Facing A Twisted Judgment

by K. J. McGillick

  “Your friend, he has a name?” Tyler asked, tapping a pen on a pad.

  “You’re a bit of a smart-ass, aren’t you? Of course he has a name,” she said to Tyler.

  “And that would be?” he asked with a raised brow, trying to maintain an even tone. But the struggle was evident.

  “His name is Brandon,” she said, tilting her head.

  “Last name?” Tyler snapped.

  “Stills. Brandon Stills. We work together at the auction house. Well, working is pushing it. I’ve been interning there as part of the class and—”

  That name, Brandon Stills. Suddenly, it hit me. I almost jumped from my seat as I touched Cillian’s arm.

  “Cillian, that’s the Brandon we interviewed,” I said, twisting to look for my bag with my notes.

  Diana stilled, and the sandwich halfway to her mouth stopped midair. It had sunk in that something was wrong.

  “We’ve got a problem here, and I need you to start from the beginning, Diana,” Cillian said. He had his yellow pad ready for notes.

  “Well, what do you want to know?” she asked. Some of the sass had dissipated as she realized she might be part of a crime.

  “Everything about how Brandon approached you about these paintings. Then, we’ll get more background information on him,” Cillian replied.

  She put her sandwich down and wiped her hands together. “As part of my businessstudies, I was assigned an auction house that deals with the school. Brandon was my mentor, and we’ve been working together for the last six months. He’s not exactly my boss, but he’s the one who gives me assignments. And, as a side benefit, he lets me sneak in when the place is closed, so I can practice replicating the art and refine my technique. If I want to show my work, I have to know the masters,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Go on,” Tyler interjected.

  “A few days ago, he came to me and said the Russian embassy wanted to commission two paintings. He gave me the photos, and here we are,” she said, lifting her hands in the air.

  Cillian stood up and paced in place. He’d stop for a moment to run his fingers through his hair and pace again. Finally, after a few minutes of this, he came to rest in front of her.

  “What the hell were you thinking? With your history, the fact that Russians were involved should have sent off alarm bells. Wasn’t getting kidnapped once and having to go into WITSEC enough?” he snapped.

  “Chill, Cillian. I mapped that all out in my decision. It’s the embassy, for God’s sake. And I’d be paid five thousand for the work once I delivered it. That’s damn good money for two nights’ work,” she said as if this was acceptable. Well, I supposed, if what she believed she was commissioned to do was the endgame, it would be okay. But, sadly, it was not.

  “Some random person offers you an obscene amount of money to do work, for Russians no less, and it’s no questions asked. Do you not recall that’s more or less the same scam Jude White was running?” Cillian said, scolding her.

  “It’s not a scam, Cillian. People come to the auction house and request things because it’s a legitimate place of business,” she said.

  Tyler was watching the interaction. He saw it was a circular argument and interceded.

  “Diana, please show us the paintings,” he said, pointing to the portfolio.

  She stood, moved to Tyler’s left, and opened the flap. She removed the two canvases and placed them side by side on the table.

  Cillian bent down to inspect them and asked, “Is your mark still in the same place?”

  “Of course. It’s my brand. You know I always put the Chinese symbol for infinity in the same place. To stop now would be bad luck, don’t you think?”

  He put his face almost into the canvas to examine the work. He turned it over and checked the back for stamps. There were three stamps on each, exactly as on the ones that were the originals.

  “Wait, let me see that,” she said, alarmed, moving closer to the paintings.

  She stood next to him, and shock came over her face. She stepped back, as if touching them would mean electrocution and death.

  “I didn’t put those on there,” she said. “I painted the canvas, and that was it.”

  “Did you, at some point, give Brandon the finished canvas, and he could have done this?” Cillian asked.

  “Yes, this morning. He said he had to prepare it for delivery,” Diana said.

  The awareness of the problem was now hitting full force. Brandon had not intended these to be replicas. But he had intended these to be presented as originals, stamps and all.

  She sank into her seat, finally realizing the ramifications of what had seemed to be a simple art job gone wrong.

  “If you had given these paintings to the Russians and they had an expert there to authenticate these, you might have been paid with a bullet to the brain,” Tyler said.

  Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes welled up with tears. I expected Cillian might need a moment to comfort her, but he left her alone with her thoughts.

  Cillian turned to me and said, “Thoughts?”

  “You want this Brandon bagged and tagged? Or see if we can trace the painting scam back to someone higher on the food chain?” I asked.

  “I don’t think there is a mastermind at play here. Once he realized the auction house or a private party couldn’t shop the real ones, I think he cooked up this scheme. Brandon saw an opportunity, and I believe he’s flying solo on this venture. My thought is, the real paintings are still all together,” Cillian said.

  “If that’s the case, I can have him picked up, and Diana can make a statement,” I said. “I’ll make a few calls.”

  “Okay, make your calls. I’ll remain a confidential informant, give my statement, and disappear,” Tyler said.

  “Leave it to me,” I said.

  A few well-placed calls would have Brandon in custody in an hour, give or take. Margaret would have to deal with the fallout of this mess, and the auction house reputation might be tarnished for years. What a scandal!

