Facing A Twisted Judgment

by K. J. McGillick

  I laughed. Men and their TVs.

  “No. This might be a little awkward, but the only TV is in the bedroom. Jackson left an eighty-inch one there, so he could trade up to a 4K at his new place. Will that be a problem?” I asked.

  “You had me at eighty inches.” He laughed.

  I guessed size mattered.

  Dalia

  Jeez, is it morning already? How did the TV turn off by itself? Oh God, every muscle in my body hurts. This is why a hot shower before bed is a must-do and a full California king is a necessity. I must have slept in the wrong position.

  As I tried to unkink my back, I hit a solid wall of something.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” a male voice rumbled close to my ear.

  Crap. I about jumped out of my skin.

  I looked around to get my bearings. It took me a moment to remember I was in my new home, and Declan had spent the night.

  “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have to be at work?” I asked, leaning up on my elbows, disoriented and a tad embarrassed. Please, God, don’t let me have bedhead and morning breath. This was awkward, to say the least.

  “So, that’s how it is? We share a night of Netflix, and I’m old news?” Declan asked, trying to look hurt, pulling the covers back. “What’s a guy got to do to get a cup of coffee around here?”

  Losing all sense of hospitality and feeling unsure of how a situation like this should go, I went with unfiltered. “Well, since we both have about an hour before we are due at my office for a briefing, I’d say, grab a cup on your way home to change. I’m heading for a shower, and I’d offer you a cup of instant coffee, but it’s not so good,” I said.

  “Thanks for the warning,” he said and kissed my forehead. “We still on for the barbeque?”

  “Unless I’m directed elsewhere, you bet,” I replied.

  “Good. As awkward as this sounds, I’ll put on my pants and run home to change. See you in a few?” he said.

  “Yep,” was all I could muster. I lost control of my mind after he said “put on my pants.”

  Maybe this would lead to a more romantic sleepover. Did I want a more romantic sleepover? Yes.

  I was setting down roots and liking what was here.

  “I’d like to welcome Detective Murphy to our meeting. I think everyone knows each other. Are there questions before we start?” Cillian asked as he engaged the projector.

  Everyone looked around the table, and since Mary was quiet, we figured the coast was clear to start.

  “Declan, we’ve had a few operations going on. Two complete and one ongoing. The completed one’s first. You already know about the undercover one where Mary was trying to get Alex Clarke to offer to sell her paintings. That’s still in play, but we’re not actively pursuing it. If he calls back, then we’ll let you know.

  “We completed an operation of what we thought might be a setup by the thief trying to sell the paintings, but it turned out to be a scam run by someone in the auction house, whom we had checked out. We’ve turned that over to the New York Police, and they are investigating. We’re almost one hundred percent positive it has nothing to do with the cases here.

  “Through Mary’s source, we found Alex had contacted some unsavory people in London, related to the art world. But, to be honest, we have no idea what it’s all about. Jackson and I have contacts on the police force over there, and we tapped into them, so we could get background information on the guys Clarke was meeting. Jackson’s due to call in about five minutes.

  “From your end, have you heard anything new on Samantha Clarke or Marissa Adams?” Cillian asked.

  “Nothing on Samantha. Her credit cards are dormant, and no one’s using any funds from her checking account. Her phone has shown no activity. But I discovered Clarke had filed papers with the court to allow him to take over the estate matters. He wanted access to managing the family finances, keeping the house on the market, day-to-day activities. The court denied his request. He left me a voice mail, asking when the house would be released for sale. I’m waiting on forensics to call me back.

  “I received the coroner’s report, and Marissa Adams died of a blow to the back of the head. One hit was almost to the crown and one below it, above the neck area. There was black paint found in the wound, so the coroner thinks the weapon was a tire iron or some mechanical device. Her death was instantaneous, so that’s why there was no blood. Her heart stopped beating right away,” Declan said.

  Cillian was poised to ask another question, but the phone rang. He answered it and transferred it to the speaker in the middle of the table.

  “You’re live in the room,” Cillian said.

  “Morning, everyone. I followed Clarke to an office in the Canary Wharf district where he spent about forty minutes. I’m sending that address to you and photos of the building. He emerged from there with a man, and I snapped a few shots; they should come over as well. I tried for a tight face picture, so Mary can verify that through facial recognition. Clarke and this guy went to three second-tier auction houses and were at each place for about a half hour. I had to wait until he left the last place, so I could get a small amount of information. Apparently, he’s checking on how to put a collection up for private sale,” Jackson said.

  “Oh my God, my head is spinning. Are you saying, he represented to these people that he has the collection and wants to sell it right now?” I asked.

  “No, not quite,” Jackson said.

  Suddenly, I heard someone in the background.

  “Oy, who are you, mate, and what’s your business, following these blokes? State your business.” The English accent was definitely an authoritative tone.

  Crap, Jackson had been made.

  “Hold on, guys. Constable, my name is Jackson Evans, and I’m with a firm in the States, trying to trace some paintings that have gone missing. We have reason to believe that man knows something about it and might try to sell them here,” Jackson replied.

  There were a few moments of silence as we assumed the constable checked Jackson’s identification.

