Blood Rubies

by Jane K. Cleland

  “So he approved the work?”

  “Yeah, but not after griping some. How can I get the veneer just right when he won’t give me enough time for the glue to set?”

  “Got it. Thanks so much, Mr. Kovak, for your cooperation. Before I let you go, I’m going to ask you to look at photographs of five men. I’ve e-mailed them to the police there in Cleveland, and they’ve printed them out. Would you take a careful look at each one?”

  “Sure, but I told you, all I noticed was the hat and sunglasses.”

  “No harm in looking,” Ellis said. “Officer?”

  The same police officer who’d leaned into the camera earlier leaned in again. “Will do.”

  The police officer leaned back out of camera range and placed five photos on the table in front of Kovak, one at time, as if he were dealing cards. Ellis did the same for us. They were mug-shot-sized color printouts on glossy paper. The poses weren’t staged, though; they were full-face candids, and I wondered when they’d been taken, and by whom. I picked up the first one in the lot, Jason, and turned it over. The numeral 1 was written in pencil. The five men shown in the photos were Jason, Stefan, Drake, Maurice, and Peter.

  Ralph Kovak stared at each photo for several seconds before moving on to the next one. “I don’t know.” He continued looking. “Can I have a sheet of paper?”

  “Sure,” the officer said. “How come?”

  “You’ll see.”

  An 8½" × 11" sheet of standard white multiuse paper appeared on camera.

  “Need a pen?”

  “Nope.”

  Kovak laid the paper down over the top of Jason’s head, sliding it down to cover his eyes. Once he’d positioned it to his satisfaction, he leaned back, tilted his head, and considered the result. He repeated the process with each photo.

  “That helped,” he said, looking straight into the camera. “If I was going to remember what he looked like, I needed to see only the parts of his face that I would have seen, not the whole thing.”

  “And?” Ellis prompted.

  Kovak tapped Jason’s photo. “I can’t be sure, not by a long shot, but this is the closest to the picture in my head.”

  “I want to thank you again for your help,” Ellis said.

  “I have a question,” I said. Ellis looked at me, but I stared into the camera. “Did you only make one replica?”

  “Yup. No point in doing two bad jobs when one would serve.” Hawn.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Ellis leaned into the camera. “Is there anywhere you can go for a few days, Mr. Kovak?”

  “Are you saying I’m in danger?”

  “I don’t want to sugarcoat the situation. It’s a possibility.”

  “I can go to my daughter’s house. She lives in Cincinnati.”

  “Good. I mentioned this possibility to the police, and they agree that it would be prudent for you to stay out of sight for the time being. A police officer will see you home, help you pack, and drive you to your daughter’s.”

  “I drive myself.”

  “That’s fine. He’ll tag along behind you, just to be safe.”

  “I do the right thing and look what happens.”

  “I know. Hopefully, there’s nothing for you to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m mad. No one’s going to stop me from telling the truth. Never have. Never will.”

  “I wish all citizens were like you.”

  Hawn. “Me, too.”

  Ellis thanked him, made arrangements with the police officer to talk later in the day, and ended the call.

  “Jason,” I said.

  “A surprise.”

  We walked to Ellis’s office.

  “There was no double switch,” I said. “Milner’s clean.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “There seems to be a connection between Jason and the replica that was used as collateral. Let’s see if there’s a connection between Jason and McArthur. If so, we’ve just connected the dots and you should be able to get that court order forcing his executor to reveal his financial standing.”

  “How do you know we submitted a request for a court order?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to say that Wes told me, then shut it. “I don’t remember. You listen, you hear things.”

  He stared at me, his expression stern. After several seconds, he said, “Any defense attorney worth his salt could get that ID thrown out.”

  “Sure, but do you have to tell that to the judge?”

  Ellis shook his head, a half-smile twisting his lips. “You are some piece of work, Josie Prescott.”

  “Bring up Jason’s company’s Web site.”