  Tyler’s phone vibrated, and he opened a text message.

  Tyler looked up to Cillian and said, “Clarke is headed to London tomorrow.”

  “Shoot the information to Jackson. He’s the only one Clarke hasn’t seen,” Cillian replied.

  I watched as Diana assessed Tyler and smiled with a hint of flirtatiousness. I knew that look. That smile was trouble.

  He returned a raised eyebrow.

  Alex

  I wasn’t one to act impulsively or lose my temper, but I was getting closer and closer to the edge of having a meltdown. The newspaper had grossly sensationalized Samantha’s disappearance, and I’d become the unindicted murderer in the press. The fact that the paintings were missing brought out every nutjob known to mankind, looking for some reward. My business took a hit, and now, Marissa wasn’t even returning my calls.

  The ring of the phone startled me out of my thoughts. I looked at the screen, and it announced the real estate broker was on the other end. Great. These were the people who had started this whole nightmare.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Alex. this is Thomas McClain.” His voice had that professional edge and not the jovial one I’d received in the past.

  “Yes, Thomas. What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “Last time we spoke, you indicated you planned to address how to proceed with the real estate sale by obtaining some type of court order allowing it to proceed. Do you have any news on that front?” he asked.

  I could hear shuffling of papers.

  “Yes, I do. And it’s not very helpful. In fact, it’s rather frustrating,” I said.

  “How so?” The paper shuffling stopped, and I had his full attention.

  “The judge dismissed my application to assume guardianship of Samantha’s affairs for lack of merit. He said there was not enough substantial evidence that Samantha’s disappearance was attributed to foul play, nor has enough time lapsed to indicate she wouldn’t return. Since
it is less than a month with no contact, he was not inclined to do anything at this point. It seems we are at the mercy of the police for when they will release the house as a crime scene,” I said.

  “You have no other options?” The annoyed tone gave the impression he was frustrated with me. Just because I was an attorney did not mean I had a solution for everything.

  “I plan on touching base with Detective Murphy today. What is your thought about how this might impact the price structure?”

  He blew out a breath, and there were a few moments of silence.

  “Right now, we aren’t obligated to disclose that a murder occurred because, technically, the police have not found a body. And I’m sorry to speak in such cold terms when I know you must be frantic over missing your wife. But the fact that it has been a part of so much publicity, it’s inevitable that you’ll have to take a hit on the price. Once released, we can keep marketing it. However, it circles back to the fact that Mrs. Clarke must be the one to accept the offer because she’s the owner,” he said.

  Damn it, he was right. Whatever way I turned, I was boxed in.

  “I’ll let you know what Detective Murphy says.”

  We hung up, and I checked my contacts for Murphy’s number.

  “This is Detective Declan Murphy. Please leave a message.”

  “Detective Murphy, this is Alex Clarke. I’d like to speak to you about when you plan to release the house as a crime scene. Please call me back.”

  Really, what more could they process? By now, the house must have given up all its secrets.

  Another unanswered call to Marissa.

  My phone pinged with a text

  The paintings are in a secret wine cellar. On the left side of the kitchen island, feel under the front lip for a release switch.

  What. The. Hell? There was no identifying ID. Surely, it was someone pranking me. People could be such bastards. I had a meeting in London that was more important than figuring out who had decided to yank my chain. I’d check it out when I got back.

  When I looked at my phone, I saw it was time to confirm my deal in London. With the loss of business and my inability to tap into some cash, I was racking up debt on my credit cards and soon I would be maxed out. This flight set me back four thousand dollars that I couldn’t spare. It’d better be worth the investment.

  “Good evening, Aden. It’s Alex. I’m just checking with you to make sure everything is in place,” I said.

  “Alex, I’m glad you called. We are unfortunately having trouble on our end. The people we had lined up for the purchase have developed cold feet. They’ve read about your troubles,” Aden said.

  “Now, they’re pulling out? I’ve already shipped everything,” Ishouted.

  “I didn’t say that exactly. It might be a ploy to renegotiate the terms,” he said.

  Or he could be looking for a bigger cut.

  “Fucking Armenians.” I was livid.

  “Now, Alex, this is an unusual sale, and with everything going on around you, I think you have to be flexible,” he said.

  “Whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said and disconnected before he could go any further.

  I picked up a vase in my immediate reach and hurled it, watching in satisfaction as it hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces.

  Christ, what did I do to deserve all this mess?

  I goddamn wished they would find Sam’s body. It was evident that she was dead. At least with a body, I could get the administrative letters I needed to put my world back in balance.

  Dalia

  Upon returning home, I flipped on the TV for some white noise. The evening local news carried the report that a woman’s body had been found—Marissa Adams. The reports were brief yet filled with salacious speculation. Some linked her death to her financial dealing, others to a secret lover prone to violence. No one, however, had made the link to the paintings. I wondered if Alex had seen the news.

  I heard a knock at the door and normally would be put off that someone had arrived, uninvited, much less unannounced. Through the glass in the door, I saw Declan holding a brown bag, impatiently shifting his weight from leg to leg. I opened the door, and a familiar smell wafted my way. He held the bag out as an offering.