  “I see your point. But what you are doing could be considered stalking,” the constable replied. “These gentlemen were concerned because you had been following them and wanted an explanation. I’ll tell them what you told me. But you need to cease and desist any further following.”

  “Sir, I contacted Deputy Chief Inspector Jack Irish at the Metropolitan Police and advised him I was here and what I was doing. So, maybe there’s an exception?” Jackson replied.

  “Okay, give me a minute. Let me call it in and see what he says,” he replied.

  There was a time of silence while we all waited for some good news, and the constable came back.

  “Okay, I’m not going to charge you, but these blokes know you are following them. I’d break surveillance and leave if I were you,” the constable told Jackson.

  “Will do,” I heard Jackson reply. “Well, shit. Either my skills are totally crap or they had another man watching, whom I didn’t pick up,” Jackson said.

  “Probably the latter,” Cillian said. “At this point, you’re on his radar, so you should probably head home.”

  “When I met Jack Irish earlier, he said he’d look into the firm where Clarke went. I’ll meet with him and call you back, so we can decide what to do,” Jackson said.

  “Were these people Russians?” Mary asked.

  “Who?” Jackson asked.

  “The people with Clarke.”

  “I sent you a photo of the placard. The guys coming from the building looked Middle Eastern, but I’m fairly sure they’re Armenian or maybe Turkish. There’s an inscription that’s written on the placard of the building,” Jackson replied.

  “Oh, got it. Give me a minute to Google it,” she said. Her fingers were then fast at work.

  “Sweet Jesus, she’s Googling it,” Jackson said, annoyed.

  “It’s Armenian. Prosperity to those who do business here,” Mary said.

  “Those bastards
in the Armenian Mafia don’t play around. What’s he doing, hooked up with the likes of them? Well, that brings us no closer to solving this,” Jackson said.

  “Jackson, I will touch base with Ben. Maybe Europol has information on the firm. Or Isabella might have heard rumblings about the paintings,” Cillian said.

  “Who are Isabella and Ben?” I asked.

  “Ben is a Europol agent we worked with on a case involving a crossover of Diana’s old paintings still moving around. Mary can fill you in. And Isabella is his wife who used to own a high-end art gallery in Paris. She now is an associate curator at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam,” Cillian said.

  I watched Declan making notes as everyone spoke and was amazed he could keep up with all the information floating around.

  “Wait, what I was about to tell you was, I think he was shopping Mary’s fake collection,” Jackson said.

  “That makes no sense. Why fly halfway around the world to sell my paintings?” Mary said.

  “Maybe a bait and switch. Get them interested in yours and pull the collection and switch with his?” Jackson suggested.

  “No need to speculate. Check in with Jack Irish and give us an update later,” Cillian said.

  “I’m pissed off I was made,” Jackson said.

  “It happens to the best of us,” Cillian offered to assuage his bruised ego.

  “Not me. Never happens to me,” Mary said.

  I heard Jackson take an audible breath into the phone.

  “Mary, not now,” Cillian said, shaking his head.

  “Something feels off about this, like we’re going down a wrong path,” Jackson said. “Maybe he’s got another scam going on?”

  “I know. Why travel all the way overseas to dump the paintings? They’re just as hot there as here. It’s more expensive to store them there. But it’s easier to give a foreign person access to physical transfer of ownership,” I said.

  “That’s the problem with amateurs. It’s easy to steal paintings from residences but not so easy to sell them. Some people get especially spooked with a history of murder attached. It’s just bad Karma,” Mary said.

  “Well, look, there’s nothing more we can do right now. Head home, Jackson,” Cillian said.

  “Well, me either,” Declan said. “I’ll check with forensics about releasing the house. Once I get the all clear, I’ll pull the cameras. See you folks later. Dalia, I’ll shoot over the preliminary autopsy of Marissa Adams.”

  After shaking hands with everyone, he left.

  “People, we’ve got to come up with a new play. I’ve got an idea that involves Tyler and Diana. Let me get in touch with Tyler, and then I’ll share it,” Mary said.

  “Waiting here on pins and needles, Mary.” Cillian smiled. “Now, since this is my operation, how about running it past me first?”

  “I don’t know if it’s plausible. I have to find out how fast Diana can replicate the paintings,” she said.

  “Oh, Mary, I see where this might be going. And it could go so very wrong,” I said. “There are now a lot more players involved. Plus, without law enforcement backing it, it could go wrong on so many levels. I’m not sure we should be that proactive.”

  “Since Jackson isn’t here, I’ll channel what he would say. What else is new?” Cillian smirked. “Talk it out with Tyler and keep me in the loop. Don’t do anything without the group’s approval, or there will be consequences. You understand?”

  Mary nodded and left.

  “Is she going rogue?” I asked, concerned, knowing what could go wrong.

  “Most likely,” Cillian said with a disgusted look.

  Dalia

  I had pretty much run out of clues as to where the paintings could be stored and decided to use the morning to catch up on some information system material that might help me understand how Tyler had broken into the networks. That was a skill I was determined to master.

