by Mike Befeler
“Speaking of Detective Quintana, I’m still worried that he’ll try to stop you from going on our Alaskan honeymoon cruise. It’s only a week away.”
“You have a point. Damn. I need to solve this art-dealer mess so I can be a free man. All the more reason to get to the bottom of it tonight.”
“See what you learn. Maybe you can sit down with Detective Quintana tomorrow and explain things to him.”
“I’ll be happy to try, but he doesn’t seem to value my opinion that much.”
There was a knock on the door, and Marion ambled over to open it.
Austin stood there, chatted with Marion for a few moments and then pointed toward me.
“Paul, Austin has something to show you on his computer.”
I joined him and asked, “What’s up, sport?”
“I received another e-mail message from Jennifer. She asked me to have you come over to read it.”
I followed him down the stairs, across the backyard and into the big house. We entered his room. On his computer TV screen, I read, “Have my grandpa look at this URL.” Then I saw a funny run-together name with dots and slashes.
“What the hell is a URL?” I asked.
Austin rolled his eyes. “It’s a link to a Web site. Here, let me bring it up for you.”
He punched some keys, the computer TV flashed and a new set of writing appeared.
I bent over to read it. An extract from the Los Angeles Times from several months back described a fraud investigation. Senior citizens received notification of winning an automobile and to activate the award had to pay a service charge. Once the service charge was paid, the scam outfit disappeared.
“Hey, I know this one. I read in my journal that someone tried this on me, and I helped the police trace the culprits.”
“Cool,” Austin said.
I continued reading the article. It described how a task force had been tracking this crime. Then the punch line caught my eye. “The only arrest so far is James Bardell, an employee of the Vansworthy Gallery in Venice Beach.”
Chapter 18
Damnation. Jennifer had uncovered an article linking the deceased Vansworthy’s operation to the automobile scam. Was that the cause of his murder? Was he connected with possible money laundering? Had someone tried to eliminate Vansworthy as a partner or competitor? Was I dealing with every imaginable form of crime wrapped into the local art-dealer community? Would I be able to figure this out in time to go on my cruise?
All these thoughts raced through my dysfunctional brain. I would definitely have a lot to discuss with Detective Quintana during our next friendly chat.
My musings were interrupted by Austin. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” He paused.
I refocused my eyes on Austin instead of the computer TV screen. “Go ahead.”
“Well . . . uh . . . tonight is when Pierce is planning to beat up a homeless person.”
“Do you know where this is going to happen?”
He hung his head. “No. I overheard Pierce bragging about tonight, but that’s all I found out.”
I reached over and raised his chin. “Look at me. You’ve done the right thing on this.” I thought back to what I’d read in my journal. “We warned people. Maybe Pierce will come to his senses.”
“I doubt it. He’s pretty stubborn.”
“Tell you what. If you want to make one last effort, take a walk down to the beach and see if that guy Harley Marcraft—who we talked to before—is hanging out by the paddle-tennis courts. If he’s there, you can pass on the latest information.”
Austin’s eyes lit up. “Okay. I’ll do it. I have some time before I need to get ready for my concert.”
“I’m sorry I’m going to miss it. I have an art-gallery event to attend tonight to see if I can learn more to clear myself of accusations. I hope to make your next performance.”
“There’ll be one more at the end of the summer. You can come to that when you get back from your cruise.”
“Yeah, our cruise.” I definitely had to wrap this investigation up by then.
Austin looked at his watch. “I better leave now.”
“All right. You get your butt over to find Harley.”
“I hope he’s there.”
We both left the house. Austin dashed off toward the beach, and I returned to my apartment above the garage.
As I mounted the stairs, my brain engaged and I saw how the pieces were starting to connect in some strange way. I could understand how the art-dealer laundering could be tied to collecting money from the automobile-award scam. I just wasn’t sure how all the art galleries played together. Time for a little snooping.
I found the trusty yellow pages and under Art Galleries located a listing for the Vansworthy Gallery in Venice Beach. I flexed my fingers and punched in the numbers. A pleasant female voice answered, “Theobault Galleries.”
I recoiled. “Isn’t this Vansworthy?”
“Yes. This used to be the Vansworthy Gallery, but we’ve merged with Theobault and took on that name. We now have two locations in Venice.”
So Theobault hadn’t wasted any time after Vansworthy’s death in consolidating the “partnership.”
“I’m trying to reach an employee of yours named James Bardell.”
“I’m sorry, he’s no longer with us.”
“What happened? He go to a competitor?”
“No. Apparently he had some sort of legal problems and quit.”
Yeah. From what Jennifer found for me, Bardell certainly did have a legal problem if he had been arrested for his participation in the automobile scam.
“You sure he wasn’t fired?”
“Not that I know of.”
So he probably was operating under the auspices of the gallery and not going solo.
“Could you inform me of who took his place?”
“No one has specifically been named yet. After the consolidation of the two galleries, Mr. Theobault asked that any queries for Mr. Bardell be directed to him.”
