by Sarah Atwell
“So why did Ferguson pick her for this?”
“Personal history. He wanted me on board as backup because he knew her weaknesses.”
“He told you that?” When I nodded, she added, “So Maddy might have an axe to grind, eh?”
“Excuse me, but what does this have to do with the missing artworks?” Matt broke in.
Nat flashed him a smile. “Just trying to get the lay of the land. Ferguson moves to Tucson and buys a big expensive place so he can set up his glass collection. He’s been here a couple of months and somebody kills him, and somebody makes off with the collection. Interesting. Who did he know around here? Did he socialize much?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Matt said.
I interrupted. “He seemed to be more or less camping out in the house. There was almost no furniture. He said he wanted to get a feel for the place, get the glass situated, before he cluttered it up. I never saw anyone else out there, not even contractors or carpenters or whatever. Oh, I did see one of the dealers he used there once—Ian Gemberling. But I got the feeling Peter was pretty much a hermit, although he had a phone and his computer hooked up. And a sophisticated security system.”
Nat made a note. “Matt, you checked out the security system?”
“Of course. No breach, so he must have known whoever it was, and let him in.”
“Him?” Nat’s eyes twinkled.
“I apologize—the gender-neutral perpetrator or perpetrators,” Matt corrected himself.
“Gotta stamp out sexism where we can. Right, Em?”
“Matt’s pretty well trained, Nat.” I grinned at her. “But you have to know that it wouldn’t be easy for a woman to move that glass alone, certainly not without damaging it. I’d guess it would take a strong man, probably more than one person.”
“Fair enough.” Nat leaned back in her chair and studied the ceiling.
Matt and I exchanged glances again, and then Matt spoke. “Where do we go from here?”
Nat’s gaze returned to level. “We’ll crank up the standard art-theft procedure.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“First we get the missing stuff into the NSAF, which goes back to 1997. That gives us a framework—a detailed description—to work with and to distribute. There’s a record sheet to be filled out—type of object, material, size, any special features, and, of course, photographs and sketches, when they’re available. You have any of those details, Em?”
I shook my head. “Not really. But Peter must have had something, or his attorney, or his art dealer, or the insurance company.”
“We’re looking into that. Matt, I assume you’re pursuing the usual forensics, alarm system, autopsy, witnesses, yada yada?”
“Of course,” Matt said stiffly. Poor baby—he wasn’t reacting well to Nat’s disarmingly breezy approach. I for one thought it was a pleasant change from my last interaction with the FBI.
“And we’ll pool our information, of course. In fact, here’s my first peace offering: our file on Peter Ferguson.” She laid a manila folder on the table: It was at least an inch thick.
Matt reached for it. “You’ve been keeping tabs on him? Why?”
“Our department hasn’t, but we all share internally. I can even call for backup from the local office, if I need it.” She looked really excited about that idea, and I wondered just how long she had been doing this. She couldn’t be older than thirty, thirty-five tops. “He was a public figure and a computer genius. We like to know what people like that are up to. Would’ve been a thicker file, if he’d taken his company public—then the SEC would have gotten involved. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Em?”
I looked at her, startled. I realized that she was signaling, albeit subtly, that she knew that I had once registered as a stockbroker. Not surprising, since somewhere in Washington my fingerprints were on file. All that seemed like another lifetime. “Yes. But he kept it private, until he dissolved the company.”
She nodded. “Interesting choice. He could have made a whole lot more money with an IPO.”
“Looked to me like he did just fine as it was,” I countered.
Matt apparently had gotten tired of taking the backseat, because he interrupted. “Nat, is there anything in his file that jumps out at you? That might have some bearing on his death?”
“Too early to say. He had enemies, and some made threats. You’ll have to see if they were anywhere near Arizona at the right time—there’s a list of names in the file. But I don’t think this was about money. The question is, was he killed because of the collection, or was the theft a handy cover-up for the murder?”
I definitely had an opinion about that. “Nat, that collection was magnificent and worth a lot of money. Not to mention physically unwieldy. It seems absurd that somebody would walk in and kill Peter, then decide as an afterthought that he might as well take a couple of tons of art along with him.”
“I agree with you, Em, or I wouldn’t be here. Not that there’s any shortage of people with a grudge against Peter. Maybe the art was taken as revenge by somebody who knew how Peter felt about it. Or by somebody who figured that Peter owed him in some way. I do think that Peter’s death was incidental to the theft. He stumbled into it unexpectedly and he got killed. I mean, who would deliberately choose a piece of glass as a murder weapon? It was already there in the house, right? If you planned to kill someone, you’d come better prepared, wouldn’t you?”
I nodded firmly. “Yes. And it’s kind of an unpredictable way of killing anyone. You do have to be skilled enough or lucky enough to get it through the ribs. It would almost be easier to disembowel someone with glass, rather than stabbing him,” I said.
We all fell silent, contemplating that unlovely picture.
“You have any ideas, Matt?” Nat finally asked.
Matt said slowly, “We think his former business partner may be in the area.”
“Andrew Foster? The one who kept yammering to the press? Good work! Have you tracked him down?” Nat was almost bouncing in her chair with excitement.
