The Angel Singers

by Dorien Grey

“Likewise,” he said.

  They released the handshake, and Johnson got out. He closed the door, bent down to give a wave through the window and strode into the hotel.

  “That was odd,” Jonathan said as I pulled away from the curb.

  “What was?”

  “I saw him give his card to Doctor Meade,” he said, “and he had a bunch of them. I saw him put them back into his pocket.”

  Chapter 9

  Well, I obviously had quite a bit of thinking to do about Kenneth Johnson, and I knew I should do it before calling the Glicks first thing in the morning. I knew they expected my impressions before their ten o’clock meeting with him at the Montero.

  But this was Jonathan’s and my first full evening alone together in what seemed like an eternity, and as I knew would happen, the minute we got back to the apartment Grant Jefferson and Kenneth Johnson and everything else took a back seat to us being us. I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t.

  After Jonathan finally fell asleep around two, I opened the closet of my thoughts. Johnson’s not wanting to give me his business card was a little pointless, since I’m sure he knew I could get the information from the Glicks. Whether or not he suspected the reason why Jonathan and I were at dinner I couldn’t say. I think we covered it quite well, and I had gone out of my way to avoid giving him specific reason to think I was targeting him. Still, the guy was far from stupid, and I was sure the very presence of a private investigator, no matter how innocent, would be enough to put him on guard.

  So, what did I think of him? With absolutely no solid evidence to back it up, I was sure that Kenneth Johnson and Robert Smith were the same person. In dealing with him, the Glicks were opening themselves up to being scammed. If I was wrong and he was legit, what would the Glicks be out, really? They could pursue their art collecting from any number of other unquestionably legitimate sources.

  But for them to close the door on Johnson before I was able to determine whether he might, as I suspected, have been in town at the time Grant was killed would be to risk his disappearing into other identities and who knows what other locations.

  The Glicks had been vague as to exactly when Johnson had first come into town, and I hadn’t pressed them on it; but now I really wanted to see if I could pin them down, or if they might be able to check the date on any receipt or paperwork they may have exchanged on their first purchase from him.

  I wasn’t sure whether or not to let them know that my interest in Johnson went beyond their immediate concerns. If he were, by some chance, legit, this wouldn’t be exactly fair to him, but on the other hand, if I didn’t mention it, they might think I’d been hiding things from them. I definitely did not want that.

  *

  Jonathan awoke me in a most unusual but pleasant way Sunday morning.

  “Hey, it’s our last chance before Joshua comes home—we might as well take advantage of it.”

  I like the way that boy thinks.

  Later, while he was in the shower, I threw on a robe out of habit and went into the living room to call the Glicks. It was only eight fifteen, but I hoped they’d be up.

  Iris answered, since Sunday was Johnnie-Mae’s day off. After thanking her for a pleasant evening, I asked if Arnold might be able to pick up another phone so I could talk with them both.

  “One moment,” she said. “I’ll get him.”

  There was a brief pause and then Arnold’s “Good morning, Dick. I was hoping you might call. Did you have the chance to form any opinions of Kenneth Johnson?”

  “Yes, I did. He’s very convincing, but then, that’s part of being a con man. Based mostly on instinct and another matter, I would advise against making any sizable investment in him at the moment.”

  “Another matter?” Arnold asked.

  I paused, not sure exactly how to proceed. So, as always, I jumped in.

  “I’m afraid there’s considerably more involved here than whether Johnson is a con man or not.” I quickly outlined the situation and circumstances surrounding Grant Jefferson’s murder, and my belief that Kenneth Johnson was not only a scam artist but was also known as Robert Smith and may possibly have been involved in Grant’s death.

  “Can you possibly check your records for the exact date Johnson first came to town to see you?”

  “Of course,” Arnold replied. “And I must say I’m shocked by all of this. We’ll cancel our meeting with him immediately.”

  “Ahh, please don’t do that,” I said. “I know I haven’t any right to drag you into all this, but if you give Johnson any indication that you’re on to him, I’m afraid he’ll disappear into another identity and move on to scam someone else.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Nothing that you wouldn’t have done if we’d not had this conversation. I assume he didn’t bring any pieces with him that he’s expecting you to buy today?”

  “No…he said he had photos of several pieces he thought might interest us, which he’ll be showing us this morning. Frankly, if he made a habit of wandering around the country with a suitcase full of antiquities, I’d have closed the door on this long ago.”

  “Good. So, we have some leeway here as far as time is concerned. While I hate to ask you to risk a cent of your own money, you mentioned that the deposit he asked for on the first piece you bought from him was reasonable?”

  “Yes. Generally ten percent of the purchase price, which we feel is both logical and reasonable and an investment we would happily make if you think Johnson might conceivably be involved in a murder. We’ll be happy to do whatever we can to keep him from slipping away.”

  “That’s really very kind of you,” I said and meant it sincerely. “And in the meantime, I would suggest you take your earlier purchase to a professional appraiser. If, by chance, it was stolen shortly before you bought it, it may not have had time to appear on stolen goods lists when you first took it for authentication. But now that some time has passed…”

  “An excellent idea,” Arnold said. “I’ll put in a call to Doctor Gunderson at Mountjoy to see if he knows of an appraiser. I doubt he would have access to stolen property lists, but he may be able to refer us to a dealer who would.

