2 Pane of Death

by Sarah Atwell

  “Oh, Em, hi. I didn’t want to bother you if you were in the studio, but I thought you should hear this.”

  “This about Peter’s program?” That was a lot easier to say than “algorithm.”

  “Yes, that, and Ian Gemberling. You might as well sit down—this is going to take a little time.”

  Chapter 21

  I sat down at the table, my tummy doing belly flops. This did not sound promising. I pulled a pad closer to me and scrabbled through the stuff on the table for a pen. “What’ve you found?”

  I could hear Cam rustling papers. “I’ve got to say that Peter’s programming for this tracking system is gorgeous. It manages to maximize the detailed visual information while compressing the code. It’s a beautiful balance.”

  “Yeah, yeah. This is me you’re talking to, remember? You’re saying he did a nice job.”

  “Em!” Cam protested, clearly hurt. “It’s more than a nice job. It promises to be accurate enough to be useful, without hogging computer space or crashing older machines. That means it will probably work in the real world, assuming it gets into the hands of the right people.”

  “Did Peter keep records of his glass pieces using his algorithm thingie?”

  Cam’s scorn was evident even over the phone. He could never accept that I was computer impaired, even though I’d given him ample evidence. “Yes, he did. He used those as beta tests. You know, some of the panels are really intricate—lots of bits and pieces. And glass isn’t easy to photograph or scan. So I think he figured if he could make it work on those, then the program would work on paintings.”

  “Who does it belong to, now that Peter’s dead?”

  Cam was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. The estate? I don’t think it’s his old company—the dates aren’t right. The files I found are dated after the company was shut down. Maybe Nat can talk to his lawyer and find out who controls them now.”

  Poor Cam—I’d burst his bubble. He was much more interested in the beauties of good code than in the messy realities of ownership issues. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to help, and maybe she can score some points with the FBI too, if they don’t know about the program already. Did you see any indication that Peter had been in touch with them?”

  “Nope. I told you, he liked to polish things before he went public with them. And there are plenty of horror stories out there about new programs that just didn’t work, so I can’t say I blame him.”

  “So you’re saying nobody else knew about the existence of this program?” When Cam agreed, I filed that fact away for future consideration. Right now I had other, more pressing issues. “What have you got on Ian Gemberling?”

  “He seems to be the real deal. He opened up his gallery about twelve years ago, with some of his own money, plus help from a small group of investors. It’s been successful—been mentioned in what I assume are all the right magazines in the art world. Not my area of expertise.”

  “Not mine either, really. Any mention of artists’ shows that he’s done?”

  “A few—I can send you the websites. But mostly he trades. He’s bought some stuff at auctions for pretty high dollars, and made some good sales. Short of looking at his tax returns, I’d say he’s doing pretty well.”

  “What, you can’t find his tax returns online?” I wasn’t sure if I was joking.

  “No, I can’t. If you really want them, you’d have to talk to someone higher up. Now if he was a nonprofit, it’d be a piece of cake. But there is one thing I thought was odd.”

  The pups had gathered at my feet—must be dinner time. “What?”

  “Peter had a lot of files of pieces that Gemberling had bought or sold over the past couple of years.”

  “Maybe they were collaborating? Peter was using Ian’s pieces to test his system?”

  “Maybe. I can’t tell yet. But there are also some pieces for which I didn’t find any public sale record. Not that that’s conclusive, because there are a lot of art sales that don’t make the news, and even if they do, there’s not always a picture to go with them. So I can’t tell you right now what this means. If anything. Maybe Gemberling can tell you. Will you be talking to him again any time soon?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t set any sort of time limit, and it takes months to plan the kind of show he was talking about, and I’m sure he’s got a long forward schedule. And I don’t know if he’s staying in town here or if he’s gone back to LA. Maybe he’s hoping that Peter’s panels will reappear and he’ll have a crack at selling them. That’d be a nice piece of change for him, if he gets a commission on the sale.” I tried to think if I had any more questions for Cam, but came up empty. “Well, my entourage is looking forward to dinner, so I’d better go. Thanks for the information, even though I’m not sure what it means.”

