about with his family, and that new job he's hoping to land."

  "I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Lucy, but she knew the woman had a point. Quentin had a lot to lose, as he'd been reminded. "Even if you're right, Madeleine, I may not be an expert like Beth or Quentin, but I know more about this situation than anybody else."

  Madeleine looked her in the eye. "Yes, well—Lucy, would you agree that the photography work you're doing for me today is worth, say, $25,000?"

  "Twenty-five grand? Are you serious?" Lucy stopped herself. Jesus, she could get a lot done with that kind of cash. But it's blood money, for God's sake. "Madeleine, just how much insurance do you have on those pieces?"

  She didn't hesitate. "A million dollars worth, Lucy."

  So that's why Rooney had chosen to let her shoot the space! Drag her into the scheme, buy her off and shut her up. Lucy felt a momentary bewilderment—not over whether or not to accept, that was out of the question, but over how to proceed. How to nail the brazen bitch! And with her, her band of murderous cronies. They had to be in it together. "Let me think this over," she said weakly. "I don't know."

  "Tomorrow by noon I want an answer. You have my home phone number. Now, why don't you go ahead and take your pictures." Madeleine Rooney was a tiny dame, but she puffed herself up way large to make her next pronouncement: "And keep in mind, Lucy, that I have the testimony of Dr. Herman Forte, and certified Letters of Authentication, and a certified, legal appraisal, and a flawless history with my insurance company—I've never made a claim—and ten years of hard-earned reputation behind me. What, pray tell, do you have, aside from your own little story and your friends Quentin and Beth Washington, who seem to have disappeared from the face of the earth? Perhaps Quentin's gone back to Texas to rejoin the drug trade. What do you think?"

  By the time they finished shooting three hours later, Lucy did have something to enhance her most potent weapon, the truth. Harold had planted a voice-activated bug on the underside of a display pedestal close to the door to the office in the back of the gallery. They packed up and left the gallery, found a cab and sent Simon home with the gear, then waited in the coffee shop up the block. As soon as Rooney left, they went back down the block and Harold found a super, flashed some twenties and quickly finagled a little room in the basement of the building next door, where he installed his surveillance gear. Every call Madeleine Rooney made or received would be recorded on a machine set up in that room. Lucy decided she liked having a lover in the DEA. He had all kinds of useful tricks up his sleeve.

  She called Harold in the surveillance room at eight the next morning. No answer. Where the hell was Harold? She tried his home phone. Nothing. After taking Claud over to the park on the East River for a run, she hiked down Broadway to the pool, took a swim—her first since crossing the channel, and she wallowed with delight in the fluorescent-lit, heavily chlorinated pool water, so very, very safe and close to shore—and then took the train up the east side. The gallery was closed, it being Monday. She used the key Harold had given her to get into the basement next door. The room stunk of rats. It appeared that Harold had not been back.

  A blinking red light on the machine told her the phone had been used. Lucy took out the tape and put a new one in its place. She left the building and went home.

  At home she put the tape in her little recorder, then took a seat at her desk for a listen. The first call was Madeleine Rooney discussing wedding plans with her daughter. Ingrown family arguments about a wedding dress and a caterer. The second call was someone calling about the auction. Madeleine explained that it had been cancelled. The third call went like this:

  "Hi, Maddy, it's me." A familiar voice, but whose?

  "Hello. Good you called back. Can we talk?"

  "Yes, she's playing tennis with mother."

  "I don't think LR's going to go for it."

  "Are you serious? She doesn't have any money. Offer more."

  "It has to come from your share then."

  Hesitation. "Fine. OK. Another ten enough?"

  "We'll see. She's supposed to call me at home at noon tomorrow."

  "What about our friends? You know they followed us up here."

  "Put them off a little longer."

  "Put them off! Jesus, Maddy, they're scary. They want their money. Christ, you're the one that got us tangled up with them. That damned Starfish—"

  "Her name is Isabel."

  "Whatever. She's brought us nothing but trouble. She told me they were just trying to scare Rosa and them out there, but that's not what Rosa told me, Maddy."

  "Look, I didn't want to get them involved either. But we needed them to do what had to be done—and they did it, right? Now we have to deal with it. Once they get their money they'll leave us alone. But we've got to tough it out till then. We have no choice."

  "I know, Maddy, but—"

  "Why don't you sic them on LR? She's really our only problem at this point."

  "Because she's one of Rosa's best friends, and I don't want her hurt unless we have no choice."

  "Well, I don't
know what she's going to say to the man at the insurance company, but she's certainly a nosey bitch. I hope there aren't any real surprises. If there are, well—I may have to send for those guys to come up here. You are aware of that, I trust?"