  “In the meantime, we’ll play it by ear and see what develops. We’ll call you this afternoon, say around two?”

  “That will be fine. And I really appreciate your going out of your way like this.”

  “We’re glad to help,” Iris said. “And now we’d better finish getting ready for our meeting.”

  We exchanged good-byes, and I heard Jonathan enter the room as I hung up.

  “Are you going to try to make church today?” I asked as I turned around to see him standing there, naked as a jaybird, toweling his hair. “…and don’t do that!” I added hastily.

  “Do what?” he asked, innocently, still toweling.

  I gave a flip of my hand toward his nakedness. “That,” I said. “We’ve got to go pick up Joshua before midnight, and this ain’t helping.”

  He grinned and sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. But it feels kind of nice to wander around in the altogether.”

  “No argument from me there,” I said, fighting off the urge to strip down myself. “But about church…?”

  “I think we can skip it today,” he said. “I don’t think God will mind. And we really should offer to take Tim out to brunch, don’t you think?”

  “I was just thinking that,” I said. “Why don’t you give him a call while I jump in the shower? I’m sure Joshua got him up hours ago.”

  Jonathan tossed me his towel. “Hang this up for me?”

  It took all the willpower I could muster, but I caught the towel in mid-air and went directly into the bathroom without looking back.

  I heard the phone ring. I stopped long enough to hear Jonathan say, “Oh, hi, Eric!” before I stepped into the shower and closed the door.

  *

  Jonathan was still naked when I got out of the shower, apparently just having gotten off the phone
.

  “I called Tim,” he announced as he joined me in the bedroom to start getting dressed. “He’s up for brunch and says Joshua was the perfect house guest.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Hey, would Tim lie? Joshua thought so, too, apparently. He insisted on getting on the phone and wanted to tell me all about his evening, but I told him we’d be seeing him soon and he could tell us then.”

  “So, what’s with Eric?” I asked, tucking in my shirttail and zipping up my pants.

  “He wanted to know if he could ride over to the rehearsal with me this afternoon—his car’s acting up, and we’re supposed to be there by four thirty. We should be out by six. He’s going to visit a friend who lives right near here, and I told him we should be home by two thirty and for him to come over here for coffee after he’s done. We can leave from here.”

  “Cutting it a little close on time, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “No problem. But I will be kind of glad when the concert’s over so I can have more time at home.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said.

  “Anyway, he’ll be by around three.”

  “Did you tell him about our dinner at the Glicks?” I asked, fairly confident he couldn’t wait to impress his friends.

  “Yes, I did. And it turns out he knows Doctor Meade.”

  “Really?” I said, curious. “How’s that?”

  “I guess he saw him for a while after his family died.”

  That made sense, since Meade had said he counseled traumatized youth, and Eric’s losing his entire family certainly qualified as trauma. But I found it interesting and couldn’t help but wonder about the details.

  *

  Before leaving for Tim’s, I decided to go down to the car to lift any prints off the rear door handle, then cursed myself soundly when I realized I’d left my print kit at the office, so I couldn’t do anything until Monday. To avoid risking having Tim or Joshua open the back door, we took Jonathan’s car.

  We left the decision of where to go up to Tim, who was aware of our reluctance to go to a gay restaurant out of consideration for those patrons who might find having a five-year-old boy at the next table put a crimp on the range of their conversations. So, I was relieved when he suggested the Cove, though I’d have enjoyed a Bloody Mary or two.

  On the way to the restaurant, Joshua treated us to a detailed accounting of his night with Uncle Tim and how he got to help make popcorn and read a book about fishes and played cards and watched TV. During brunch we got a chance to catch up with what was going on with Tim and Phil. It seemed strange not having Phil with us, since ordinarily we never saw one without the other.

  Tim had known me long enough not to bring up what I might be working on until and unless I mentioned it first, and I didn’t. I wanted this to be nothing more than a pleasant brunch with a friend.

  We dropped Tim off and returned home around one thirty after a stop at one of Joshua’s favorite parks—well, any park with a swing set, slide, monkey bars, and merry-go-round is Joshua’s favorite—to give him a chance to run around and burn off some of his always-excess energy. We also swung by a local bakery that was open on Sunday to pick up something to have with coffee during Eric’s visit. Joshua thought the three-tiered wedding cake in the window would be nice, and it was only after a lengthy negotiation that he settled for a dozen assorted donuts, which we let him help select.

  The phone rang at precisely two o’clock.

  “Dick, it’s Arnold. Our meeting with Johnson went very well, and we’ve agreed to purchase another piece from him. We gave him a deposit on it.”

  “I really appreciate your going out on a limb like that,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too large a deposit.”

  “We can manage it,” he said. “Oh, and Iris found our copy of the cashier’s check we gave him when he was here the first time. It’s dated the eighteenth of last month.”

  And Grant was killed on the twentieth.

  “Johnson’s leaving town this afternoon, as I recall.” I said.

