by Ken Brigham
Bruce looked calmly into Blythe’s angry eyes and said with implacable resolve, “You will do as you are told, my dear.”
Blythe picked up Bruce’s glass still half full of his third Manhattan, threw it unceremoniously down his shirtfront, and stormed out of the bar.
Bruce studied his soaked shirt front for a moment…and smiled.
Hardy Seltzer did not actually recognize the beefy middle-aged man staring absently out the window in the chief’s office, but he knew the type—ill-fitting black suit, comfortable shoes, bad haircut. No doubt FBI, but not from the local office. Hardy knew most of the local agents by sight. The chief sat at his desk, looking even more nervous than usual. He had invited Hardy and the assistant chief into the office immediately on their arrival.
Upon arrival at the office of the Assistant Chief, Seltzer was informed that he had been summoned along with Goetz to the office of the chief. The two men made their way to the unusual audience with their supreme commander, neither completely sure of the reason for the summons. The presence of an FBI guy was the beginning of an explanation.
“Mr. Marsh,” the chief said, speaking to the visitor’s back, “this is Detective Hardy Seltzer, who is our man working on the Shane Hadley abduction. Hardy, this is Farley Marsh from the Chicago FBI office.”
The chief did not introduce Goetz. Perhaps they had already met.
Marsh turned and walked over to where Seltzer stood in front of the chief’s desk. The two men shook hands without speaking. Hardy thought the agent’s hand was too small, too wet, and his grip too weak for his size and chosen occupation. Hardy was ever suspicious of incongruities in people. He trusted consistency.
“It seems,” the chief continued, “that our federal friends have uncovered some additional information that may bear on this case. Would you be so kind as to bring Detective Seltzer up to date, agent Marsh?”
“Well, Detective Seltzer,” the agent began.
“Hardy.”
“Pardon?”
“Hardy,” Hardy repeated. “Please call me Hardy.”
“Very well,” Farley Marsh replied. “I was about to say that what originally looked to us like a local problem for you guys, may well turn out to be a much bigger deal. We, the bureau, wouldn’t ordinarily get very worked up about a botched kidnapping of a local celebrity in a town like this, especially if nobody got hurt. That’s just not the kind of thing we spend a lot of time on. We’re totally happy for guys like you to handle such things. Most times, guys like you appreciate that. Simplifies the situation.”
“I understand, Agent Marsh.”
“Farley.”
“Pardon?”
“Farley,” Farley repeated. “Call me Farley.”
Hardy wasn’t pleased with the obvious sarcasm but continued.
“Very well,” he said. “Very well.”
A chill was settling into the room. The four men felt it.
“You are no doubt working yourself up to a but,” Hardy continued. “Are you not? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Ignoring Hardy’s comment, Marsh said, “However, from what we have learned so far, this may turn out to be a case of major proportions with your local abduction problem only a minor fringe activity.”
“So?” Seltzer queried, unable to control his building resentment of the federal intrusion despite a blatantly disapproving glares from both the chief and the assistant chief.
“Look, Hardy,” Marsh went on, “I’m prepared to be sensitive to the territorial prerogatives here, but this is beginning to look like a national, maybe even international, ring of organized crime figures centered in New York bent on subverting the art market somehow to their own ends. We have some very promising leads to pursue. You have to admit that this sort of thing is FBI territory.”
“Why,” Hardy responded, “would the brain trust of organized crime be interested in this? I mean, there is money to be made, but nothing on the scale those guys usually care about. This isn’t going to pay off like drug smuggling and international prostitution. Surely those guys would consider this small-time mischief.”
“Yes,” Marsh replied, “but they need to control some legitimate business to clean up their dirty money. Maybe that’s what they are thinking. Not sure yet. What have you found out about your guy’s abduction?”
“Nothing very concrete to date,” Seltzer replied. “But I’m pretty sure that your informant, Dudley Sysco, was more involved than he admitted to you. And this New York guy, Bruce Therault. His name keeps surfacing, although as best I could determine, he was in New York on the day of the abduction. There is a third person that we suspect was involved somehow and also seems to have some connection with the New York gallery.”