  "We've said too much already, Maddy. I think I'd better go."

  "If she calls Rosa, try to find out what she's planning to do. We need to know."

  "Jesus, Maddy, aren't we in deep enough already?" he whined.

  She hung up on him. Lucy turned the machine off, moved to the couch, laid down, and closed her eyes. She tried to relax but she was too jumpy. What a mess! Darren in it up to his eyeballs.

  Just shy of eleven am. She had an hour. She called Harold. "Hello?" he slurred into the phone after a single ring. Damn, she thought. She knew that tone. But couldn't stop herself from needing him, believing in him.

  "Hi, it's me."

  "Lucy, how ya doin'? What'sappening?" Yep, no doubt about it, he was drunk. Fuck!

  "Harold, what are you doing drunk on Monday morning?" she said, beginning calmly. "I need your help with something, and you're all fucked up!"

  He was silent for a moment. "Damn," he said. "Hey, sorry, Luce. Iss just that I fergodda tell you. Today's the anniversary of the day my brother died. Remember I tol' you how me and my brother were so close, we were—"

  "Junkies together, and then he OD'ed and you left him there. Yeah Harold, I remember the whole sad story. And do you remember, you selfish prick, that I needed your help today with something really important, and you are all messed up and can't help me. So piss off," she shouted, and slammed the phone down, bursting into tears. "Asshole," she said, then saw Claud cowering. "Hey, I'm sorry baby," she said to the dog. "If there's anything in the world I have no patience with, it's a drunken man," she said. "I don't care what the excuse is, but—oh, never mind," she sighed. "Come here, baby. I'm sorry I yelled." Claud came over, and laid down on the couch next to her, and she hugged him, and for a moment let herself go and cried.

  The phone rang. After eight rings, she lifted and dropped the receiver. Her estimate was that he would try once more, and then give up and not call back until he got sober. That's exactly what happened.

  After while she called Brueton Insurance and asked for Kelly Wyatt. She got him on the phone and set up an appointment to discuss the Desert Gallery situation at one that day.

  At noon she called Madeleine Rooney at home. "Hello, Madeleine, it's Lucy."

  "Yes."

  "I have pictures for you to look at."

  "Fine. What about the payment we discussed for the work?"

  "I wanted to talk to you about that. Can we meet at the gallery later today? Say, three o'clock?"

  "Why not sooner?"

  "Because I'm seeing Mr. Kelly Wyatt at one, and I don't know how long that conversation is going to last."

  Rooney took that in. "Three then."

  Lucy loaded her assorted images from her computer onto Cds. She arranged to have a messenger deliver one to Nina Randolph at SPACES. Got to keep working, whatever else happens. Then she got on the uptown train in time to make her one o'clock with Kelly Wyatt at Brueton Insurance International.

  The Brueton offices were located in an anonymous midtown east building, and Wyatt's cubicle was as anonymous as the block and the building. Wyatt himself was thirtyish and hip in appearance, with his little ponytail and his black leather jacket, black t-shirt, and black cowboy boots with silver toetips. But then again, he specialized in the art market, and trendiness was a requisite. Even at the insurance end of it.

  After they'd gone through the preliminaries, made some sympatico small talk about the downtown scene which he obviously prided himself on being a part of even if he did work at a mid-town insurance company, Lucy handed him the CD which he loaded into his computer so they could have a look. As they did so she told her convoluted tale, utilizing pictures to illustrate each narrative point, beginning with the images of the works in the gallery, ending with the tape she'd just listened to. As she ran it by him, she watched Wyatt's face. He didn't look convinced.