  “Yes. His flight left at one thirty, I believe,” he said. “He’ll be back sometime late next week to deliver the piece. He’ll call first, I’m sure.”

  “Great,” I said. “That will give me time to check out a few more things and maybe pull the whole case together.”

  I realized as I said it that I was probably being more than a tad optimistic, but it could happen.

  *

  The coffee was on and the box of donuts safely on top of the refrigerator where Joshua could not easily get to it when Eric arrived. Joshua, who had been playing in his room, came running out when he heard the buzzer, assuming it was donut time. When Jonathan told him it would be a few minutes yet, he headed back to his room.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello to Eric?” Jonathan asked.

  “No,” Joshua said. “I’m busy.”

  “You’re not that busy, so you just stand here until Eric comes in and you say hello to him. Then you can go back to your room.”

  Joshua gave him the rolled-eyes look he had obviously picked up from Jonathan—maybe it was genetic—but stayed where he was as I went to the door to let Eric in.

  I was a bit surprised when Eric gave me a quick hug with his, “Hi, Dick.” He then turned to Jonathan and Joshua. “How’s it going, guys?”

  “Fine,” Joshua said then turned and headed for his room.

  Jonathan looked after him with a puzzled scowl. “I have no idea what gets into that kid.”

  “Not to worry,” Eric said. “He’s a kid. He can’t like everybody.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of his not liking you,” I said. “As I told Jonathan, I think he’s jealous of you for taking Jonathan away from him. Hard for a five-year-old to separate things. To him, you’re the chorus.”

  “Interesting,” Eric said. “I don’t make people jealous very often, try as I might.”

  I hadn’t a clue as to what he meant by that, but was pretty sure he meant something.

  We’d no sooner sat down than Jonathan popped right back up.

  “Maybe we should have our coffee now so we don’t have to rush.”

  Not surprisingly, Joshua magically appeared. “Can we have a donut now?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Yes, we can have a donut now. Come help me.”

  “I understand you know Porter Meade,” I said to Eric as Jonathan and Joshua busied themselves in the kitchen.

  That the statement was totally out of left field didn’t seem to faze him. He shrugged. “Yeah, I saw him for a while. I don’t think he liked me much.”

  “Odd that you’d say that,” I said. “Psychologists pride themselves on their objectivity.”

  Eric grinned. “Yeah, well some are more objective than others, I guess.”

  “What makes you think he didn’t like you?”

  Another shrug. “You’d have to ask him, I guess.”

  The discussion was interrupted as Joshua entered with the box of donuts and a thin stack of large paper napkins. I noted one donut was missing and assumed he had laid claim to it before leaving the kitchen.

  He went first to Eric—I had no doubt on specific instructions from Jonathan—and held the box out to him.

  “Here,” he said, and when Eric took one and a napkin with thanks, he put the box and the napkins down on the coffee table in front of me, reaching into the box.

  “Don’t you already have one?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I gave him a raised-eyebrow stare, and he reluctantly recanted.

  “Well, I’m really, really hungry.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But you give it to Uncle Jonathan to set aside for you for later.”

  Nodding, he raced back into the kitchen.

  “Drat!” Eric said. “I forgot the book!”

  “The book?” I asked.

  “The one Jonathan lent me, the one by Morgan Butler. It was great, and I was hoping I could borrow another.”

  “I’m su
re that could be arranged,” I said. “And there’s no rush in getting the first one back.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but…”

  “No problem,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  *

  The next morning, parking my car in the pay-by-the-month lot across the street from my building, I ran up to the office only long enough to retrieve my fingerprint kit from the file cabinet. It never failed that no matter where I put the kit, it was never handy when I needed it.

  Hoping Johnson had left some clear prints on the door handle, I brushed the area with the iron shavings and was relieved to find what appeared to be not one but two useable prints. Lifting them carefully with the tape, I fastened them on the special small glycine sheets, laid them inside the kit, closed it, and returned to the office.

  Pausing to start a pot of coffee, I went to my desk to call—or rather, since I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be in, to leave a message for—Marty Gresham. I then settled into my usual office morning routine, hoping to hear from him.

  I was finishing up the crossword puzzle when someone knocked on the door, which opened before I could say anything. I was more than a little surprised when Eric came in.

  “I brought the book,” he said. “I didn’t feel right about waiting until practice tomorrow to give it back.” He crossed the room and set it on my desk.

  “You’re not working today?” I asked, more than a little puzzled by his sudden appearance.

  “Eleven,” he said. “There’s a big shipment coming in this afternoon, so the boss told me not to come in until later. It’ll be a long night.”

  “You want some coffee?” I asked.

  “Sure. That’d be great…as long as I’m not keeping you from anything.” He indicated the crossword puzzle with a nod and a grin.

  “No, I’m waiting for a phone call before I can do much.”

  I started to get up, but he headed for the coffeemaker, saying “I can get it. You need a refill?”

  “Uh, yeah, now that you mention it.”

  He brought the pot over and topped off my cup. Returning to the coffeemaker, he took a Styrofoam cup from the short stack beside the machine and filled it, put the pot back on the hot plate, then came over and sat down.