As promised, the security company agent was on the site immediately after the call. He placed a device over the panel, and green LED digits flashed. Then, we heard a pop. The next thing we heard was a whoosh and the sliding of the door into the pocket of the wall. Once inside the anteroom, Declan opened another door that did not require a code.
Declan was the first into the room to make a quick surveillance. A light switch lit a room approximately fifteen by twenty feet. Along one wall was a small refrigerator and cases of water. Eight paintings were balanced against the other walls. We’d hit the mother lode. Without a doubt, these were our missing paintings. All present and accounted for.
Nothing up to this point was touched or bagged for evidence.
“People, you know what to do, so everyone step back and wait your turn,” Declan said.
“Detective Murphy, I’d like to raise an objection,” Pierce Tarvin said above the buzz.
“Sir?” Declan answered and signaled everyone to quiet down.
“How do we know they are originals? Those paintings may represent a replication of the originals,” he said with a smug smile.
“I can answer that,” Cillian said, stepping forward.
Everyone swung his way. He bent over and opened his briefcase. He retrieved a square black instrument. It reminded me of what a person used in a nightclub to scan for an invisible mark to get back into the club.
“Bristol’s marked the paintings with indelible ink, and every year, they would verify that mark was there when they reinsured it. This way, they could make certain they were not insuring fakes. It was never made public, and it’s a well-guarded secret. Mr. Bennington knew about it but no one else. I have the tool with me to verify the mark,” Cillian said.
Oh my God, he had kept this a secret even from us.
“I’d like to see that, please,” Tarvin said. He shifted his weight.
“Sure, and if it’s okay with Detective Murphy, I’ll turn the paintings around, and the videographers can record if the mark is there or not,” Cillian said.
Declan nodded, and Tarvin stepped forward.
The police recorder and Jackson recorded the contents of the room, looking for signs of a forced break-in and any trace clues that might be lost.
Fifteen minutes later, Cillian stepped inside and flipped over the first picture. He crouched down and examined the back. He then asked for the regular lights to be turned off. He turned his light source on and shone it against the back of the first painting. Sure as hell, a B appeared under the light. He repeated this for each of the eight paintings, and on each, the identical B appeared in the same place.
“I have an affidavit from Bristol’s, indicating the procedure used and the log of every agent who has verified these paintings,” Cillian said. “Of course, at trial, someone will testify as to the procedure and authenticity. But this authenticates the paintings from their end and should maintain a valid chain of custody for evidence.”
Pierce Tarvin’s eyes darted back and forth. You could tell that computer brain was processing information. We all waited for him to make a demand or statement. All he did was nod.
Soon afterward, everyone cleared the way for the forensic techs to do their work. They crated the paintings and marked each as evidence. Bristol’s had arranged for an armored truck to remove the paintings and transport them to a secured evidence facility. The forensic team was next looking for fingerprints or any trace evidence left in the room. There really was nothing more left for us to see.
Declan leaned over and whispered, “Ready to see the cellar?”
Apparently, Mary had supersonic hearing and answered, “Yes.”
Declan looked surprised but tilted his head to the right for us to follow him.
“Let’s start where we believe the struggle began and follow the trail from there,” Declan said.
We walked down the hall and then down the wide staircase to the room immediately to the right.
We started in the room where the incident had begun. Mary asked to be given a minute to look around the room.
“Let me get this right. This place has an elevator system?” Mary asked.
“Yes. If you go out this door, it’s behind the staircase,” Declan said.
“Our person probably brought the paintings up on the elevator and stashed them in the panic room,” she said.
“That would be a logical conclusion,” Declan said.
“And, the night this occurred, the inside cameras were disabled?” she asked.
“Yes. The family had a habit of turning them off when they were in the home,” Declan said.
“So, you’re telling me, you think Alex killed his wife, moved her body, moved the paintings, and repainted a wall, all in what, two hours?” Mary said.
“That’s the theory. However, don’t discount that he could have had an accomplice,” Declan said.
“Any chance he and the wife would stage a burglary, and she helped him move the paintings? Then, they got into an argument, and he killed her before hiding the body,” Mary offered.
“Everything is up for looking at right now,” Declan responded.
“Dalia, come stand here,” Mary said.
She directed me to an area about eight feet from the wall.
“How tall are you?” Mary asked.
“About five-five,” I said.
She walked around me in a circle, looking at the wall, and took photos with her phone.
“Done?” Declan asked.
“For now,” Mary said with a nod.
He shook his head and motioned for us to follow him. We entered a kitchen that looked like any other kitchen in a mansion. It had high-end appliances that looked rarely used and a kitchen set that nobody probably used for meals. Everything was for show.
He looked at Mary. “Ready, Sherlock?”
She nodded.
He walked close to the granite slab and felt under it. Declan waited for Mary to start the video on her phone and position herself for the best capture. Then, he engaged a switch, and the granite started its travel back along some metal tracks. It was clear, once it was pulled back, that there was a room below.
