Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  Sandy looked at the keys; he knew exactly what they fitted and that they could have come from only one place. "Keys?" he asked.

  "The keys to your building's basement and your storeroom," Duvivier said, then stopped.

  "Whose keys?" Sandy asked.

  "The killer's keys," Duvivier replied.

  "You've arrested him?" He hoped to God not.

  "Not exactly," Leary said.

  "You're pursuing him, then?"

  "Not exactly," Duvivier replied.

  "Detective, please explain exactly what is going on here," Sandy said, with a note of irritation in his voice.

  "We thought you might like to tell us," Duvivier replied.

  "Tell you what?"

  "How the killer got the keys."

  "Why do you think I know that?"

  "I believe you took your keys to the Third Avenue Locksmiths and had them duplicated, then gave the duplicates to the killer," Duvivier said.

  "Then you're a fool," Sandy replied, "and you're wasting both your time and mine."

  "We took your photograph to the shop and showed it to the locksmith," Duvivier said. "What do you think he said?"

  "Detective, don't ask me questions to which I obviously do not have the answer."

  "All right, Mr. Kinsolving, the locksmith said he had seen your face before. In his shop."

  There was nothing to do but bluff, Sandy knew. They hadn't arrested him yet, so there was a chance that they were bluffing, too. "So what?" he replied.

  "So now we can place you at the locksmith's," Duvivier said.

  "Get to the point, Detective. What is all this supposed to mean?"

  "Have you ever been into the Third Avenue Locksmith's?"

  "Not that I recall," Sandy replied. "What if I have been? Would that have some meaning in my wife's death?"

  "It would if you had your keys duplicated and gave them to a hired murderer," Duvivier replied.

  "I didn't do that," Sandy said. "Where did you get the keys?" He knew, but he thought he ought to ask, for appearances sake.

  "They were given to us by the murderer."

  "You've arrested him, then?"

  "He says you paid him to kill your wife."

  "Then he's lying; I had absolutely nothing to do with my wife's death," Sandy replied. "But you haven't answered my question: Have you arrested somebody in the matter of my wife's murder?"

  "It's you who must answer the questions, Mr. Kinsolving," Duvivier said.

  Sandy stood up. "You're very wrong about that. I don't know what the hell you're doing here, but I told you that I didn't want to hear from you again, unless you'd found my wife's killer, do you recall that?"

  "I do."

  "Have you arrested my wife's killer?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then get out of my office, and if you have anything else to say to me, say it to my lawyer, Mr. Murray Hirsch. Is that clear?"

  Duvivier said nothing.

  "Detective," Sandy said, growing angry now, "are you here to arrest me?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then I bid you good day." He walked to his office door, opened it, and stood, waiting for them to leave.

  The two detectives exchanged a glance, then reluctantly left the office.

  On the street, Leary turned to Duvivier. "You didn't really expect that to work, did you?"

  "It was worth a shot," Duvivier replied.

  "Do you still think he was involved?"

  "I'm certain of it."

  "I wish I was as certain as you," Leary said.

  Duvivier looked at his partner. "You're not with me on this, then?"

  Leary shook his head. "Al, I'm sorry, but I don't read minds like you; I just go with the evidence, you know?"

  Duvivier nodded.

  "I mean, I respect your ability to sniff out perps; I've seen you do it before, but I've seen you wrong before, too."

  Duvivier nodded. "Sometimes I am wrong."

  "You think this might be one of those times?"

  Duvivier shook his head. "No. This time I'm right."

  "You remember what you said to me the first night we worked this case? You said you thought he did it, but we weren't going to be able to prove it?"

  "I remember."

  "Al, I think that's where we're at."

  "Maybe so. Unless we hear more from the guy who sent the keys."

  "You mean if the guy walks in and confesses? Because that's the only way he's going to break this for us. If we don't have him, we don't have Kinsolving; it's as simple as that."

  Duvivier nodded.

