“Yes, I see,” I said.
“So, the fact that the paintings were to be sent to museums and that you are not on the title could appear to give you a motive to steal and sell them, wouldn’t you agree?” I asked.
“I would agree,” he said.
“Would you auction them on the Dark Web?” I asked.
“Too much trouble for me,” he said, sipping his coffee.
“Then, how?” I asked.
“I don’t know since I didn’t steal them. I have given no thought to it at all. All I care about is that the claim gets paid by your company. And the sooner, the better,” he said.
“I have to say, the fact that your wife is missing—and it’s looking increasingly like she’s dead—doesn’t seem to affect you much,” I said, knowing I might have gone a bit too far.
“Well, since I know I didn’t kill her and until a body shows up, we are all dealing in suppositions. If that’s it, I consider this my obligatory formal statement, and we are done,” he said.
“Marissa Adams …” I left the statement open.
“What about her?” he asked, looking at me over his cup.
“Why did she pick you up from the house?” I asked more to see the surprise than really expecting an answer.
“Seriously, that’s the best you have?” A smirk and shake of his head were all I got. “We’re done.”
I had so many more questions, but they were not on point to the paintings, and going down the Marissa path would be fruitless.
“I’ll have your statement transcribed and sent to you,” I said.
He nodded and slipped from the booth.
What could I deduce from this conversation? That he was a cold bastard who knew his way around art theft. Probably. Well, for now, I’d have to continue to follow the leads, and the leads were the money.
But what was the point of stealing them if he couldn’t sell them? If he were her beneficiary under the will, he’d get it all when a body showed up. But what if she left them to the museum as a charitable contribution? Then, even if a body appeared, he’d get nothing. We’d have to track down whatever lawyer had her will and see her plans. Maybe there was a revocable trust out there that could point us in the right direction.
My gut said he was a sleaze but not a murderer. Yet the evidence was pointing us elsewhere. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t my job to solve the case. But my DNA said it was.
Alex
Although I had decided to terminate Stanton’s service, I still had money on the books with him. That money I would never see back once he was fired. That was just how lawyers worked. So, he needed to work those last dollars off.
“Stanton, I need you to get on top of this and get me something in place, so I can take over any personal and business issues until Sam is found dead or alive. We have securities that need managing, the house has to be released as a crime scene, and I need access and authority to negotiate with the insurance company. They need to release funds for the paintings,” I demanded.
“Alex, you’re an attorney. You can file for a general power of attorney,” he said dismissively. “Didn’t you and Sam execute one when you updated your wills?”
“Yes, Stanton, I know I could apply for a POA, but how would that look to a judge? If you do it as my counsel, it will appear as if I’m taking direction from you. Can you see the difference?” I asked.
Really, the man couldn’t be that dense.
And, since I had no idea where the power of attorney document was, as it wasn’t in our safe deposit box, then I was afraid she might have revoked it. No need to share that information.
There was a brief silence, and I had to look at the phone to make certain it was still connected.
“Aren’t you worried about what’s happened to Sam?” he asked in a low voice.
“Worry achieves nothing productive. The events in play regarding Sam are out of my control. But what is in my control are business issues that need my attention. I’d like you to get a power of attorney for me today, so I can conduct business. Now, chop, chop. I’m interviewing a public relations person to handle the communication aspect and try to turn the tide of bad press I’ve been getting. It’s impacting my practice, and I can’t have that happen,” I told him.
I didn’t know why he didn’t suggest a PR firm. If I had hired one of the TV attorney spin machines, I was sure that was the first thing they would have suggested.
Suddenly, he found his voice, and it came across authoritative and judgmental. “Alex, I have no words. I am frankly stunned that your foremost thought is not toward your wife’s safe return, but it’s all about money. How the hell do you think that’s going to play out in the public eye? Not to mention, going to court with the undertone of asking the judge to just about declare her dead, so you can sell the house and pillage her financial possessions. I don’t think I want to stay on in this case. No, make that, I will not stay on in this case. Find new legal counsel,” he said and disconnected.
What. The. Hell? What the hell is wrong with him?
I’m being framed for murder—and not just any murder. A murder for financial gain. My business is falling apart, and I still have the property to manage.
Well, since he terminated the services, he’d better send a letter with my monetary refund.
I stopped and looked around the room. My head felt light, and my breathing picked up, I felt my heart race. A panic attack. I was having a goddamn panic attack. I had to get ahold of myself. Stanton was right; I was allowing myself to be unfiltered, and that would not bode well for me. I was losing my mind, and my bad choices were catching up to me.
I never loved Sam, and our relationship was a sham. She had to know I’d married her for the lifestyle she could give me. So, wasn’t it her fault for holding on to something so blatantly false? She must have sensed something inside me prevented me from connecting and committing to one person unconditionally. She couldn’t be so naive to think she could be the one to change me. Was she punishing me? Did she plant all this false evidence to make me lose my freedom and my mind? Was she hiding somewhere, and then when I was locked away, she’d let me know her punishment was complete?