Declan walked to the front of the island and unlatched a door. He hit a switch, and we peered down at a wine cellar.
“The prevailing thought is that Clarke dragged the body here with the rug and slid the body down the stairs?” Mary asked.
“Yes,” Declan said.
“I can accept that, but why come back? Was he planning on moving it?” Mary asked.
“Or visiting it and verifying it was still there,” Declan said. “Ready to go down?”
We walked down the steep, narrow stairs, holding the rail for support. It was a tight squeeze, and to drag a body down would have taken some effort.
“I don’t like it,” Mary said.
“What’s that?” Declan asked.
“Why not just take it out the back door the first time? It would have been a lot easier to drag her body down the three short steps in the back and load her into a car. This way, he’d have to drag her down these twelve steps and then up again. What’s the point?” she said.
“Maybe he ran out of time that night,” Declan said and shrugged his shoulders.
“Mary, who knows what people do when they panic?” I said.
“I’ve seen enough,” she said and moved toward the stairs.
She stopped, took a few more photos, and was up the stairs before us.
“You done?” he asked me with a smile.
“Apparently so. Trust me; Mary will beat this dead horse at our next meeting,” I said and shook my head.
“No doubt.” He smirked.
“Can you drop me off at home?” I asked.
“I’ve got a better idea. How about a quick lunch and then we get a seat to the Pierce Tarvin bail hearing sideshow?” Declan said.
“Deal.”
Alex
“Clarke, your attorney is here to see you. Step forward and raise yo
ur hands,” the guard announced.
This was surreal. Did these people really believe I was a criminal? What the hell had happened?
Yet here I stood, a man stripped of his freedom.
I raised my wrists, and the guard applied the cold, biting metal around them, so I could not harm him or myself. Pierce had better have good news. And that news had better be that I was getting out and that this whole thing had been a mistake.
I walked to the room where an attorney met his clients, and the handcuffs were removed. Pierce was already seated and making notes. He didn’t look up to greet me. He had a folder and some photos in front of him. When he finally raised his eyes to me, his expression was guarded.
“Are you doing okay?” he asked.
He carefully placed his pen across his pad and then moved it to the side.
“As well as any innocent man sitting behind bars in a disgusting facility with angry, crazy people around him can be,” I replied.
I had already watched two men engage in a battle over food, which involved one man stabbing the other with a fork while the guard looked away. And too many faces were painted with fresh blood. So, what kind of stupid question was that?
“Well, the news is not what we hoped for, so I’ll get right to the point,” he said, pushing back from the table a bit.
My stomach clenched, and my heart rate sped up.
“I just came from your home, and they found all the missing paintings in the panic room,” he said. He pulled his folder to him, opened it, and shuffled through the photos.
“Panic room? What panic room?” I asked.
“The one on the second floor,” he said.
“Pierce, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
My anxiety rose, and what had started out as a heart picking up a few beats was now in full galloping mode. I had to work to keep my breathing under control as hyperventilation was right on its tail.
“There is a panic room on the second floor that was used to store the paintings. I am not the one to judge if you knew it was there or not. I’m just telling you that it’s there,” he said.
I didn’t like this one bit. “You don’t believe me?”
“Well, before we discuss if it is believable or not that you knew where the room was, let me lay out what they have collected as evidence. This will impact the bond hearing,” he said.
His tone was matter-of-fact, and I didn’t like where this was going.
“Here is what the state has on their end. Means, motive, and opportunity,” he said.
“Motive! What motive?” I demanded.
“Calm down and remember where you are. There are guards right outside that door. Alex, you were found standing over your wife’s body in a secret cellar that apparently no one knew about. Paintings were found in a secret room that no one knew about. A woman you were involved with personally as well as part of her shady business dealings is dead. Your alibi for the time of the murder is weak,” he replied.
“Okay, so what are you saying?” I asked.
“I’m saying, I need another suspect other than you,” he replied. “Now that the paintings and the body have been found, no one will accept that this was a random incident by an unknown outside source. A robbery is no longer a viable thought. Everyone will assume it’s someone close to the victim.”
“But why will they assume it’s me? I had everything I needed. A home, a marriage, and a thriving business,” I said,
“Well, about all that. You lived in a home at the pleasure of your wife. She retitled the property in her name, even after you married. Maybe, in your mind, you had a stable marriage, but you admitted to having affairs during the brief marriage. Most people would not call that a stable marriage. Your business might have been profitable; however, if one was to take a closer look, one might see it had been built on sketchy dealings. Is that possible?” he asked.
Was I hearing him right? Was he telling me I was their only suspect? That my behavior had been so bad that I was being judged on poor choices and not the truth of the matter?
“What about other people who would benefit? Marley, her sister. Marley had a reason to kill her. She hated that she’d lost at trial, and she’d receive nothing from Sam,” I said, slamming my hand on the table.