  He entered Jason’s name, and the search engine led us to his company’s site. The home page was elegant and content-rich. The border was thick. The color scheme of hunter green, navy blue, and cranberry was evocative of luxury and substance. The font was solid and easy to read. The featured article was about managing risk in a volatile economic climate. It was dated today, and I wondered who was running Jason’s company now that he was gone, and whether it would survive without him.

  “Try typing ‘McArthur’ into the search bar,” I suggested, pointing to the box at the top.

  Ellis tapped the keys, checked his spelling, and hit ENTER.

  Three matches appeared on the screen within seconds, all relating to McArthur Evergreen Technologies. Three years earlier, Jason’s company labeled the start-up “One to watch.” A year ago it was selected as a “Top Pick.” Last September, Jason wrote, “Buy more.”

  “Wow,” I whispered, staring at the monitor.

  “Check the stock valuation over that period.” I reached for the keyboard, then paused. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Ellis rolled his chair back, and I moved in. I consulted one of the major stock-monitoring services, got the numbers, then asked the site to plot a trend graph. “Look at this.” I pointed. “Anyone who bought shares in McArthur a year ago, then more last September, lost his shirt.”

  “Print that out for me, will you?”

  “Sure. I’ll e-mail you a screen shot, too.” I held down the ALT and PRINT SCREEN buttons, then pasted the image into an e-mail. “That’s probable cause, right? To get access to his financial records?”

  “Looks that way to me.”

  “Let me take a look at McArthur Evergreen Technologies’ Web site.” I brought up the site and scanned the archived news releases starting last June. Three minutes later, I had an explanation for the drop in market value. “Here it is.” I pointed to the screen. “McArthur sold his interest in the company last August. Part of the deal is he stays on as its CEO for a year, but investors weren’t impressed. Evidently, people think the company’s success is tied to the man, not the technology, so news of the sale caused the stock to plummet.” I looked at Ellis. “The only person to make any money on the sale was McArthur.”

  I went back to my regular chair while Ellis read the release.

  He wheeled his chair back three feet from his desk, toed open the bottom drawer, and used it as a footrest. He placed his hands behind his head, elbows out. “It would be interesting to see if anybody recognizes that cowboy hat. Kovak’s description was pretty specific.”

  “Are you thinking of asking Wes to publish the description?”

  He grinned. “No. I’m thinking of asking you to give Wes the description. You can tell the truth—you located the man who crafted the fake egg snow globe and need to know who his customer was. You don’t need to say why you need to know. Leave it vague and antiques-related. Do you remember the description of the hat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell Wes he can call me for a quote.” He stood up. “Let me walk you out. I need to get going with this application if we’re going to re-present it in the morning.”

  * * *

  Ana called as I was driving back to the office. I pulled off
to the side of the road to take the call.

  “Timothy asked me to thank you for agreeing to film on Wednesday. He’s setting up in the morning. He wants to film some intros and promos and I don’t know what else starting at one, and hopes you’ll come around two. He says it shouldn’t take more than an hour, all told. Hair and makeup at two. Filming the scene at two forty-five-ish. Outta there by three.”

  “Let me get it in my calendar,” I said. I opened the program on my netbook and entered the information. “Done.”

  “Great.” She sighed, a deep, long one. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day, and as happy as I am about the TV pilot, I’m all sad about this situation—Jason and Heather and my egg.”

  “I don’t blame you a bit. How is Heather?”

  “Back at work. Jason left a succession plan. His number two, Doug something or other, is taking over. He often subbed for Jason on the TV show. He specifically asked Heather to stay on as his chief researcher. I don’t know that she’ll stay long term, but it’s good for her now.”

  “Work has always been my fallback position when life gets rocky.”

  “Me, too. My personal life can be in utter chaos, but if I’m working, I’m happy. Or at least happier.”