  “No problem. I’ll try to reach Nat and pass this on to her. You take care.”

  “You too.” We hung up.

  As I dished out din-din for the dogs, I tried to sort out what Cam had told me and what the implications were. Peter had plenty of high-quality images of his missing artworks: That was good news. Assuming, of course, that they ever surfaced and required identification. He also had lots of images of other works that Ian Gemberling had handled, and we didn’t know why. But Ian had said that he’d known Peter for some time. In fact, he’d mentioned that he’d even resold some of Peter’s early acquisitions. Maybe Peter had wanted to make sure he was getting a fair deal from Ian. Or maybe Ian had volunteered to serve as a guinea pig for Peter’s project. Maybe Ian was just taking precautions, getting ahead of the curve by recording the works he bought and sold, in case Peter’s program ever did go public. As for Ian’s financial state, nothing had jumped out to Cam’s uneducated eye, which didn’t mean much one way or another. If someone was smart enough to play in the multimillion-dollar leagues, he—or she—should be smart enough to fudge a financial statement. Maybe that was why I was having such trouble dealing with Ian’s offer of a show of my own: I really didn’t think I was in that class, and I wasn’t being humble or self-effacing, I was just stating a fact. So why had he made the offer?

  I was sitting at the table staring into space, trying to fit these pieces together, when someone knocked on the door. The dogs beat me to it, but sat looking at it expectantly rather than barking furiously. Not a stranger, apparently. I checked the peephole: Nat.

  I opened the door. “Hello again. Were your ears burning? I was just talking to Cam about you.”

  She stepped in—bearing food once again. This time it smelled like Chinese, and I started drooling like Pavlov’s dog. Smart woman: She knew just how to get to me.

  “I took a chance that you hadn’t eaten.”

  “In case I didn’t mention it before, I hate to cook, so I put it off as long as possible. That smells great.”

  “I thought so. So, you managed to have a conversation with Cam? I get the feeling he’s been avoiding me.”

  I headed for the kitchen to round up the necessary plates and drinks, and set them on the table. I gestured toward a chair and she sat. I sat. There was something I wanted to get off my chest before things got any more complicated.

  “Nat, I appreciate that you’re trying to worm your way into my good graces with food. I understand that you’re a single woman in a strange town and you probably don’t like to eat alone. I’m flattered that you don’t believe that I am either a killer or a thief. But apart from that, what the heck are you doing here?”

  Nat sat back in her chair and grinned at me. “Em, I like you. You don’t take any bull, and you’re smart. You’re right on all counts. I told you: I need your help. You know the players and the local scene, and you can tell me about them. You knew Peter, you knew his art. So, cards on the table? I appreciate anything you can give me.”

  “And isn’t it convenient that I gave you access to both Cam and Matt,” I responded drily.

  She nodded. “Yup, there is that. You’ve been a big help with that. Oh, let’s get this
out of the way: Is Cam attached?”

  I had to admire her forthright approach. “Definitely.”

  She nodded, once. “Thanks. Just checking. I don’t want to make this situation any stickier than it already is. So, wanna eat? Then we can get down to the good stuff.”

  “Works for me,” I said, reaching for the lo mein.

  The next few minutes were occupied by serious eating. Finally, when I had reached a plateau, I ventured, “Cam says you’re the new kid on this FBI team?” If she could be upfront, so could I.

  She sucked up a noodle before answering. “Yup, although we’re all pretty new to the team. But we’ve got some solid old-timers. I gotta tell you, this is my dream job. I started out in art history, but that was so, I don’t know—academic? Then I got into the forensic side of things. You know, materials analysis—paint types, canvas, wood, whatever. But I’m not real good in the lab, so when I heard about this FBI team, I figured, what the heck? I could combine it all. And it’s been fun so far, but this is my first solo, so I want to do it right.”