“Is the big cheese, Mr. Theobault, there by any chance?”
She giggled, then caught herself and coughed. “Not at the moment. He will probably be at our other gallery this evening. Do you want the number?”
“That’s okay. Thanks for your assistance.”
After I hung up, a feeling of suspicion ran through me. I ruminated on the latest bit of information. A Vansworthy employee was involved in the automobile scam. Vansworthy gets bumped off, and Theobault picks up the operation and becomes the contact for any queries for Bardell. Why would Theobault be personally involved unless he knew something about Bardell’s misconduct?
It should have been obvious to the police that Theobault knocked off Vansworthy to take over the operation, but if it were that simple, they would have had the whole case wrapped up by now.
Then another thought struck me. The Bardell thing could have a simple explanation. Theobault as the new boss might simply be taking any calls directed to an ex-employee. I had done that once when an employee suddenly quit a clerical job at my auto-parts store.
On the other hand, one of Theobault’s employees had been following me. That would lend further support to Theobault being the culprit.
I could go on for the rest of the day arguing both sides of this equation.
But there was still something missing. I’d have to pry into it some more that evening with my weirdo art buddy, Mallory Pitman. Between the two of us we’d have to see if we could assemble the final pieces of the puzzle. Then I’d be free to sail off into the sunset.
Now it was time for me to prepare for the evening’s festivities.
I looked through my closet, trying to decide what to wear to an art-dealer confrontation. Rejecting the extremes of Bermuda shorts or a suit, I settled on black slacks and a white shirt. No beret or tie-dyed wrap. I’d leave that to Pitman.
Andrea gave me a ride over to the shindig. “When the event is over just call and I can come pick you up,” she sa
id.
“Only in an emergency. It’s not that far and I can walk back.”
“We’ll be returning from Austin’s concert by eight-fifteen if you change your mind.”
I waved good-bye and entered Brock’s gallery. The place was packed with a diverse assortment of ages, wardrobes and lifestyles. The soft background melody from a string quartet melded with the hum of dozens of conversations. I sniffed the aroma of women’s perfume mingled with bubbling meat dishes that lined a long table covered by a white cloth.
First, I cruised the buffet to build up my energy for the evening. I feasted on Swedish meatballs speared by toothpicks, four different kinds of cheeses on a variety of crackers, baby tomatoes, broccoli and cauliflower. And I topped it all off with a chocolate-covered strawberry. I passed up on the champagne for bottled water. I needed to keep my wits about me—whatever was left of them anyway.
Once sated, I scanned the mob and spotted Mallory Pitman, his red spiky hair visible through the throng. I meandered over and listened to him expound on color, form and canvas finish as he waved his arms in the air. One woman had to step back so as not to be smacked in the kisser. Finally he ran out of steam, and I pulled him aside for a little chat.
I leaned toward Pitman’s ear and whispered, “Is Theobault here tonight?”
“Yes, indeed. See the guy over there talking to the blonde in the slinky green sheath? That’s him.”
I stared at the man Pitman pointed out to me. He wore dark slacks and a blue sports shirt and held a drink in his hand. So that was one of the suspected slimeballs.
I waited until the woman sashayed away. Then I approached Theobault.
“I have a question to ask you,” I said, staring directly at him.
He did a double take. “I remember you. You and your wife invaded my office.”
“No, we merely came to conduct a civil inquisition. I’m surprised that you’re here at a party put on by your competitor, Brock.”
“This is a small community. We all keep in touch.”
“So tell me, are you and Brock in the scam and money-laundering business together, or are you each doing it solo?”
His eyes flared. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” His voice went up fifty decibels.
People turned toward us.
“Don’t shout at me, you crook. People like you should be eliminated.” I wanted to reach over to the buffet table and find a pie to smash into his face.
“How dare you insinuate that I’m involved with Brock. I think you’re the one who was spying for Brock, when you and your wife pretended to be interested in Muddy Murphy art and showed up at my gallery.”
“Is that why you had me followed?”
He flinched, and I saw that I’d hit a nerve.
“You and Brock stay out of my way,” he shouted and pushed past me.
“What an asshole,” I muttered. I looked up and saw Brock watching the encounter, a smile on his lips.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around to find a short man in an ill-fitting suit. His dark eyes appeared above a small nose and a twitching mustache. That could only have been—“Detective Quintana?”
“Very good, Mr. Jacobson. You’re not making many friends tonight. Getting kind of heated, aren’t you?”
“Damn straight. You better be investigating these art dealers, Detective.”
He scowled. “Are you threatening me now?”
I took a deep breath. “No. It’s only a strong suggestion. Between Brock and Theobault, one or both of them are up to no good.”
“What are you doing here, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Reconnoitering. I should ask the same question of you.”
He frowned. “Seemed to be an interesting gathering with all that has happened in the last week, especially with you here, Mr. Jacobson.”