“Ah, the eely wiles of The Dude,” Marsh sighed. “We might put the screws to him a bit more aggressively if you think that would help. He needs to earn his keep.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Hardy said.
“Well,” the chief interjected, “I suggest that Detective Seltzer continue his investigation focused narrowly on the abduction of Shane Hadley and that the FBI takes charge of whatever are the larger implications. How does that sit with the two of you?”
“Exactly what I was about to propose,” Marsh said.
“Suits me,” Seltzer added. “We should stay in contact, share whatever each of us learns that might be relevant to the other.”
“Sure,” Farley Marsh added unenthusiastically.
“You happy with this, Carl?” the chief spoke to Goetz almost as an aside.
“If you say so,” Goetz replied.
Shane sat at his customized spot at the Wall Street bar nursing his glass of sherry and thinking. Fiona Hayes had not shown up, and it was well past the time she had agreed to be there. Parker Palmer was due in half an hour and Shane wondered whether he would also be a no show. He signaled to Pat Harmony to freshen his glass of wine. Shane’s cell phone chirped. He retrieved the device from his shirt pocket and answered.
“Hadley.”
“Shane,” Hardy Seltzer answered, “I had a phone call that might interest you.”
“I am prepared to be interested, Hardy,” Shane responded.
“Remember the skinny kid who discovered Fitzwallington’s body and called 911?”
“Issy Esser,” Shane said
“That’s him,” Hardy continued. “He now remembers hearing what sounded like an argument between the artist and someone who sounded to him like Parker Palmer during the night before the artist was discovered dead. He couldn’t tell what the argument was about, and it didn’t last long. But he sounded quite sure of what he heard.”
“Why does he remember it now?”
“Says he was just mining his memory for anything that might be important.”
“Maybe,” Shane said. “Maybe. Thanks for letting me know. And incidentally, can you get me a complete copy of the Fitzwallington autopsy report?”
“Maybe,” Hardy replied and ended the call.
Shane took his notebook from his pocket and sat quietly reviewing what he had written there about the Fitzwallington case—some facts, some thoughts. His problem was narrowing the short list of possible murderers to one. He felt that he was close, but something still didn’t feel quite right. Could he be reading the tea leaves all wrong? Was he overlooking something that didn’t fit the story evolving in his mind? But there were always questions if you were honest with yourself. Sometimes you never had all the answers. It was the big answer that mattered.
Those were the things Shane was thinking as the door to the bar burst suddenly open to admit the gangly persona of Parker Palmer. The artist loped across the room to where Shane sat, hoisted himself onto the adjacent bar stool, and spun around to face Shane, turning his back to the bar.
“So, what’s cooking, my man?” Palmer said, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “What can I do you for?”
“Well, Parker,” Shane started, “there is some new information that may concern the death of Bechma
n Fitzwallington, and…”
“Billy Wayne Farmer,” Palmer interrupted. “The man’s name was Billy Wayne Farmer.”
“Be that as it may,” Shane resumed. “Would you be so kind as to enlighten me about two particular facts?”
“Glad to help. Shoot.”
“Although I will not reveal my source, I have come by indisputable information that you, Parker Palmer, are a blood relative of the deceased artist. Is that true?”
“Oh boy,” Palmer responded. “I guess I should have expected to have to deal with this sooner or later.”
“Given the circumstances, it would seem to me unavoidable,” Shane said.
“There is a short and a long answer to your question, detective,” Palmer sighed. “The short answer is yes.”
“And the long one?”
Palmer looked directly into Shane’s eyes and paused for a long moment, “Well, Mr. Sherlock Shane,” he said, “I’m not sure you should be privy to the long answer unless you can give me a good reason why I should be answering your questions at all. You are an ex-cop, is that not true? I appreciate your history, like everybody else. But…”
Ignoring the artist’s reluctance, Shane forged ahead, “And I understand that you had a rather heated exchange with Mr. Fitzwallington…”
“Mr. Farmer,” Palmer interrupted.