Matt shot me a warning glance before going on. “Not yet. We found his flight coming in Wednesday morning, and he picked up a rental car at the airport, but no sign since.”
“So you’ve lost sight of him? You think he’s hiding?”
“I don’t know, but we’re looking for him,” Matt replied.
I had to admit I was pissed that Matt hadn’t mentioned that to me. I tried to reason with myself that Matt had every right not to share this information with me, but I still wasn’t happy about it. What else hadn’t he told me?
I think we both jumped when Nat stood up abruptly. “Chief, can you find somebody to take me out to the site? I want to take a look around, check out access, that kind of thing. Get some pictures.”
Matt rose as well. “Of course. I can have an officer take you.”
“It’s still a crime scene, right? You have anybody stationed there?”
“Yes, I left a man out there. It’s a rather high-price neighborhood, and the neighbors are bound to be a bit upset.”
“No doubt. I’ll need to talk to Ms. Sheffield as well, if you’ll give me her info. Em, where will you be later this afternoon?”
“Uh, in my shop or at home. I live above the shop. You’ve got the address?”
“Yes, great. I’ll probably want to talk with you again, once I’ve seen Ferguson’s place for myself. Oh, you have pictures of the pieces?”
“Sure—I took quite a few, for my own purposes. But won’t the insurance company have better ones?”
“Probably. But I want to see them in context. And maybe you could sketch out a floor plan, show me what was going where?”
“No problem.”
“Great. See you later, then. Let’s see about that ride, eh, Chief?”
I realized I had been dismissed. I glanced at Matt and he shrugged, so I gathered up my stuff and left. Actually, I wanted to think about just where this investigation—or maybe two i
nvestigations—was going. I was impressed by Agent Nat—she seemed smart and open at the same time. Of course, the fact that she believed I was blameless didn’t hurt. I hoped she didn’t trample all over Matt, but he was a big boy and he’d just have to handle it. Right now I needed to get back to the shop and get some work done.
I found I was looking forward to seeing Nat later.
Chapter 12
I drove home on autopilot, trying to mentally rearrange my calendar. Work on Peter’s commission—gone. That left a chunk of time open for my own glassmaking, but I was still saddened by losing the opportunity to work with his wonderful glass pieces. Tomorrow was Saturday: busy morning for the shop, and I had a beginner’s class in the afternoon. Cam would be around all weekend, but I had no idea what his plans were. Normally I would say that it was none of my business, but since Allison was working for me, I was stuck in the middle. I hoped they figured something out soon. My own relationship with Matt was on hold, at his request. I understood his reasons, since the last time we’d been involved in a murder investigation together, he’d bent quite a few rules to help me and his superiors hadn’t been happy about it. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Maddy’s ridiculous accusation that I’d been carrying on with Peter. Matt knew me better than that. Didn’t he?
I arrived at my building and parked in the alley, then went around to the front door to catch up with whatever was going on in the shop. Nessa looked up when I came in, and the concern on her face warmed me. “Is everything all right, dear?”
“As good as it can be, all things considered. Why me? What’s gone wrong with my karma? I never used to find bodies lying around.”
“Just coincidence, I’m sure. But it’s very sad about Mr. Ferguson, isn’t it? He seemed like such a nice man.”
That stopped me cold. “You met him?”
“Oh, yes. He came to the shop a time or two, and he was very charming. He bought a couple of your larger pieces. Actually, I didn’t realize who he was until you started working with him, and I checked the credit card receipts.”
Huh. So he really had checked me out, and he had even bought some of my work. I was flattered—and depressed all over again. He was still dead.
I went to the back of the studio and spent the rest of the day tending to the pesky details of inventory and supply orders. The next time I looked up, it was closing time; I went back to the shop to find Nessa clearing the cash register. “Any calls?”
“No, nothing. Were you expecting one?”
“The FBI agent who’s working on Peter’s case—she said something about getting together later today, but maybe she got hung up out at Peter’s house. I’m sure she’ll track me down one way or another.”
“No doubt. She is, after all, an FBI agent.”
I smiled at Nessa’s quiet humor. “That she is. So what’s the schedule for tomorrow? Who’s opening?”
“Allison said that she’d be in early—she wanted to spend the afternoon with your brother.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. Has she said anything about . . . anything?” I didn’t want to sound nosy, but I figured Nessa would have some clue about what Allison was thinking.
“Not in so many words. I know she’s very excited about her classes at the university. You can almost see her opening up—it’s a joy to watch.”
About what I’d figured—and told Cam. “I want her to be happy. Problem is, I want Cam to be happy too, and I’m not sure they want the same things. Oh, well, it’s not in my hands. If it’s okay with you, I’ll go on up and see what Cam’s doing. I’ll be in first thing in the morning.”
“Good night, dear.” Nessa went back to tallying the cash, and I made my way around to the side of the building and up the stairs.
Since the dogs did not swarm around my ankles the moment I opened the door, I deduced that Cam was there and had taken them out recently. “Hello?” I called out.
“In here,” Cam replied, emerging from the back bedroom. “I wondered when you’d get back. How’d it go with Matt? Did he shine bright lights in your eyes and demand a confession?”