  When she finished, he sat for a minute, drumming his fingers on the desk. Without speaking he looked through the pictures again. Dead bodies floating in a pool. A woman prancing nude on a terrace wall. Little statues here, and there, and everywhere. He looked at her, and at last he spoke: "You know, Lucy, this claim is going to cost Brueton a million bucks, so believe me, I would like to find this story plausible. I would love to find grounds to reject Madeleine Rooney's claim. But let's try to be objective. First of all, let me say that it is an interesting tale, one way or the other. I'll grant you that. But, to cut to the chase, I have to assume that you made that tape surreptitiously—I don't know how and I don't want to, but—it is an illegal and therefore useless piece of evidence, any way you look at it. Plus, without your story to back it up, it doesn't really say much. A couple of people talking about some stuff—I don't know, strange but—not exactly prosecutable, know what I mean? Not to me anyway, and in saying that I'm speaking for the company. In fact, none of these pictures say much. I mean, there are some eye-catching images here, and you put them all together, and you weave your tangled tale, and it sounds sort of convincing, but—I'll be honest with you—I'm simply not convinced. Madeleine Rooney is just too Madison Avenue to be involved in this kind of stuff, Lucy. I mean, her husband is on the board at the Whitney, for God's sake! Plus, and I'll be frank with you—I know you're a journalist working on a story about this, so you are not entirely objective. And I know you have some marginally flaky friends you want to offer up as expert witnesses. And I also happen to know that you are involved with a guy who is an undercover narcotics agent—and Madeleine Rooney knows all about him. I would guess that he's the party responsible for that tape you played for me, and frankly, she's ready to blow his cover if she must. Don't ask me how she found out, I don't know anything about it, but she comes from a world of connections, Lucy, connections that go so high you can't imagine—and she's been paying her premiums faithfully for like ten years, and has never once made a claim. So: what am I to do with this?" he waved at the pictures on the screen. "What do you want from me?"

  "What do I want from you?" Lucy said, and leveled a look at him. "I'm talking about murder, Wyatt, and you're talking about connections! I want you to help me prove the truth."

  "Two HIV-positive gay men, and an alcoholic musician known to be a small time drug dealer and a chronic gambler. Call it two sad but understandable suicides and a case of bad karma catching up to a born loser."

  "I can't believe you," Lucy said, standing up and shoving her evidence back into the envelope. "What, are you on the Rooney payroll, too? Is that it? I'm trying to get a little justice, stop some bad people, and save your company a million bucks, and you aren't even interested. You stupid fool." Lucy whirled and walked out, fighting back tears.

  "Tell you what, Lucy." She stopped in the door and turned around. "I'll do this much for you: I'll get a one week hold on the claim payment. But that's all I can manage. This company has made its reputation in part by fast payment on claims. See what else you can come up with. If what you've got is all there is, next Monday the money's hers. I'll probably be hung by my toes for doing this much. And Lucy, a question: if you think the pieces weren’t stolen, what do you suppose she did with them?"

  "Good question," she said. "Thanks." She dashed out. Well, thank God for small favors. Christ, it had all seemed so clear to her. Murder to cover up a forgery hustle, more murder to cover up an insurance hustle, murders and hustles all bound together in the neat little package represented by her images and her narrative. She had the written version at home on the computer, backed up on a disk hidden in her underwear drawer. She'd just tried the spoken version out on a captive audience, and he hadn't been an easy sell.

  After downing some noodles in a Japanese fast food joint she tried Quentin on the Vineyard from a phone booth. No answer. Where were the missing pieces? Probably in smithereens in the
dumpster back of the Desert Gallery. No, Rooney probably saved them to give for Christmas presents. After all, they were pretty, and worth a couple hundred bucks each.

  She had talked herself back into a relatively confident mode by the time she reached the gallery, where La Rooney lay waiting, eager to snare Lucy in her web. Lucy contemplated sneaking around back to inspect the trash before approaching the front door, but decided that Rooney might be ruthless but she wasn't stupid.

  Rooney buzzed her in, remaining in her little power spot, enveloped in a protective cloud of toxic smoke behind the counter in back. Lucy approached, envelope in hand. "Hello Madeleine, here's your CD with photos." Lucy tossed it on the counter.

  Rooney pulled the CD out, stuck it in the computer, and had a look. "Oh, they're lovely, just lovely, I can't wait to show them to Enrico, he's going to be so thrilled. Do you want to talk with him? I mean, about the design?" She coughed without bothering to cover her mouth.

  "Yes, of course," Lucy said. "When the article is scheduled I'll need to interview him."

  "And here's your payment," Rooney said, pushing a check across the counter as if they had planned it this way all along. Lucy picked it up. Twenty-five thousand dollars, made out to her. "Photography expenses" on the memo line.

  Lucy had a good long look, for drama's sake, then tore the check neatly in half and dropped it on the counter. "I want more," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Like you and Darren discussed. Another ten would be nice."

  "What are you talking about?" Rooney went momentarily white under her Palm Beach winter tan and her make-up. She put out her cigarette, fished another from a gold case, and lit the wrong end. Then put it out and got it right the second time.

  "Just this." Lucy pulled out her mini-tape recorder and turned it on. This was her third listen. She practically had it memorized. At the end of the conversation, she turned it off. "So how about another ten grand?"

  Madeleine looked at her carefully. "I think that can be arranged. Assuming you let me have that tape. Not that there's anything on there that particularly concerns me," she quickly added. "Besides, you and I both know it was illegally recorded."