  Sandy sat at his desk. He was becoming very weary of Peter Martindale. Still, maybe this development was positive. The keys and the jewelry were the only physical evidence that could connect Martindale to the murder, and he had given up both of those. After all, Martindale couldn't implicate him beyond doubt unless he gave himself up, and somehow, he couldn't see Peter Martindale sending himself to prison. He had played things correctly with Duvivier, he was sure of that.

  The only thing he wasn't sure of was Peter Martindale, and all he could do was wait for Martindale to make the next move.

  CHAPTER 43

  Sandy and Cara sat in first class, sipping a glass of wine before lunch, bound for the West Coast. He spread out the Wall Street Journal and showed her the announcement of his acquiring the vineyard.

  "Oh, it's the Larsen Vineyard?" she asked. "I didn't know which one."

  "Are you familiar with it?" he asked.

  "Oh, I've seen it on wine lists, I guess." She looked away.

  "Cara, is there some other reason you're familiar with the Larsen Vineyard?"

  She sighed. "Yes. Peter sold Mr. Larsen some pictures last year."

  "I remember some pictures from the inventory. Peter's everywhere, isn't he?"

  "It seems that way sometimes."

  "Cara, let's talk about Peter; I don't really know much about him. What sort of a man is he?"

  "Handsome, charming, witty, very clever. Dishonest in his business dealings, if he thinks he can get away with it."

  "Is that all?"

  "Obsessive," she replied.

  "About what?"

  "Pictures, the gallery, his apartment, his cars, and-"

  "Yes?"

  "Me. When I first met him I found it flattering, but by the time we'd been married a few months I found it very… confining."

  "How did his obsessiveness with you manifest itself?"

  "Jealousy, mainly; it infuriated him if I spent any time with another man, if even I talked with another man for too long at a party. Peter is excellent at scenes; he can speak a few words that will embarrass and annoy everybody, yet hardly cause a ruffle in a crowd. Words are his way; I mean, he's not the sort to haul off and slug another man. Peter is something of a coward, physically."

  "That's interesting."

  "How?"

  "Well, it doesn't sound as though he's one for confrontation. If he ever tries that, I'll know he's bluffing."

  "Either that, or he'll have some advantage you're not aware of. Peter is brave only when he knows he's safe."

  "And yet, he could… do what he did to Joan and Albert."

  "An old man and a woman? Yes, that's Peter's style."

  "Still, it took some sort of courage for him to do that."

  "The courage of a bully," Cara said. "He'd have no problem harming someone weaker than he, and he'd certainly not mind hurting a woman."

  "Did he ever hurt you?"

  She sighed. "Yes, just once. We had come home after a party, one where he'd thought I'd paid too much attention to another man. He hit me, knocked me down, actually. I was near the fireplace; I got up, picked up a poker from the hearth, and advanced on him. He wilted very quickly. I told him if he ever struck me again I'd kill him in his sleep. He never did."

  "You're a brave woman."

  She laughed. "Braver than Peter, anyway."

  "Change of subject: I'd like you to do the design work for the Kinsolvi
ng Vineyards-labels, letterheads, signs, the owner's house, of course. Anything that comes up."

  "I'd be delighted. I'm sure I'll get some ideas when I see title place."

  "We'll be there before nightfall," he said. "There's no reason to go into the city; we'll drive from the airport straight to Napa."

  "I would like to go into the city before we go back to New York," Cara said. "I need to see my lawyer about a trust that my father set up."

  "We'll find the time," Sandy said.

  • • •

  From the main gate of the vineyard, a tree-lined road stretched up to a Victorian house at the end, situated on a low hill.

  "I hadn't expected such a grand place," Cara said as they drove toward it.

  "Frankly, neither had I," Sandy replied. "I mean, the house was in the inventory, of course, along with some furnishings, but I thought more in terms of a cottage."

  When they drove up to the house, Mike Bernini was waiting for them on the front porch. Sandy introduced Cara, then Bernini gave them a quick tour before making his excuses and departing for his own home.

  "It's really very nice," Cara said, wandering through the rooms. "Not as big as it looks from the highway, but roomy. There are some nice pieces here, too, things we can use." She stopped and looked at a large picture on the living room wall. "But not this, I think." She walked over to the picture and examined it closely, then lifted the frame from against the wall and looked at the back.