  Declan was executing a search warrant of Marissa Adams’s home after lunch and invited me to join as an observer. A task I always enjoyed—getting a sneak peek at the evidence.

  My phone rang as I was about to open the new lesson plan. It was Mary.

  “Morning, Mary. What’s up?” I said.

  “Tyler and I have come up with a plan to flush this jerk out,” she said in a hurried manner.

  Since she was bringing this to me, I was quite certain she hadn’t run it past Cillian and Jackson. I was probably her sounding board because, even to her, it possibly sounded underdeveloped. And I was pretty sure she had thrown Tyler in there to give it some credibility.

  “I’m all ears,” I replied. I was ready for a convoluted plan with a dash of danger.

  “Diana will make replicas of the rest of the six paintings, and Tyler, acting as an agent for the collection, will announce the collection has been found,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mary. I think we should run this past Bill first. He’s waiting on word whether to pay the ransom. What if whoever has the paintings gets so angry that the person destroys all of them?” I questioned.

  “Or what if they step forward and challenge it and try to sell them?” she returned. “Then, we can nab them.”

  “This is a weird crime. Were the paintings taken for profit or as a screw you? Was it a well-thought-out robbery or a crime of opportunity? What was Marissa’s involvement? Was she an accomplice? Or maybe the thief thought she had contacts in the criminal world that could facilitate the sale, and she refused to help?”

  I had many questions without any solid answers, and Mary might just make matters worse.

  “Go on. You’re traveling somewhere with these thoughts,” she encouraged me.

  “This whole Marissa angle is what’s throwing me off completely. I can buy it that Alex and Samantha got into an argument. He killed her in the heat of passion and panics. Maybe he called Marissa, and the two of them cleaned up the scene; he disposed of the body while she painted the wall. I can also see them deciding to take the paintings to make it appear as a staged robbery. And I can see them wanting to sell the paintings. But here’s my problem; if it is supposed to look like a robbery, why get rid of the body? Why not make it look like it’s a break-in gone wrong? If Alex did this, surely, he realized he’d be the prime suspect. Why not get a tighter alibi? What’s your thought on bringing the fake paintings public?” I asked.

  “Maybe the thief will realize that they won’t be able to sell the real ones because the others have surfaced, and now, the ones they have are worthless, so they will abandon them. At that point, those paintings will be a hot potato,” she said.

  “Well, it’s an idea worth exploring. But I wouldn’t put this in motion until you get the okay from Cillian and Bill. From the vibe I get off both those men, they are risk-averse, and you are more of a maverick,” I said.

  “Would you back this plan?” she asked.

  “Honestly, I’d need more details about it. You know this could taint any relationship Samantha might have built with museums if the paintings surfaced and they never made it to their galleries. With all the subterfuge, the museums might not want to touch them in the end. And that would be a shame. No one would want a stigma associated with the collection, so its value would have died with its owner,” I said.

  “I see your point,” she said, dejected but thoughtful.

  “Declan has a warrant to search Marissa Adams’s place, confiscate her computers, and comb through her financials. I’ll be there to see if anything turns up on the initial search. Maybe they’ll get lucky and make a connection from some careless clue,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll hold tight. But I worry Tyler will be disappointed,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I think he was looking forward to working with Diana. I’m guessing there’s a little spark there.” She laughed.

  “I knew it! And I think the attraction is mutual. The plan’s not dead, but I’d say, back-burner it,” I said.

  Well, I couldn’t concentrate after we
finished talking, so I decided a long bath and leisurely lunch would fill my time until I met Declan at the station.

  “I’ve received the initial dump on Marissa’s financials,” Declan said as we walked to the front door of Marissa’s house.

  “And?” I asked.

  He blew out a breath and shook his head. “It’s complicated. She had a bunch of things cooking. We found two offshore accounts and a couple of holding companies. It would be fair to say, she had two sets of books in place, and we’ll need a forensic accountant to piece everything together,” he said.

  “I’m not up to speed on this part at all. Start from the beginning. I really know nothing about her, much less how she fits in here,” I said.

  “Marissa Adams was a bona fide con artist. She had a record extending back about ten years in different states for financial fraud and identity theft. She cut her teeth on check forgery, but eventually, it graduated to full-on larceny and identity theft. She never spent a day in jail, and most of her arrests never resulted in convictions. My thought as to why her victims dropped the charges was because they were married men and didn’t want it publicized. Fast-forward to what we have uncovered here; she used all her skills and had quite the international operation going. She had an international and domestic holding company and several offshore accounts,” Declan said.

  “Simply put, a holding company owns other companies’ outstanding stock. It does not produce goods or services itself; rather, its purpose is to own shares of other companies to form a corporate group. They make their money in one of three ways: profitability shares or dividends from companies it owns; providing services to owned companies; and buying and selling assets. Tell me more about the companies she formed,” I said.

  “They are still unraveling them. And I’ll have to depend on legal to piece them together. But guess who incorporated them?” he said with a pleased smile.

  “Oh Christ, Alex Clarke?” I asked.

  “Bingo. And he is the registered agent as well. So, his fingerprints are all over what will probably turn out to be an illegal venture,” he replied.