I wagged a finger at him. “You didn’t follow me, did you, Detective?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Say, Detective, there’s something you should look into. I suspect some of these art dealers are involved in money laundering.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve looked into the history of the art-dealer community. Brock, Vansworthy and Theobault survived while other dealers went bankrupt during a downturn in the economy. That is, Vansworthy survived until someone did him in. But these guys had financial staying power that indicates a unique source of funding. Maybe from scams like the automobile-contest one I helped your guys with.”
Quintana regarded me thoughtfully. “An interesting theory. Sure you’re not trying to distract me from your involvement in the murders?”
I sighed. “We’ve been over this ground before. I just happened on the dead bodies. These art dealers could be the cause of the murders. A good detective like you should be able to ferret out the plot.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“And another thing,” I said. “I read an article indicating a guy arrested in the automobile-sweepstakes scam worked for Vansworthy.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Good. I’m sure you’re figuring out how to lock all these art dealers up. Also, I heard a report that Muddy Murphy may have been planning a little arson event to destroy paintings at the gallery of one of the art dealers. That might have contributed to Brock or Theobault doing him in.”
Quintana raised an eyebrow. “You’re a wealth of information tonight, Mr. Jacobson. Where’d you hear that?”
I tapped my ear. “You just have to listen to the homeless community.”
“I’ll follow up on that. In the meantime I’ve got my eyes on you, Mr. Jacobson.”
I leaned over, cupped my hands and whispered, “I’m pretty vicious. I destroyed a whole plate of finger food.”
Quintana gave me a half smile and disappeared into the crowd.
After my brief encounter of the Quintana kind, I took several more deep breaths. I needed to watch my damn temper. If I wasn’t careful, it would get me in deeper doo-doo than I was already in.
I spotted Pitman’s red coiffure again and meandered over to separate him from a man who looked like an escaped midget from a sideshow. They were debating preferred types of pallet knives.
“You find out anything new?” I asked.
“Yes. I met an art dealer from Beverly Hills named Louis Autry. He’s a piece of work—arrogant, obnoxious and full of himself.”
I thought this was quite a statement coming from Pitman. “So? A lot of people are that way.”
“He also acted very buddy-buddy with Clint Brock.”
“That’s worth checking out. Where is he?”
“He’s the tall fellow with black hair standing by the Pollard.”
“What’s a Pollard?”
Pitman rolled his eyes. “That sculpture over there.” He pointed.
I stared at what appeared to be a stack of bricks. Nearby stood a tall man with black hair, wearing a white turtleneck and navy-blue blazer.
“Thanks. Keep working the crowd, and I’ll see if I can make the acquaintance of Louis Autry, another of the scumbag art dealers.”
I moseyed over and joined a group of four other people listening to Autry expound.
“. . . the essence of the program is to provide funding for a core of artists who have been approved by the Foundation Board. This select group will be mentored much like the patron system in Renaissance Italy.”
I stepped in. “Would someone like Muddy Murphy have qualified?”
Autry brushed his sleeve like trying to get rid of an unwanted speck. “Muddy Murphy was not the type of artist who would have either applied for a grant or followed the guidelines established by the Foundation. We seek young artists eager to develop their skills in a controlled environment.”
“In other words, ones who toe the line.”
Now he made eye contact. “And who are you?”
I reached out a hand. “Paul Jacobson.”
He regarded my hand as if so
meone had offered him a turd on a plank. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of you.”
“You may not run in the right circles. Paul Jacobson of the Jacobson Foundation.”
He frowned and looked upward like he wanted to pull my name out of a Rolodex embedded in the ceiling light fixture.
Before he could say anything else, I jumped back in. “I understand you’re pretty cozy with Clint Brock.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That the two of you have some pretty tight business dealings.”
His eyes flared. “I don’t deal with him directly.”
“How about paintings that transfer from Brock to someone in Long Beach to you?”
He gave me a dismissive wave of the hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Jacobson.”
“You mean you’ve conveniently forgotten the money-laundering scheme?”
He flinched like I had slapped him. He turned and stalked off. Moments later I saw him speaking with Clint Brock and pointing toward me.
I plastered on my most innocent smile and waved.
Deciding not to press my luck, I returned to the goodies and grazed a little more. After a few fruits and veggies, I fed my sweet tooth by stuffing two baby chocolate éclairs into my mouth, wiped my lips on a purple napkin and then scanned the crowd. I spotted Pitman’s spiked red head flouncing up and down in one corner. Hopefully he was uncovering some good poop.
This time he was expounding on form, function and the use of perspective to a bevy of beauties—a group of four rapt young women.
“Pitman. Give your harem a break. We need to talk.”
“Excuse me, ladies.”
He bowed to them and then hopped over to me like an excited teenager. “Yes?”
“Something I forgot to mention to you. My detective buddy is working the crowd. I explained our money-laundering theory. He didn’t react much, but hopefully I’ve planted a seed with him. Anything new on your front?”
“Yes. I’ve located the Long Beach connection. It’s the bald guy over there.” He pointed out a squat bowling ball in slacks and a white shirt, dressed just like me except for the difference in stature and shape.