“No, nothing like that. But there’s a new FBI agent on the case—a woman with the Art Theft Unit, or whatever they call it. She knows all the dirt about Matt and me, and the last murder. That makes me a little uncomfortable, but it saves explaining stuff.”
“Is she any good?”
“I don’t know yet. She said we should get together again today. When I left the police station she was headed out to the crime scene. You haven’t taken any phone messages, have you?”
“Nope, nothing here. Anybody have any leads?”
I shook my head. “Not that they’ve shared with me. No, I’m wrong: Matt said he thought Peter’s partner, Andrew Foster, might be in town. So, you have any plans? Should we go out and find some dinner?”
Before he could answer, there was a knocking at the door. Fred and Gloria raced to stand at attention in front of it. I followed less quickly and checked the peephole: Agent Natalie, carrying what looked like . . . pizza boxes! Hallelujah.
I opened the door and said, “Watch out for the dogs. But I think they’re more interested in the pizza than in you.”
Nat grinned. “Smart dogs. I’ve got a beagle who’s a pepperoni junkie. Sorry to barge in, but it seemed simpler than calling. And I took a chance that you hadn’t eaten.”
For some reason, the line “beware Greeks bearing gifts” popped into my head. Smart move on her part, to catch us off guard. But we had nothing to hide, and the pizza smelled wonderful. I stepped back to let her in. “If I were a dog, I’d be rolling at your feet about now. I love to eat but I hate to cook. Come on in.”
She walked into the space, the dogs at her heels—they weren’t about to lose sight of those interesting-smelling boxes. “Nice place—an old factory?”
“It was, until I bought it about ten years ago. Here, put those on the table and I’ll get plates and stuff. You want something to drink? I’ve got iced tea, or something stronger. Or are you on the job?”
“Hell, a beer won’t hurt, if you’ve got it. So, this must be your brother, Cameron?”
“See, Cam, I told you she’d read the file. Yes, Nat, this is my brother. Say something nice to the agent, Cam.”
“Em thinks I’m a social moron. Nice to meet you—Natalie, is it?”
“Nat, please. Natalie sounds like a second-grade teacher.”
“And I’m Cam. Can I have one of those beers too, Em?”
“Coming up.” I collected plates and napkins, snagged a trio of cold beers from the fridge, and dumped everything on my all-purpose table. “Let’s eat.” We devoted an intense few minutes to distributing and consuming our first pieces of pizza, then came up for air. “So, Nat, you saw the crime scene?”
She nodded, chewed, swallowed. “Interesting place. But a forensic nightmare.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen it—next to no furniture. Every surface is either shiny-smooth, like in the kitchen, or so rough that it couldn’t take fingerprints. And whoever was there cleaned up good. We’ve found prints for the people we already knew were there: Peter, you, Maddy. We’re sorting through a few more for any construction or delivery guys, but it doesn’t look promising.” She took another piece of pizza and bit into it with a blissful look on her face.
I waited until she had swallowed again. “Why are you telling us this? Doesn’t this compromise your investigation?”
“Matt says you’re good people, and I really don’t think you killed the guy. What did you have to gain?”
“Maddy seems to think I had a reason to kill him.”
Nat snorted. “Right. You lusted after Mister Billionaire who had a taste for art, and then you whacked him. Did you?”
“Which? What? Lust or whack?”
“Let’s start with lust. Were you doing Peter Ferguson?” I didn’t know whether to be furious or amused. “No! He was an interesting and attractive man, and I’ll cop
to thinking about it for about twelve seconds. But I wasn’t about to screw up a lucrative and highly visible commission for a roll in the hay, even if he did have millions.”
Nat nodded. “Good. That’s what I told Matt.”
“Wait a minute—you discussed this with Matt?”
“It’s part of the investigation, and we have to evaluate Maddy’s accusation.”
I was getting antsy, so I stood up and stalked to the kitchen area, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Cam had been watching our dialogue as though it were a ping-pong game, but now he decided to step in. “Let me get this straight—you think Em is in the clear?”
Nat turned to him. “Cam, I’m neither naïve nor stupid. I would not be sitting here saying the things I’m saying if I didn’t think Em had nothing to do with this. Relax. I just want to kick things around with her—she knows the people involved, and the place. And I’ve got something in mind for you too, if you’re interested.”
I was getting more and more bewildered, and it wasn’t just the half a bottle of beer I had consumed. I returned to the table and sat down. “Okay, you think I’m innocent, and thank you for that. Does Matt agree?”
“For the record, he’s not saying. Off the record, probably. So what’s the story with you two?”
“We were . . . involved for a while a couple of years ago, and then we broke it off. But we recently sort of got back together again.”
“Makes it hard for him, doesn’t it? But he’ll work it out—he’s a good cop.”
“I hope so. This is complicated enough. Okay, Nat, what is it you want from me?”
“Like I said. I know a lot about art theft, but you know about Tucson and who’s who here. Anybody around who would handle a crime like this?”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Sure, I know the local craftspeople, but I can’t think of anyone who could pull off a multimillion dollar art heist. And that includes me—I wouldn’t know where to start.”