“The crazy sister? You think she could plan all this by herself?” he said.
“Ashton. What about Ashton?” I asked, feeling trapped and desperate.
“What’s his motive? The paintings were hidden in a room. He’s in prison. You do the math. The tip came in from a source who said she was close to Marissa. So, again, you are the nexus here,” he said.
I raked my hands through my hair. How could this be happening?
“There has to be a way out of this,” I demanded.
“We can offer the state Marley and Ashton as alternative suspects. Other than that, the suspect pool is pretty nonexistent. If the paintings had not been found in the house, we could have offered a robbery by the photographer or real estate agent. Or any number of people who had been in and out of the house. But the way the body and paintings were concealed leaves very little wiggle room,” he said.
“So, what’s the upside?” I asked.
“Right now, everything is circumstantial,” he said with a slight shoulder shrug. “They don’t have a murder weapon. They have prints and DNA, but you lived in the house, so your DNA is expected to be there.”
“What about the text telling me to look in the cellar for the paintings?” I asked.
“Nonexistent on your phone,” he replied.
“I didn’t delete it,” I snapped back.
“I didn’t say you did. I said it was nonexistent. There is nothing to indicate it was ever there,” he said.
“Pierce, I’m telling you it was there. How else would I have known to look for the paintings in the cellar? That brings me back to Marley and Ashton. They lived there, growing up, so they would know about it,” I argued.
“Sam grew up there, too, and the prevailing thought will be that you must have known about the wine cellar and panic room. And what is Marissa’s connection to the other two? The only connection to Marissa is you. And, if you hadn’t asked her to pick you up at the house and drive you to the police station, would they have ever made a personal connection?” he asked.
“What do I benefit from Sam’s death or Marissa’s?” I challenged.
“Now, I am not even going to grace that with an answer because it’s an insult to both us and any member of the jury pool,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question. What about Marley and Ashton?” I repeated.
“This is my opinion so take it for what it’s worth. Unless Ashton has a tight network on the outside, that’s not even a viable option. And, again, that crazy woman can’t think past her next drink or hit. Do you honestly think she could have put together such a complex plan, much less execute it? She’d rather spend her time looking for her next sugar daddy,” he said.
Unfortunately, I had to agree.
“Options?” I asked.
“Write me a check for a hundred grand, and we’ll plead not guilty on all counts and let them prove their case. I’ll have to ask for a change of venue and get it moved out of the county. The Bennington name is a household word, and there will be too much prejudice here. No matter where we go, the internet carries the story, but people will be less likely to have passed judgment and be as invested in the outcome. We’ll have to hire private investigators to try to shift the blame to Ashton or Marley and find another suspect pool for Marissa’s death,” he said.
“Whoa. When did Marissa become a part of this charge?” I asked.
“When she was posed with the paintings and you were tied to what will probably be found to be illegal dealings with her,” he said, shaking his head.
Yes. Well, I supposed an argument could be made for those issues.
“So, best- and worst-case scenarios?” I asked.
“Best case, we shift th
e blame to someone else, and we get an acquittal on reasonable doubt. I’ve talked to the ADA on the case, and they are willing to roll the murder of your wife and the paintings together and offer you a plea for manslaughter and theft. But it’s a twenty-four-hour opportunity, and then it’s off the table. They will recommend the sentences run concurrent instead of consecutive and recommend a sentence of twelve years. If you decide to take it to trial, they are going for murder one, felony theft, and a life sentence. Oh, and they are open to letting you plea under Alford. An Alford plea allows you to enter your guilty plea on the record, but you still maintain your innocence. It’s done for a case where the evidence is so stacked against the defendant that it’s inevitable the jury will find him guilty. But he still maintains his innocence,” he said.
He sat back in his chair and waited for my response. I was too stunned to take this all in. I was being asked to plead guilty to something I never did and being punished for crimes I hadn’t committed. With good behavior, I could be out in six years, but what life would I return to? I’d be broke and have no home, no profession, and no license to practice law. I’d be like the disgraced lawyer in Better Call Saul, working retail jobs at best. But the alternative was a life without hope.
“Let’s see how we do at the bail hearing, and that will help me decide what to do,” I said.
He nodded and blew out a breath.
“How much are we looking at?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“State wants remand. We’re asking release on your own recognizance. I’m thinking a million,” he said.
My whole body jerked back, and I thought my head would explode.
“A million? So, I have to come up with a hundred twenty thousand in cash and get someone to just write me a bond?” I croaked out.
“You know how that works. And, although this isn’t a probable cause hearing, the state will want to get some damaging evidence in,” he said, gathering his papers. “You have money, don’t you?” he asked.
That would be a big, fat no.
“Right now, liquid cash is a challenge. Unless I can access some offshore accounts. And that might raise problems I don’t want to deal with right now,” I said.
Facing A Twisted Judgment Page 20