“…the night before he was discovered quite dead. What was that about? You may have been the last person to see him alive. As I am assembling the known facts in this case, that would seem to me a circumstance deserving of some serious explanation. Would you not agree?”
“Why are you doing this?” Palmer asked, some uncharacteristic steeliness in the tone of the query.
“Mr. Palmer,” Shane assumed some formality intended to lend gravitas to the conversation, “while I am no longer an active member of Nashville’s finest, I do work with them sometimes, and I suppose take some liberties in my efforts to assist on occasion. Also, I am by nature a curious citizen, Mr. Palmer.”
“Well, Mr. Hadley,” Palmer replied, sliding off the barstool to stand beside Shane and drawing his lanky frame up to full height. “I suggest that you direct your curiosity elsewhere. You might also do well to consider the fate of generations of curious cats.”
With those words of advice, the artist Parker Palmer turned heel and loped out the door of Wall Street, leaving Shane Hadley’s urgent questions unanswered.
Bloody hell, Shane thought.
Shane had not believed that Parker Palmer was the murderer whom he sought. Palmer just didn’t seem to be that sort of person. However, Shane well knew that desperate people were perfectly capable of uncharacteristic behaviors. And this exchange with the artist surely indicated that he was hiding something. Reviewing the situation in his mind, Shane thought that, until more information came to light, Parker Palmer should probably be elevated to position number one on the short list of suspects.
“Hi, Shane,” Hardy Seltzer said.
He had entered the bar unnoticed and slid onto the stool still warm from the brief presence of Parker Palmer. Shane was thinking and nursing his glass of sherry, oblivious to whatever else was happening in Wall Street until Hardy’s unexpected arrival.
“Oh, greetings Hardy,” Shane replied. “What brings you here this fine evening? Pat,” Shane called over the bar to Pat Harmony, who was talking to a uniformed cop across the way, “a glass of sherry for my friend.”
“Sure thing,” Harmony answered, then. “Afternoon, Hardy.”
Harmony retrieved the bottle of Lincoln College Sherry from its special spot in a cabinet beneath the bar and poured Hardy a generous glass.
“Thanks, Pat,” Hardy said. Then he turned toward Shane and continued. “Some things are developing. Time we compared notes, don’t you think?”
“Indeed, my friend,” Shane replied. “Time indeed.”
Chapter 28
Mace Ricci did not leave Nashville after the abduction of Shane Hadley. Panicked by the thinly veiled threats from Mildred Roth, spokesperson for the New York gallery investment group, Bruce Therault insisted that Ricci stay put as a source of continuing information about the status of the Fitzwallington paintings. Ricci was to find out everything he could and feed the information to Therault. This was serious. They had screwed up and were obligated to assure the proper outcome of the situation or else. Therault assured Ricci that he did not want to know the consequences of disappointing these investors. Ricci didn’t need to be told that. He knew all too well how these kinds of people dealt with disappointment. He had no desire to experience their version of or else firsthand.
Ricci reflected on that course of events as he headed for the Germantown home of SalomeMe; he would visit her unannounced. He had gone to ground. He had checked out of his downtown hotel doing his best to leave no tracks, contacted Wilton Argent to arrange use of a car that couldn’t be traced to him, returned his rental to the downtown Hertz office, and waited at the curb for Argent’s minion to deliver the anonymous dark green Kia sedan. He then drove to the south edge of town, checked himself into a Days Inn using an assumed name, and paid cash for a couple of nights in advance. He now drove the surprisingly comfortable sedan back into town and over to the north side, easing into a spot at the curb in front of SalomeMe’s Germantown bungalow. She was the key to control of the paintings, and so Ricci needed to keep the relationship he had cultivated with her alive. His welfare probably depended on it.
