Facing A Twisted Judgment

by K. J. McGillick

  Dalia

  I’d always been a list person. Some people said I was compulsive; others labeled me as obsessive. Neither label was correct, but I nonetheless heard it applied all the time. It drove me crazy. My aim was the orderly flow of ideas, leaving nothing to chance. I believed organization produced the best results.

  This morning, before I met with Detective Declan Murphy, I’d made my list of suspects and their motives, and the list was wide open. The question should be, Who doesn’t have a motive?

  The beauty of this job was, it wasn’t my responsibility to make a case against a particular person or persons. My objective was solely to follow any leads that brought us to the recovery of the paintings before they were lost forever. If an arrest was made, all the better. Chances were, this was an amateur attempting what could laughingly be termed a heist. But even a bungled job could turn dark when that person turned the paintings over to the next link in the chain—someone organized and professional.

  Over the years, I’d accumulated a vast knowledge about art and art history from seminars I attended and the miles my shoes had on them from visiting museums. Art was a beautiful form of expression, and I envied artists. They had a vision I didn’t. My mind thought in patterns and lines and theirs in waves of chaos. Once that chaos was harnessed and put on a canvas, it took on a life of its own. Each piece told a unique story, and it was my job to make sure we found these paintings, so they continued to tell their story. This person might have thought they were robbing a piece of valuable property when, in effect, they were robbing history and a piece of civilization.

  Armed with my notes, I walked into the clean, subdued, modern police station. I gave my personal information to the desk officer and waited in the designated area. It was a surreal feeling, entering a police station, not as a team member yet an integral part of an investigation.

  A door opened, and my eyes caught sight of a motorcycle-booted foot, which propped open the door. My eyes followed the boot and gazed upward to a six-foot-five guy that was all muscle. The lanyard around his neck indicated I was face-to-face with Detective Declan Murphy. There was the hippie side of Denver as well as a cowboy side of Denver. Declan was definitely the cowboy side. Ruffled brown hair in need of a haircut and the large belt buckle gave him a sexy look that any woman would find hard to resist. He motioned with his head for me to come forward. If there was a flaw hidden in that face, I couldn’t find it. I wondered if he had been a model on a police calendar; if so, I was certain it was on hundreds of women’s desks or doors. The man was the full package.

  “Morning. I’m Detective Murphy, and you must be Ms. Grey,” he said.

  “Dalia,” I responded. “Thank you for seeing me today.”

  “I’m acquainted with Cillian and Jackson. They’ve filled me in on your representation of the insurance firm. My lieutenant is opening our files to you; however, you’ll need to sign a few documents to cover everyone’s behind. Step this way, and once you sign off, we’ll be ready to rock and roll,” he said as he allowed me to pass by him to a room on the right. “I’ll log out and be right back.”

  Normally, I would study the documents word for word and probably insist on additions and deletions, but I got the feeling these were nonnegotiable.

  I completed the forms and handed them to the young officer at the desk, who saw I had made notes on the form and asked “Lawyer?” with a smirk.

  I returned a weak smile and went back to the room to wait.

  I barely sat down when Detective Murphy returned, flipping his keys around his index finger.

  “I was on my way to meet the real estate broker and photographer at the house. You want to join me?” he asked as my eyes followed the swinging keys.

  “You bet!” I replied, rocketing out of the chair.

  He remained standing, and it forced me to crane my neck up to meet his gaze. At five foot five, I was a whole foot shorter than him, and if this continued, I’d have some serious neck pain going on.

  “We need to set some boundaries. I understand you have extensive experience in the justice system, the DA’s office. However, you’ll have to tuck that role away and remember that this is my case. If you’ve got questions, you can ask them, but if I shut something down, you can’t go barreling ahead, willy-nilly, down that path. We good?” he asked, the keys still moving in a circle.

  “I have to say, I’m surprised the department is open to sharing the case with me,” I said, giving him my best smile. “Where I come from, the police are quite territorial.”

  He smiled and tilted his head for me to follow.

  I followed his long legs as he moved to the door and swiped the card around his neck. Then, we entered a garage area.

  “Right now, there is no actual case. We have it listed as an OI—open inquiry. This is strictly a fact-finding mission to determine if there will be a case. Let’s head to the car, and we can discuss it on the way, or we’ll be late,” he said.

  “Will the husband be there?” I asked. I could possibly kill two birds with one stone.

  “No,” he said, pushing through the doors and aiming his key fob to open the car doors. “I want to have a conversation with the real estate guy and photographer without him. He’s slick, and I don’t want him having information available, only to re-craft his story later. We’ve taken an initial statement from him, but before we go at him, I want more information and solid facts.”

  Fair enough.

  He made certain I was comfortable and buckled up before we drove away from the station.

  “I’ve done some checking on you,” he said as he glanced my way. “You’ve got a solid reputation as a no-nonsense person. Mind if I ask why you left the DA’s office?” he inquired.