I paced around, pulling at my hair, just to feel the pain to ground me. No, that was just crazy talk. She was a kind and gentle soul who was unfortunate enough to let me into her life. And, now, she was probably dead. But why? How? Who killed her?
My head was screaming that I had done it. Maybe, psychologically, I’d killed the person she was, but physically, I had nothing to do with it.
Stop. Stop. Stop. Get ahold of yourself.
I stood still and removed my socks and shoes. I firmly placed my feet on the carpet and pressed my toes into the pile. Digging them in and releasing them. Digging and releasing. Curling my toes into the carpet as I took a deep breath in and let it out. Grounding myself. Thinking only of myself.
There, that’s better.
I opened my eyes and took another breath. My priorities aligned, I was ready to reconnect with what needed to be done.
Dalia
“Okay, people, quiet,” Cillian said as we sat in the conference room and argued about the case. “Tyler’s buzzing through on the phone.” Cillian hit a button that brought a triangle speaker in the center of the table to life. “Tyler, we’re all here,” he said, returning to his seat, ready to take notes.
“Morning, everyone,” he started.
Mary had insinuated that he was Israeli, but I couldn’t detect any particular accent. From the brief time he had been visible on FaceTime, he looked young with Anderson Cooper silver hair, and that was my only real impression. Everything else, my mind filled in on its own.
“What have you got for us?” Mary asked, cutting to the chase.
Her fingers tapped the table; that meant she’d had too much coffee.
“Someone has taken down the auction site that was posted,” he replied.
I could sense a hint of frustration in his voice.
That was an inane question. That meant, we’d lost any lead we had.
“Early this morning, your time. And what it means is anyone’s guess. Maybe the Feds were on to it, and they are moving in. Possibly, they have a private buyer. It could have been a diversion site, and the real auction was somewhere else. I’ll monitor the activity, but for now, that site is burned,” he replied.
“Great. Thanks, Tyler. Later,” Cillian replied.
He disconnected the call.
“He or she got scared,” Mary said with a tone as if she were part of the ring.
“Or maybe, like Tyler said, he found a private buyer,” I replied.
Certainly, if I had my preference, I’d go with a private buyer. Sure, people on the Dark Web were there for a reason, but even criminals didn’t want to get burned.
“Nah, no one would be able to unload all those paintings on one person,” Jackson said.
And that was a true statement. The paintings were an eclectic collection, to say the least. If they were all Renaissance or all Fauvism, I could see that. But Bacon and Freud required a special taste in art.
“My gut says, we’re not working with some criminal mastermind here. More like an amateur trying to find the path of least resistance,” Cillian said.
I could go with that because, as I sat here and Googled how to sell on the Dark Web, there were six hundred forty-two million sites that showed up in the search. The blueprint of criminal activity at your fingertips.
“All right, let’s take a moment and update ourselves on our list of suspects,” Cillian said.
“Photographer and real estate broker ruled out. The code Samantha assigned them wasn’t used, except for the time they showed. Ashton, the brother, is in jail; however, it doesn’t rule out an accomplice on the outside. Marley—well, that freak show couldn’t pull this off herself, but again, she could also have had an accomplice. My money remains on the husband. He had motive and opportunity. That Marissa chick he’s hanging out with has a criminal pedigree that lends itself to moving the paintings and could account for the female calling the auction house,” Jackson said.
“I’d like a crack at Alex,” Mary said, tapping her pen on the paper in front of her.
“Christ, here we go. It was just a matter of time,” Jackson stated, tossing his pen on his pad. “Here comes chaos.”
“What more do you think you can get out of him than Dalia or Detective Murphy did?” Cillian asked.
“Well, for one thing, no one knows if he has some physical disability that would prevent him from swinging a bat or lifting a vase over his head to crack her skull. Dalia wasn’t able to gain his confidence to ask. Am I right?” she asked.
I agreed. Sitting across from him in a booth hadn’t given me enough room to assess if he had a limited range of motion.
“I’ve been doing some surveillance on him,” Mary said, and everyone’s head snapped her way.
“You what? You didn’t run that past me.” Cillian’s voice turned angry. As he leaned forward, it was clear this was nothing new to him and his relationship with Mary. “Mary, we’ve been down this road many times before. We’ve had this conversation about every case we take. Your level of surveillance has occasionally crossed the line into over-the-top invasion of privacy.”
“That’s why I never tell you. Plausible deniability,” she said and shrugged her shoulders.
This ninety-year-old woman was my hero.
Cillian rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb and then took a cleansing breath. “Okay, so what did your surveillance show?” Cillian asked.
Mary looked at her legal pad and then back up. “He met with a criminal defense lawyer and not any schlub. He met with Pierce Tarvin. Need I say more? That man doesn’t drive around in a fancy car and wear five-thousand-dollar suits, working for free or losing cases. So, face it; Alex Clarke knows he’s suspect numero uno and getting ready for the worst possible outcome.