  “With the craziness of your case, I wasn’t sure if our Saturday barbeque would become a reality, but I know Chinese never gets turned down,” he said with a smile. “Plus, I wanted to bring you up to speed on the Marissa Adams findings.”

  He was right. I was starved, and whatever was leftover would be devoured the next day.

  “Come in. Just put it on the table, and I’ll grab some plates and forks,” I said, bustling to the kitchen.

  He pulled chopsticks from the bag.

  I set the table, and he dished out the food. Most people would find it objectionable to talk about death as they ate. But, for Declan and me, it seemed all too part of a normal life.

  “Marissa Adams’s death?” I prompted.

  “Her body was dumped around Park Avenue West, a homeless area. No cameras in the area and no one willing to give a witness statement. Time of death was before Mary’s meeting, but we’re still not taking Clarke out of the frame,” he said.

  “You’re telling me, someone dumps a body, and no one thinks to call the police?” I found that incredulous.

  But what was more alarming was how brazen the person had been to do it in the first place. Didn’t this person fear getting caught? What if someone challenged him or her? Would they be dead next?

  “These people are homeless, and in the homeless community, you keep your head down and mind your own business,” he said.

  “How did someone become aware of her?” I asked.

  “Some teenagers came across her, and they phoned it in,” he said.

  “What were teenagers—never mind. What was the cause of death?” I asked.

  “The cause of death was blunt force trauma. Her head was bashed in on the back by what the doc is saying was something like a tire iron. With the type of blunt force trauma he found, death would have been instantaneous,” he replied, manipulating his chopsticks with ease.

  “But there was no blood on the hair in the picture,” I said.

  “The injury was at the back of the skull, and once we got the body, you could see the place of penetration. We’ve yet to determine a primary crime scene. However, from what we are piecing together from the evidence, she might have been bending over, putting something in the trunk of a car. We believe someone may have assaulted her and pushed the body into the trunk. We’re still looking for the car,” he said. “It had an OnStar tracking device, but it’s not operational. My thought is, we’ll find it as a burned-out hull, or some chop shop has it pulled apart already.”

  “So, back to the paintings. Why not dump the body? Why pose it in front of the paintings? Was this an accomplice sending us a clue?” I asked. “Clarke trying to unload the paintings for cash?”

  “Hell if I know. Right now, the reporters are digging into her past and scurrying around to make links from her past to possible shady dealings in the present. No one has any clue about her connection to the paintings, and that’s how it’s going to stay.

  “Now, the even more disturbing news is, I’ve lost Clarke. I left a message to get him in to get an alibi for him and this Adams case, and his phone keeps going to voice mail. He’s not at the hotel and not at work,” Declan said.

  “He’s either in London or on his way there,” I said.

  His chopsticks stopped midair, and the startled look on his face was almost comical.

  “Say what now?” he asked.

  “London. He’s in London,” I repeated.

  “How do you know? And what’s his business there?” Declan asked, completing the task of moving his food to his mouth.

  “Declan, our firm has resources, or maybe you’d say assets that I don’t really understand. But, over the years, these relationships have been cultivated, and one resource found this out. I ha
ve no idea what his business is over there, but Jackson has him under surveillance,” I said.

  “Jackson’s there also?” he asked, a bit testy.

  “Yes,” I responded.

  “When were your people going to let me in on this?” he asked with a bite to the question.

  “Well, I’m telling you now, but Cillian planned on calling you in the morning and asking you over to the office when we had more information,” I replied. I hoped my conciliatory tone calmed his building anger.

  “There’s more?” he asked as his eyebrows reached his scalp.

  “Yes. But Cillian has a debriefing all planned. If I jump into this half-assed, I might miss something. Can we shelve any more shop talk until tomorrow? I’m beat, and I was hoping for a night of Netflix or Chicago P.D. reruns until I fell asleep. So, are you in?”

  He leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch and covered his eyes with his hands. “I’ve been doing this a very long time, Dalia. I certainly haven’t seen what people in LA, New York, or Chicago see, but this is a bad case. In my gut, I know Samantha Clarke is dead. Now, we have this Marissa Adams surface, and considering the circumstances, I’m ready to make the leap that Clarke is involved with the murder. Now, he’s in London. Really, I have nothing to arrest him on, and he could quickly get lost overseas. Your firm is conducting a more thorough search than me, and that looks bad for me,” he said, blowing out a breath.

  “Declan, we have one case we’re focusing on and more resources to throw at it. We’re not concentrating on a murder, and everyone knows how hard it is to prove a murder. Especially without a dead body. I’m sure, once forensics comes through on any trace evidence on Marissa Adams, that something will pop up,” I said, trying to offer a bit of consolation.

  “God, I hope so. How many more murders is this piece of shit going to commit right under our noses?” he asked.

  “All right, I am putting a moratorium on any more work talk tonight. Pick your poison: Netflix or Chicago P.D.” I smiled.

  “I don’t see a TV here. You expect me to watch this on a tablet?” he asked, pushing himself forward on the couch.