  “What do you mean?” I responded.

  “People are either lifers at the DA’s office or move on to be judges or leave to go over to the dark side of criminal defense. Usually, investigatory agencies are not something you see a prosecutor turn toward.”

  It wasn’t that the question wasn’t a common one, but it felt judgmental, coming from him. I studied him and decided he wasn’t trying to trip me up; he was just curious.

  “I felt it was time to explore different options,” I responded. After it fell from my lips, I realized how rote and lame it sounded. As if I were on a job interview and this was my noncommittal answer.

  Surprisingly, he nodded and let it sit.

  “Okay, here’s some background on the people we are meeting. The house was being prepared for sale, and the real estate agent has been around Denver forever. He’s part of that million-dollar sales club, and he has a solid reputation. He’s never had a complaint against him from any clients, and his criminal background is clean. The photographer has also been around forever, and lots of agents use him.

  “Both the real estate agent and the photographer had temporary access codes to the house, so they could prepare the house for sale. Personally, I don’t understand why people put their house on display to millions of people on the internet. To me, it’s reckless. I imagine some of the people who troll the sale sites are probably sitting at home, trying to figure out how to break in, based on what they see. What makes it even worse is when the valuable property is on display. It gives a scumbag an easy inventory and allows a crook to sit at home and plan a crime. I’ve heard the argument that the actual showing is by appointment only and only after the party has been financially vetted. Still, that doesn’t account for people who make it their life mission to slip past the best of security systems,” he said, turning the volume of the radio down through the control of the steering wheel.

  “Agreed. Too many people have visual access. My understanding is, there was no break in the system or forced entry. And also, in the insurance file, it was noted the house had a state-of-the-art security system, which remained intact. The thing I didn’t like was, once the alarm was disarmed upon entry, all the inside cameras were shut down by another code. Probably done for privacy, but that would hav
e solved this case if all the cameras had remained active. This naturally begs the question of, Why were the paintings there one minute and gone the next?” I said. Not a new revelation, I was certain.

  “That makes this a puzzle. Did Mrs. Clarke disable the cameras and leave with the paintings, or did someone hack into the system and make off with them?” he replied.

  “Are we brainstorming here?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said and smiled. “Your thoughts?”

  “It seems unlikely that Mrs. Clarke would abscond with the paintings. What would be her motive? The paintings are hers. Honestly, I’d cross that off my list,” I said.

  He gave a short nod and a crooked smile. He was testing me.

  “The husband?” Declan asked.

  “According to my file, he’s got an alibi for the time frame; however, we know alibis can be faked and even bought. The alibi is a factor but not a big one. In fact, it’s a flimsy alibi. His background is filled with all kinds of ethical landmines. But that really just throws a shade over the entire picture. What bothers me is, the reason he called the police was because the paintings were missing. A missing wife—make that, a missing newlywed—was a second thought,” I said, mentally reviewing the sequence of events in my mind from the report.

  “I don’t know if it was in your report, but the investigating officer on the scene noted that the husband had made a point to say the paintings belonged to him and his wife and that he needed the report expedited to file a claim with the insurance company,” he replied as he flipped his blinker on.

  “No, I don’t recall that being specifically stated, but something to that effect was in the notes. And that statement he made was a blatant misrepresentation. The paintings were titled in her name—and her maiden name to boot. Next on the list are the siblings. I’ve reviewed the probate file, and it was a bloodbath. My thought is to put everyone on the list,” I said.

  He nodded. “Anyone else?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Even though you’ve nixed them off the list, I’d list the real estate broker, photographer, and anyone associated with them. They had access and opportunity, and let’s face it; money is always a motive. And who knows who had access to the house and knew the paintings were back in place for a short time?”

  We pulled onto a long driveway bordered by immaculate landscaping, which swept up to a large colonial-style home.

  “That’s where we shall start. Let’s see what they have to say.” He smiled as he pushed the handle into the park position.

  Before he could reach my door, I was out, walking toward the house. Two cars parked outside the garage—a sleek black Mercedes, which probably belonged to the real estate broker, and an SUV, which was probably owned by the photographer—caught my attention. These guys must make some decent money to afford those kinds of rides. I’d seen that particular Mercedes model advertised for over a hundred grand. Luxury cars seemed a waste of money to me; they were nothing more than depreciating assets.

  “Odd. I don’t see them. They were supposed to meet me by the front door. I’m certain someone disabled the access code—” he said, looking around for them, when the front door swung open.

  “Detective Murphy, how nice to see you again,” said an attractive man in his mid-thirties. His suit was clearly not off the rack and looked as if it had been hand-tailored for him. His leather shoes cost more than my car payment, and his haircut was what I called a politician’s cut. There was not a hair out of place, and his teeth were more than likely all veneers.

  This must be Alex Clarke.

  Declan’s mouth tightened, and his body braced. He was clearly not happy with the man who extended his hand toward us.