“He’s met with that woman Marissa at odd times and sometimes three times a day. But I didn’t see them going back to his hotel or her house. They’ve met at different banks and buildings, and of course, I couldn’t determine what was going on. However, one bank was large enough that I was able to get lost in the crowd and see where they headed. When they were escorted back someplace, I asked a guard what was back there, and he said the security boxes. So, I’m thinking he has an ongoing business arrangement. I plan on asking Tyler to see if they have any accounts together at that bank and check for a security box. And he and Marley had a brief encounter, which didn’t end well. Can we rule her out as his accomplice?” Mary questioned.
The members around the table were silent.
“The Marley meeting—” Cillian started.
“I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she approached him in the parking lot of his office and said something. He ignored it and tried to walk away, and she grabbed his arm. She looked mad as a hornet, but he disengaged and kept walking. So, can I take a run at him?” Mary asked.
“Can I stop you?” Cillian asked in a defeated tone.
She returned a smile.
“What’s your plan?” Cillian asked.
“Well, he goes to work every day, so I’ll march myself up to his office and tell him I want to talk to him,” she said matter-of-factly.
Yes, I could see it now; her owl glasses and cotton-white hair would surely catch him off guard.
“His guard will be down, and I’ll be able to read his body language. Maybe I’ll get clumsy and trip, and when he goes to help, I can assess his strength,” she said and raised her eyebrows.
“Or, if you’re hell-bent on doing this, why not go in as a potential client who wants to have her will and estate matters put into place? He won’t be guarded,” Jackson offered.
“You know, Jackie boy, I like that idea. I can go with it,” she said as her finger tapped her lip, assessing the idea. “I’ll set it up.”
“Good. That should keep you out of our hair,” Jackson replied.
As she scribbled a note, she ever so smoothly and slightly raised her left hand and gave Jackson the finger. I tried to contain myself, but I had to laugh.
As we were getting ready to leave, Mary’s phone rang. She put her hand up for us to wait.
“Tyler, what’s up?” she asked.
Her face lit up with surprise. She put the phone down on the table, and engaged the speaker.
“My guys set up a buy for two of your paintings,” Tyler said.
“What, when, where, how?” Cillian asked, rounding the table.
“First, where are we on the FBI? I don’t want my people running into getting picked up if they’ve got something going,” Tyler said.
“Let me take care of that,” Cillian said. “Tell me more about the seller’s plan.”
I could hear an audible breath being blown from Tyler’s end. The few beats of silence indicated he was thinking carefully about the information.
“The seller is unknown and came out of nowhere. We had been monitoring the data being passed around in space and caught it. We heavily monitored Russian and Chinese channels and just got lucky. Here’s the problem. The buyer wants the exchange to take place inside the Russian embassy in New York. And that’s pretty slick. If they transport it in a diplomatic pouch, you can’t do a stop and search, going into the embassy. An arrest can’t be made on Russian soil, and once inside, they can move the paintings from the building through a diplomatic pouch out to a plane or leave it there. Either way, once inside, it’s lost.
“We’ve gone around and around with the Russians to have stolen World War II paintings returned. They refuse to cooperate with international bodies of law, so forget a private concern. You have to intercept it before it gets inside,” Tyler said.
“Shit,” Jackson responded, raking his hand through his hair.
“So, what that tells me is, the buyer is a Russian official or someone with power,
” Tyler said.
“What about the seller?” Cillian asked.
“We’re working on it, but the Russian side was heavily encrypted,” Tyler responded.
“So, when is it occurring?”
“Two days,” Tyler said.
“Which two paintings?” Jackson asked.
“The two Picassos,” Tyler responded.
“Okay, let me give this some thought, and I’ll get back to you,” Cillian said and disconnected.
“Good news?” I asked.
Cillian moved his head back and forth, indicating he wasn’t sure.
“Uh, I hate getting the Feds involved, but I think we are pressing against a line we don’t want to cross,” Jackson said.
“Why? You worked for them,” I responded.
“Exactly,” he said.
“What’s the problem?” Mary asked.
“You have to prove probable cause to search someone going into the Russian embassy. And the fact that it’s in a diplomatic pouch makes it nearly impossible. Since your informant can’t or won’t come forward because of the way the information was captured, you can’t get a probable cause warrant to search someone before going into the embassy,” I said.
“Damn,” Mary replied. “What’s the plan?”
“Hell if I know,” Cillian said, defeated.
“Mary, call and make an appointment with Clarke for the day of the sale. If he’s out all day, that gives us some information,” Jackson said.
“Perhaps I am being dense, but what information will that give us?” I asked.
“If he’s going to be the one conducting the exchange, he’ll be out of the office,” Jackson replied.
“Now, that would be just plain crazy on his part to do the exchange. Surely, he’d use some intermediary. The chances of getting caught at this point are greater than fifty-fifty,” I said.
“Common sense doesn’t seem to come naturally to him,” Jackson replied.
Mary stepped outside the room and returned shortly with a large smile.
“I can come tomorrow, but he’s out the rest of the week,” she said.
Facing A Twisted Judgment Page 9