The house was quiet. Although the chimes of the doorbell were clearly audible, echoing in the eerie stillness, no one came to the door, and Ricci could not detect any other sounds from inside. He rang the bell several times with the same result. He knocked as loudly as he could on the door. Still no response. He tried the door. The knob turned easily. He pushed the door open and entered the empty living room. He listened intently for sounds from elsewhere in the house. Dead silence.
“SalomeMe,” he called out, thinking how silly it sounded to actually say the weird name aloud. “Are you home?”
Nothing.
Through the door to the adjacent room, Ricci saw an upholstered chair facing a window that looked out onto the house’s rear garden. The tall back of the chair was toward the room, and he thought he could see just a sprig of purplish hair sticking out above the chair back looking for all the world as though it was growing there. He called her name again. When there was no response, he entered the room. The chair facing the rear window was the only furniture.
“SalomeMe,” Ricci spoke the name softly this time.
The chair swiveled slowly around to face him. She was in full costume. Black streaks of running makeup creased her face, but the tears had dried. The pinpoint pupils of her dark eyes were fixed in a vacant stare at a location somewhere in the space before her. Except for turning to face him, she gave no immediate indication that she was aware of her visitor. Ricci figured that she was high on something. God only knew what.
“The bastard never told me,” she said to the vacant room.
“What are you talking about?” Ricci asked.
“The bastard never told me,” she repeated. “He said that I was his daughter and that he loved me.”
The importance of what she seemed to be saying started to dawn on her visitor.
“What are you telling me?” Ricci said. “Do you mean you aren’t Bechman Fitzwallington’s daughter?”
“I’m told,” she stood up and turned to face the window, “that is what is written in the DNA. And I’m told that DNA tells only the God’s truth.”
“Who says?”
“Mr. James L. (Jimmy) Holden, Esquire, tells me that, and lawyer Jimmy claims to be permanently wedded to the truth.”
“Why did he get your DNA analyzed?”
She turned to face Ricci, now looking more directly at him. Tears were again painting vertical strokes of black mascara down her face, dripping from her chin, dotting the exposed swell of her breasts, then coalescing to trickle along the spine of the serpent that
plunged southward between them.
“Lawsuit,” she replied. “That rat Parker Palmer’s lawsuit. The DNA was supposed to settle the thing.”
“What in hell does Parker Palmer have to do with any of this?”
“Beats me,” she said. “Beats the living hell out of me.”
She sat back down in the chair and swiveled around to look out the rear window. She had nothing more to say.
Mace Ricci tried to think through the implications of this new information as he drove from Germantown as directly as he could, given the traffic and his less than perfect recollection of the route, to TAPS. He needed a drink and some more time to decide exactly what he was going to tell Bruce Therault. He obviously couldn’t conceal this development, but he wanted to have a more concrete idea of what he thought they should do about it before placing the call.
Although he wanted to stay well under any potentially interested radar, Ricci figured that TAPS was a safe enough place to get a drink. He had only been there a couple of times and didn’t see any reason why anyone there would recognize him or give a damn even if they did. By the time he parked the Kia and wandered in to occupy a seat at the nearly vacant bar, it was past five o’clock. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a Scotch neat from the barmaid. She thought he looked vaguely familiar but didn’t mention it. He checked for cash in his money clip and realized that he would have to pay for his drink with his credit card. Shouldn’t be a problem.
Parker Palmer strode out the door of Wall Street, down the alley, turned right at Church Street for a block or so and then hung left, down the hill to a tall building with a local bank that had recently sold out to some conglomerate with a catchy name invented by expensive consultants as the anchor ground-floor tenant. Nashville businesses must be supporting an entire industry of expensive consultants whose only function was to invent catchy company names, Palmer thought. Those names were rapidly appearing in garish signs that fronted places of business the names of which had been familiar to him his whole life. It was happening all over town, a veritable epidemic that threatened the essential character of the city that he loved. His city was in the process of betraying him.