  “I have some news. I found the man who made the fake. He gave us a description of his client. It’s pretty vague, but he remembered a lot about the guy’s hat. I gave the info to Wes, the Seacoast Star reporter, so it will be all over the news in the morning.”

  “That’s great, Josie. It sounds like real progress. How did he explain the poor-quality replica?”

  “He had about a minute and a half to pull the whole thing together. His client was in a huge hurry.”

  “Do you think the client didn’t notice the bad job or didn’t care?”

  “He cared enough to have the maker remove both domes so he could compare them side by side, although all he got for his trouble was oily pants and shoes.”

  “How come?”

  “The guy spilled some when he opened them up.”

  “Oh, no! Won’t that reduce the value?”

  “It’s not ideal,” I said, “but as long as we find the egg intact, we’re in good shape. In this case, it’s the egg that matters. All the rest is gravy.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors.” Ana sighed. “My fingers are crossed that Wes’s article generates some leads. I try to put it out of mind. I have to if I’m going to be able to work, to live. But it’s always there, like a fever.”

  “I understand completely. I’d feel the same.”

  We ended the call with a promise to talk soon, and as I pulled back into traffic, I found myself feeling conflicted on a deep emotional level. Ana felt like a friend, not a suspect.

  * * *

  I pulled into the lot. I should have realized that Jason was a likely candidate to be the person working with Milner and Kovak: He was ethically malleable and utterly narcissistic. If he lost his fortune investing in McArthur Evergreen Technologies, I could completely see him using Ana’s Fabergé egg as a stopgap maneuver. He was wholly ignorant about the craftsmanship involved, so he might well have thought that Kovak’s fake was adequate, noticing only the veneer.

  I parked near the front door and lowered my head to the steering wheel. No matter what scenario I envisioned, the picture was sordid and sad and filled with anguish. I wanted to go home. I wanted a hot bath followed by a cool watermelon martini. I needed to wash away the stench of grim despair.

  * * *

  When I entered the office, Cara was standing by the photocopier, directing Eric. He was on his knees attaching a muslin skirt to the bottom of the machine. Hank sat nearby, watching.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Now press hard to make certain the Velcro sticks.”

  “That looks great,” I said. I turned toward Fred and Sasha. “Anything going on?”

  “I have one more call to make about the skating snow globe,” Sasha said.

  Fred pushed up his glasses. “I’m deep in catalogue copy. How many ways can I call mahogany beautiful?”

  I smiled. “Let’s see … gleaming, rich, burnished…”

  He grinned. “I see that you, too, have some experience in this field.”

  I laughed. “Just a touch.”

  I headed upstairs only long enough to check messages. Just as I was closing up, Cara forwarded an e-mail that had been sent to our general “info” mailbox. It came from someone called Phillippe LaBlanc and read, “I have a Picasso. I would like to sell it quickly. I’m on my way out of town in the morning. May I receive an offer right away?”

  My trouble meter whirred onto high alert. There were Picasso fakes aplenty, and I didn’t want to buy one of them.

  I e-mailed, “We’d love to take a look at it. How’s 9 A.M. tomorrow?”

  His reply came in seconds. “I’m sorry. I must be on the road early. This painting, it is beautiful. From the Blue Period. I will tell you how I come to own it and why I need to sell it. How is 7:30?”

  I stared at my monitor and shrugged. “Sure,” I wrote. “See you then.”

  An unknown man e-mailing our generic address with a genuine Picasso and a story. Stranger things had been known to happen, but rarely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I helped Jake, Zoë’s thirteen-year-old son, set up a new professional-quality Winmau dart board in their basement rec room, then lost four games in a row.

  “You’re a shark,” I said as I relinquished the javelins.

  “Nah. You’re just bad.”

  I laughed and promised to practice so I could give him a decent game next time.

  “Although I’m not sure that will help any,” I told Zoë upstairs. “Practice doesn’t make perfect. Practice only perfects what you’re doing, and if I’m doing it wrong, I’m going to get really, really good at doing it wrong.”