  "You don't like this one?" Sandy asked. He consulted the inventory in his hand. "This one seems to be a John Wylie oil, a scene of the Thames."

  "It's a fake," she said. "Peter sold Larsen a fake Wylie."

  "It's valued here at seventy-five thousand dollars," Sandy said.

  "I know it's a fake," Cara said. "The son of a bitch has done this before; I caught him at it once and made him make good. I mean, I'm no expert, but I doubt if Wylie ever painted anything as crude as this."

  "Do you know an expert?" Sandy asked.

  "My friend Saul Winner would give us an authoritative opinion."

  "Invite him up for dinner, why don't you?"

  She looked at him closely. "You have something in mind, don't you?" she asked.

  "I don't know, exactly," Sandy said, "but Peter has been crowding me for too long. Maybe it's time I started crowding him."

  CHAPTER 44

  Sandy spent his first day at his new vineyard touring the plantings, inspecting machinery and meeting staff.

  "I'm surprised at the small number of people," Sandy said. "When I read the list of employees it occurred to me that you might be understaffed."

  Bernini shook his head. "I run a pretty tight ship, and Larsen was tight with a buck. The only disagreement we had about staffing was his objection to hiring very young people. He claimed they couldn't pull their weight, but it was my view that we need to build from the bottom for the long run."

  "I agree with you," Sandy said. "Find us some young people. You ought to have an understudy, too; somebody who could replace you when you're too old to make wine."

  "I hope that's a long way off," Bernini said, laughing.

  "I hope so, too, but if you should get hit by a bus at harvest time, I'd hate not having somebody here who could make wine."

  "Good point. I'll scout around. Are you comfortable in the house?"

  "Yes, quite comfortable. Cara is up there now measuring and making notes. It'll be more comfortable soon. Oh, we're having our first guests this weekend."

  "Do you need anything?"

  "Some wine, I think."

  "Shall I root around in the cellars and see what I can find?"

  "Thank you."

  "Larsen only had the place for eleven years and made wine for only nine. There's some older stuff that the old Italian made- the one he bought the place from. He knew what he was doing."

  "Let's try a few bottles; I'll trust your judgment."

  Saul Winner made a beeline for the Wylie oil. Standing there, his bag still in his hand, he laughed aloud. "The fucking charlatan," he said. "He'd never have tried this on in San Francisco; he'd have been exposed in a minute. I guess he thought Larsen was a hick, and since he was out of town, too-"

  "Would you testify in court to that effect?" Sandy asked.

  "In a minute; I'd love to see the bastard squirm while I discuss the points of technique that any remotely knowledgeable person would spot as deficient."

  While Winner and his young companion, Nicky, were changing for dinner, Sandy called Larsen.

  "Hello, Lars," he said. "How are you?"

  "Very well, Sandy. Are you settling in?"

  "We're very comfortable," Sandy said. "I had a question for you. You bought some pictures from a man named Peter Martindale, in San Francisco, didn't you?"

  "Yes, a Wylie oil and a small landscape; I forget the other painter."

  "Did you ever have them authenticated?"

  "No, but Martindale gave me a certificate of authenticity."

  "Oh, good; where might I find it?"

  "I think it's in one of the drawers of the dining room sideboard," Larsen said.

  "Did anyone ever mention to you that the Wylie might not be authentic?"

  "No," Larsen said emphatically. "Do you have some reason to believe it's not?"

  "Actually, I do. We have a houseguest who's an eminent painter, and he says Martindale rooked you."

  "Well, I'll be damned," Larsen said. "I don't know anything about painting; I just trusted the fellow."

  "What, may I ask, did you pay for it?" Sandy asked.

  "Forty thousand; Martindale told me a few weeks ago that it's worth seventy-five now. Sandy, if you're convinced it's a fake, I'll be glad to reimburse you for its value, as stated in the inventory I gave you."