  She stopped and sat back in her chair, and it appeared to me that she was trying to make up her mind about something. Then she leaned forward again and looked directly at me. “Look, Em, maybe you’re wondering why the FBI hasn’t thrown a lot more resources at this. You know, high-profile guy, high-dollar art gone missing—why no big splash? The thing is, there’s only a handful of us for the whole country, and there’s a lot more art theft going on out there than you probably ever hear about, and this isn’t the only million-plus case. And our federal funding sucks, but we’re working on it. But I’m it on this one. So it really is important to me to do this right, and that means using all the resources I can scrounge, including you and your brother. And, hey, if it works out, it’ll make our unit look really good.”

  Not to mention making Nat look pretty good. But her logic made sense to me. “Thanks for filling me in, even if it doesn’t make me feel much better about the glass. Look, I’ll help any way I can. And don’t lose sight of the fact that a man—a man I knew and liked—is dead. So I’m in this for his sake too. What do you need?”

  “It’d really help just to bat around some ideas here. I’m trusting the police—and your Matt—to take care of the murder end of things, and I’m concentrating on the art. Frankly, there’s not much of a physical trail to work with. You say the art was there, and you saw it, over a period of time. Andrew Foster said he saw it on Wednesday afternoon. The art was gone when you got there Thursday afternoon. Assuming Andrew’s telling the truth, where did it go in that twenty-four-hour period? And how?”

  “What’s your take?” I hadn’t made up my own mind, and I was curious to find out what Nat thought.

  “To be honest, I’m still not sure. Okay, we talked to Foster, and his story checks out, including the AA part. No way he could have moved the art, at least personally. And I really don’t see him as an art kind of guy, you know? Heck, I think the whole idea of stealing Peter’s collection just to get even with Peter is beyond his capabilities.”

  “I agree. What about Jennifer?”

  Nat sat back in her chair and loosened her waistband. “Ah, the lovely Jennifer. No financial motive—she hasn’t blown through her settlement, if you’re wondering. Most of Peter’s collection postdates their time together, and I doubt she had any idea how he felt about it. I think her biggest regret is that she’s no longer Mrs. Famous Man, but we’ve found no reason to think that she’d go as far as killing Peter just for the attention. I mean, once he’s dead, she’s history. End of story.”

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  Nat nodded. “She was quite happy to cooperate—just in time for the twelve o’clock news. But she didn’t have anything to add. And I can’t see her doing the deed, or even contracting for it.”

  This talk wasn’t cheering me up at all. “Nat, you’re eliminating all the suspects. Who’s left?”

  Nat contemplated the exposed pipes on my ceiling. “There are still people who might have had a beef with Peter Ferguson and wanted him dead. There are fewer people who understood his glass collection, and even fewer who would know what to do with it if they got their hands on it. So, was killing Peter the primary goal? I don’t think so. I think the art has been at the center of this from the beginning.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense.”

  She looked pleased. “Good. Now, how about you tell me how someone got the stuff out of the house.”

  “You mean, the physical process of moving it? You probably know as much as I do about it.”

  “Maybe, but most of what I know applies to paintings or small objects. Big glass is a whole different arena. I mean, you don’t just pick up a panel and toss it in the back of a pickup, do you?”

  I shuddered at the thought. “Not if you want it to stay intact. Okay, let me think.” Mostly I packed small individual glass items, but I knew something about the general principles. “To some extent it depends on how you’re shipping the piece. If you’re doing it yourself, if you’ve got your own truck, then it’s less elaborate than if you go commercial. But in any case you’ve got to keep the panels vertical, and they can’t be allowed to twist or torque. That usually means a crate, and that crate has to be tailored to the piece. You can’t just go to a package store and buy one.”

  “Right. Which means somebody would have to have the measurements of each piece ahead of time.”