  She smiled empathetically. “You may not be as bad as he’s implying. He’s really good.”

  “Go, Jake.”

  I drank a watermelon martini and ate a slice of Boston cream pie and listened as Zoë told me all about how ten-year-old Emma had dropped out of ballet, choosing to pursue gymnastics instead, and how Jake wasn’t merely good at darts, he was good at anything requiring hand-eye coordination, and how she was thinking about taking an online class in computer security, since maybe she’d want to go back to work part-time now that the kids were older, and I didn’t think about fraud or murder at all. Instead, I had fun.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning around six thirty, I poured myself a cup of coffee and booted up my computer. Wes had found a series of line-art sketches showing wide-brimmed cowboy hats with patterned hatbands and feathers to illustrate his story. Overall, I thought it read well, as Wes’s articles always did.

  I called him, unconcerned about the hour. If Wes didn’t want to take the call, he’d turn off his phone. He answered on the first ring.

  “Good article, Wes. Love the art.”

  “Thanks. Do any of those look like what Kovac described?”

  I scanned the illustrations. “I don’t know.” I walked back into the kitchen. “Any nibbles so far?”

  “No, but it just hit. It’s early.”

  “True. How about on the woman who bought the phones?”

  “Nope. But did you hear what Chief Hunter did? It’s amazing, like a movie. You know, the emergency-haul-the-judge-out-of-bed scene. He amended his petition requesting access to Jason’s financial records and presented it to the judge overnight, and—wait for it—he got it. He’s driving down to the executor’s office now with a forensic accountant on loan from the DA’s office.”

  “Jeez, Wes. You know too much.”

  “As if. I don’t hear my readers complaining. I don’t hear you complaining.”

  “What happens next?” I asked, skipping over his too-close-for-comfort comment.

  “We see what the chief learns. We hope for nibbles. We keep pushing.”

  I sighed. “I’m going into wor
k, and I’m not going to think of theft or murder at all.”

  “Right,” Wes said, chuckling. His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe me and he didn’t think I believed me either. “Catch ya later.”

  * * *

  I got into work at ten after seven and made a beeline for our walk-in safe. I couldn’t wait to see the super-secret opening Fred had found in Marianna’s elephant-head cane firsthand.

  Hank meowed good morning.

  “Hi, baby. Did you sleep well?” I reached down to pet him, stroking his back, adding a little pat to his bottom.

  He mewed and rubbed my leg.

  “You’re right. Let me change your water before I get the walking stick.”

  I refreshed his food, too, then walked to the safe. I signed out the cane, hurried back to the front office, and sat at the guest table to wait for Phillippe LaBlanc. I turned the walking stick upside down to view the elephant’s head from the bottom up. Even knowing I was looking for a hinge, I couldn’t see it. Hank jumped into the chair next to me and mewed. He wanted face petties. I rubbed his jowl and he purred.

  “How on earth did Fred find it? Do you know, baby?”

  I used my free hand to try to raise the elephant’s trunk. Nothing. I pushed it to the left, then to the right, and the trunk didn’t wiggle. I tapped the trunk lightly where it joined the face, and it opened outward a hair, just enough for me to see a tiny latch. I used my fingernail to spring it, and the trunk swung aside as smoothly as a well-fit door.

  “Look at that, Hank.”

  The abditory was small, about 3" × 4". I opened the bottom one. It was even smaller.

  “Given that this is an umbrella cane, what are these openings for? Any ideas, Hank?”

  He was too busy purring to answer me.

  “A cane that held cigarettes might have another opening for matches. One that hid a whiskey flask might also hold a glass. But what would go with an umbrella?”

  I ran my index finger along the abditory’s inside walls, looking for a second, deeper, inner opening, but the brass siding was smooth, without ridges, indentations, or hinges, any of which might indicate another hidden cubby. I shrugged and closed it up.