  "Thank you, Lars, but I'd prefer it if Martindale reimbursed me. Will you join me in a lawsuit?"

  "Damn right I will, and I'll share the costs, too. This really makes me angry. I'd like to knock that man's teeth down his throat."

  "Please don't have any contact with Martindale," Sandy said. "Let me handle it from this end."

  "Whatever you say, Sandy; tell the lawyers to send half the bills to me."

  "Oh, I think we'll let Mr. Martindale foot the legal bills, Lars. I'll talk to you soon."

  "I'm a closet representationalist," Saul Winner said over his third glass of cabernet. "For God's sake, don't ever quote me on that; they'd throw me out of half the museums and galleries in the country."

  "Why?" Sandy asked. "I mean, lots of other modernists did representational work, especially in their early years."

  "I've made sure that nobody can find something like that of mine," Winner said. "I'm on record as abhorring that sort of work, you know. Maybe in my golden years I'll shock the market by doing a landscape or two." He drank some more wine. "Are you really going to sue Peter, Sandy?"

  "I am, and Larsen, to whom he sold the painting, is going to join me in the suit. Tell me, Saul, do you know somebody at the newspapers to whom we could leak the story?"

  "Oh, boy, do I! I can promise you half the front page of the Sunday arts section!"

  "Oh, good," Sandy said.

  They were getting ready for bed when Cara spoke up. "Sandy, I don't understand; why do you want to get involved in a public brawl with Peter?"

  "Because I'm sick of his threats," Sandy said. "He's said he would do all these things to me-harm my son, ruin my business, harm you. His threats carry weight, because we're not supposed to know each other-he could do these things without being suspected. When I drag him into the papers, he'll have a legitimate grudge against me, and that will neutralize at least half of his ability to hurt us. If something should happen to me or to you, he'd be the first suspect."

  "It seems risky to me," she said, getting into bed. "Peter can be very vindictive.

  "So can I," Sandy said.

  CHAPTER 45

  As soon as New York was open for business, Sandy called Sam Warren at the Mayfair Trus
t.

  "Sam, I need another lawyer in San Francisco. Turns out that an art dealer sold Lars Larsen a picture that turns out to be a fake. It's the one in the inventory that's valued at seventy-five thousand dollars."

  "Who's the dealer?" Warren asked.

  "A man named Peter Martindale."

  "Jesus Christ!" Warren exploded. "He sold me most of the stuff in our offices!"

  "Well, my advice is to get somebody in and have everything you bought from Martindale authenticated." A bonus, Sandy thought, if one or more of Sam's pictures should turn out to be a fake. Then there'd be suits on both coasts.

  "I'll certainly do that," Warren said.

  "I want a very well-known lawyer, somebody of high repute, but somebody who'll nail Martindale to the wall. It wouldn't hurt if he enjoys a bit of publicity."

  "Then you want Harry Keller; 'Killer Keller' they call him in the press. He's your man. Got a pencil?"

  Sandy wrote down the name, address, and phone number. "Thank you so much, Sam, and will you let me know if any of your pictures are bogus?"

  "I'll get right on that," Warren said.

  Sandy hung up and turned to Cara. "Ever heard of this lawyer?" he asked, handing her the slip of paper.

  "Killer Keller? You bet I have; so has everybody else west of the Mississippi. Oh, and he's in the same building with my lawyer; that makes things convenient."

  "Let's start making some appointments," Sandy said.

  They pulled into the private parking lot of Winthrop and Keys, and Sandy parked the car. "You mind if I come along with you?" Sandy asked. "My appointment isn't for another three-quarters of an hour."

  "Sure; they have a comfortable waiting room."

  They took the elevator upstairs, and when Cara was announced, she said to Sandy, "Why don't you come to my meeting? You might have some ideas about this."

  "If you like."

  They were shown down a hallway, past a number of empty offices, then greeted by a prosperous-looking man at his office door.

  "Sandy, this is Mark Winthrop," Cara said. "Mark, this is Sandy Kinsolving; I've asked Sandy to come to this meeting; he might have some ideas about this trust."