  I shook my head. “But there were crates—Peter was still unpacking them at the house, up until the week he died. I don’t know if he’d kept the crates around, but it’s possible they never left the house. That would make the thief’s job a whole lot easier, if all the packing stuff was sitting right there and waiting for him.”

  “Interesting point, Em. Either someone knew they’d be available, or someone got very, very lucky. Anything else?”

  “You’ve got to make sure that there is some way to stabilize the crates in the truck—they can’t move around or crash into each other. That means some kind of braces, and I’ve heard that people also use bungee cords, which allow a little give but prevent hard bouncing. Am I telling you anything you don’t know?”

  Nat smiled. “Hey, you’re the expert. Keep talking.”

  “So once you have the crate, you’ve got to cushion the piece inside it—corrugated cardboard works, or high-density foam. And you need to tailor the packing if there are any irregularities in the piece.”

  “What, no peanuts?”

  “They compress too much.”

  “Darn! And I thought we could just follow the trail of peanuts. Go on—I’m just having fun here.”

  “Really, that’s about it. Protect the glass itself with some sort of covering, put it in a fitted crate, secure the crate in the truck, and away you go.”

  Nat leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. “Okay. Nothing exotic in there, right? Let’s assume the crates were in the house. Would it take long to shift the panels into them?”

  “Depends on how careful you wanted to be. You’ve got to remember, the oldest one of these panels is something over eight hundred years old, and it’s fragile. They all are. And it would definitely take more than one person to do it.”

  “So someone knew the glass and knew what to do with it, and showed up with manpower and transport. How much would one of these suckers have weighed?”

  “I’m just guessing, but maybe a couple of hundred pounds, even before the crating. And it would be better to have two men, to keep each one steady, maneuver it into place.”

  “So the thief would have to have had at least one accomplice.”

  “That about covers it. Does that help you any?”

  Nat seemed focused on some inner voice, not me. “And it would take time, as you say. You don’t just slam a valuable piece into a box and run. That means they needed to spend time at Peter’s house—and they needed to know they wouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “Yes. And for that they needed access—no alarms went off, remember?
Matt said the system wasn’t on. But the question stands: Was Peter dead when the thief started, or was he killed along the way?”

  “Pretty cool customers, if they stabbed the guy and watched him bleed out while they packed up the goods.”

  “I suppose if you find the crates and there’s blood on any of them, you’ll have your answer.”

  “Maybe.”

  Another thought crept into my mind. “Will Peter have a funeral?”

  Nat made a sour face. “Jennifer has that covered. To be precise, she is having the body cremated, and I think she plans to spread the ashes over the Arizona desert somewhere, since this was where Peter chose to be in the end. Then she’ll have some very public memorial service in someplace not quite as provincial as Tucson—starring Jennifer, of course.”

  “Figures. Poor Peter. I wonder if this is what he wanted.”

  After a moment of silence, Nat sat up straighter. “You got anything like dessert around here?”

  “Ice cream.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “You’re my kind of woman. Lead me to it.”

  There followed a satisfying interlude while we inhaled three different flavors of premium ice cream. We were scraping the bottom of the cartons when Nat’s cell phone beeped. She turned away to answer. I busied myself with cleaning up the few dishes we had created; there were no leftovers to put away, much to Fred and Gloria’s disappointment. Of course I kept one ear on Nat’s end of the conversation, but it was mostly “yeahs” and “okays.” Not very helpful.

  After a minute she slapped the phone closed and turned to me with an air of excitement. “Looks like we’ve caught a break.”

  “You going to tell me about it?” Moment of truth: Did she trust me?

  “Matt’s picked up a guy who says he has info about the murder and he’s willing to talk, if we cut him a deal. I’m going to head over to his office now.”

  And I wasn’t invited. Once again I felt like the little kid left out of all the fun. But I rallied: I really didn’t have any right to be there. And Nat would fill me in, if Matt wouldn’t. Right?