  “Mr. Clarke, what are you doing here? I specifically told you that I wanted the house to myself with the broker and photographer,” Declan replied, refusing Mr. Clarke’s hand and instead placing his hands on his hips.

  “Well, as the Denver Police Department has not declared my house an official crime scene and I don’t see a warrant, then I find no reason to be excluded from the meeting.” Mr. Clarke smiled in a rather smarmy way. He then turned toward me, and his eyes raked over me with an unspoken question.

  “I’m Dalia Grey. Bristol Insurance has retained my firm to investigate the disappearance of the paintings and to recover the art,” I replied with an emphasis on the word recover. I extended my hand to him, which he held a little too long.

  “Dahlia, like the flower?” he asked.

  Yeah, I got that a lot, too.

  “No, but close,” I said, extracting my hand.

  “Well, Dalia, please call me Alex,” he said.

  I returned a forced smile.

  Declan stepped forward into Alex’s space. His tactic was wasted, as Alex was not intimidated. For a few seconds, an unspoken power play occurred, and at the end, neither could claim victory.

  “Shall we go inside? The broker, Thomas McClain, and the photographer, Rick Martin, are waiting,” Alex offered with a show of hospitality.

  We walked through a large hall where I could tell two of the paintings had once hung yet now only reflected bare walls and the docking apparatus.

  The broker and photographer were seated in a large room that even I realized contained obscenely expensive furniture. A quick survey of the room showed it had once housed two paintings. The apparatus where they’d hung was still attached to the wall; however, something appeared off. I made a note to ask if the paintings had been removed from the frames and, if so, where the frames were.

  Declan greeted the pair and made the introduction. He indicated we should sit, trying to regain control. Declan removed his notepad from his pocket and clicked his pen, showing he was ready to start.

  The photographer was the first to speak. However, the side-glance he gave to Alex underscored his discomfort with his presence.

  He leaned forward to address Declan, and I twisted to face him.

  “Detective, I’m certain you have a flow you wish to follow; however, I’d like to show you some photos before we start. I’ve set up my computer on the desk over there. If you’ll follow me, I can show you something interesting,” he said.

  We all moved over to the desk.

  “I’ve photographed the house twice. The first was when Mrs. Clarke asked us to come out and meet her to discuss engaging the broker to sell the house. During the initial meeting, I always photograph the house while Thomas speaks to the prospective client. This way, when he is preparing a package, he can reference issues in the offer with photos as a backup. If you look here, these are the two rooms and a hall with the paintings on the first floor,” he said.

  Bent over the computer, he tapped the mouse and two areas came to life on the screen in a tiled fashion. To my eye, nothing looked amiss. The paintings were magnificent and brought life to the room.

  “I shot the first set the first day with no filters. Then, the second time I came back, when the paintings were no longer on the walls, I used a special yellow filter. Both these sets are untouched by digital software,” he said, looking at Declan.

  “Okay, everything looks normal. Am I missing something?” Declan asked.

  “Before I move on, I need you to note the color scale of the color white on this wall in this room,” he said as a screen popped up, showing the color hex code of the walls.

  Declan and I exchanged a look, as neither of us could see where this was heading.

  “When we returned for the final shoot, I thought Mrs. Clarke had removed the paintings for safekeeping. I reshot the room to reflect what potential buyers would see. If you look at the color hex code for the wall where the paintings were, there is a different color code for the wall from the first day we visited,” he continued, flipping back and forth between screens. “It appears a different paint has been recently applied.”

  Alex looked around the room to see what the photographer was talking about but said nothing.

  “Maybe she painted to freshen it up and cover where the
paintings were,” Declan replied.

  Although a valid observation, it did not account for why the apparatus to hold the paintings remained on the walls.

  “Excellent point. However, when I now expose it using the yellow filter what do you see?” he asked and stepped back crossing his arms.

  Silence. Staring. Breath held.

  “Do that again—what you just did,” Declan requested. “Go back and bring it forward.”

  What appeared on the wall where the paintings had been were distinct shadows under the paint, observable with the yellow filter.

  He complied with the request, and after the second flip, he left it on the most recent photo shoot.

  “Now, Detective, I’m no forensic expert, but because this material shows under my yellow filter, I will hazard a guess that it’s blood. It wasn’t there the day I first shot the room, but it’s there now. And, again, take this from me being an armchair CSI, but that looks like a blood splatter pattern.”

  Declan moved the mouse to zoom in on the areas and looked toward me. I concurred with the photographer. When using the zoom, there was a pattern of droplets and drops with tails.

  “People, we have a possible crime scene here,” Declan said, looking Alex dead in the eye.

  Alex was visibly shaken but had the good sense to reflect upon his law school training and remain silent. Because, sure as hell, anything he said would be used against him.

  Dalia

  Blood splatter pattern—not the words anyone wanted to hear. Under normal circumstances, you could conjure up several scenarios. But couple that with a missing person and a new paint job, and that limited the reason to the few you were hoping weren’t true.