When Blood Lies

by Richards, Linda L. ;

  “You were initially charged with false stock promotion. Might someone have thought your bidding on the desk had something to do with that?”

  “With the stock? I mean, it’s possible, I guess. But I don’t really see what or how.”

  I didn’t see it either. It had been a shot in the dark. But I didn’t have much else to work with.

  EIGHT

  I went to the paper and parked myself at one of the unassigned newsroom desks. I hoped that with all the pieces I’d gathered, the larger story would kind of write itself. It did not. There were still more questions than answers.

  I opened my file on the case and laid things out on the desk, hoping all of the material I’d accumulated would spark an idea. I’d printed out the photos of MacLeish and Brine and one of my new desk. Then there was the paperwork I’d gotten from the auction house and a clipping of the first story I’d written on the topic. Not a huge cache. As I sat pondering, Mike Webb strolled past my desk. “Who killed the old guy?” he asked, jabbing one thumb toward the photo of Morrison Brine.

  “No one,” I replied dispiritedly. “He was just old. Nearly ninety.”

  “That’s quite the coincidence, huh?” Mike’s voice was mild.

  “What is?” I asked, feeling irritated.

  Mike answered calmly, “That the guy who is key to your whole deal here kicked off of natural causes. What are the odds?” He looked me full in the eyes, smiled, then carried on his way.

  I sat there for a full minute after he was gone, letting his words sink in.

  Then I picked up the phone.

  * * *

  It seemed to me that while Morrison Brine had officially died of natural causes, there was a whiff around the whole thing that seemed to leave room for question. His eldest son confirmed that yes, Brine had died at home. Quietly in the night. No, it had not been expected.

  “But my father was old,” Jefferson Brine said calmly. “And he’d had a full life. We were glad that he went without pain.”

  “So no autopsy then?”

  “No,” Jefferson said. “There was no reason. As I said, it was not specifically expected. But at that age…”

  “Did you have any reason to suspect foul play?”

  “No. Of course not. If we did, we certainly would have done things differently.”

  “He didn’t have any enemies, then? No one who would wish him ill?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  I hesitated over my last question, and I knew it would be my last. But I was the one who wanted to be a reporter. I knew that meant I had to ask hard questions. And so I did. “Mr. Brine, can you confirm for me that your father had dealings with the Mafia early in his career?”

  “I think this conversation is over,” the younger Brine said.

  “Does the name Enzo Rossi mean anything to you?” It was another shot in the dark.

  And the line went dead. Which didn’t actually confirm anything. But it didn’t rule anything out either.

  I tried to call Rosa Itani, but she was away from her desk. I left a voice mail and headed out to my car. I didn’t have a story. Not yet. But I felt like one was maybe getting close.

  * * *

  One of the things still bothering me was the tossing of my parents’ house. I was certain the search had happened because someone thought the desk was there. The question was, who would have known that the desk was, technically speaking, owned by my mother? There was only one possible answer. Someone at Lively Auctions.

  I’d checked the auction house’s website and discovered it was holding a sale that evening. I hoped that meant the place would be fully staffed.

  When I got there, the tone was different than on the day I’d bought my desk. A restaurant-supply sale was in progress, and the place was rocking. Not being in the market for a commercial refrigerator or a giant chafing dish, I went straight to the office.

  Away from the sale itself, there was only one person working. A young woman whose name tag said she was Jennifer. I recognized her from when I’d paid for the desk. But I could tell she didn’t recognize me—mostly because when she lifted her head in my direction, she didn’t look straight at me.

  Jennifer was wearing pants and a top that both looked two sizes too small. The parts of her that didn’t fit oozed beyond the clothing in a way that seemed to threaten the garments’ very existence.

  “Hey, Jennifer,” I started brightly. “My name is Nicole, and I’m a reporter with the Vancouver Post. I’m doing an article on buying at auction.”

  “Really?” She didn’t sound impressed.

  “Yes, that’s right. Can you tell me how the process works?”

  “The process?”

  “You know. Someone wants to sell something. It goes in the auction. Someone buys something…and so on.”

  She looked at me like I was from Mars. I had the feeling that as far as she was concerned, I was speaking Martian as well.

  “Maybe you wanna talk to Will,” she said. Her tone was not helpful.

  “Will?”

  “He’s the auctioneer. But he’s busy right now.”

  Since it was during the auction, I’d come to that conclusion on my own.

  Just then the intercom buzzed. “Jennifer, can you bring out the paperwork on that Garland range that came in late? I’ve got a guy here won’t bid without seeing the stove’s history.”

  She rolled her eyes and got busy looking for the paperwork in question. “That’s Will. I gotta run this stuff down to him. I’ll be back in a minute,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “But I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

  As soon as the door whooshed shut behind her, I scooted around to the business side of the desk and sat at the computer. My heart was pounding as my touch brought the machine to life. How long did I have? I really didn’t know. The upside was, what the hell could she do to me besides holler? I tried not to think about it. I didn’t want to be hollered at.

  It only took a moment to locate the open buyers’ files and from there figure out where buyer and seller information was entered. Another two minutes and I’d located the details about the desk I’d bought. I sent the information to the printer, closed the page, and grabbed the printout. Then I scooted around to the correct side of the desk just as Jennifer came back through the door.

  I thought she looked at me a little suspiciously, but that might have been my imagination. However, I did not imagine her look of pure annoyance when she realized I was still there.

  “Really. There’s nothing I can do for you tonight. I said that already. Please call Will in the morning.” She didn’t tell me to get out, but I heard it.

  “Does he have a direct line? Or maybe you can give me his email address.”

  Jennifer was irritated enough that she looked at me fully for the first time. When she did, I saw recognition in her eyes. “Say,” she said, “weren’t you here a few days ago? Buying something?”

  I wasn’t pleased to be caught out. I’d been pretty sure she wouldn’t remember me. “Yes. I was.”

  “Well, what is this? Some sort of shake-down? Are you a reporter or a customer?”

  “Um…both, I guess. Listen, thanks for your time.” I was backing toward the door. You’ve been very helpful.”

  NINE

  There were two reasons for my little attempt at intrigue. One, I wanted to see if it was possible for a random stranger to find out who had consigned or purchased an item at Lively Auctions. And that, at least, I’d proven could be done. Not through the front door maybe. But if I’d managed it, I
was sure someone else could too.

  Two, and most important, I’d wanted to see who had consigned the desk in the first place. After all, I knew it hadn’t been Morrison Brine himself, since he was dead.

  Now, with the hard-won document in my hand, I had what I needed. I walked to my car, fearful that someone would stop me. No one did.

  I drove three blocks, then pulled onto a side road to look it over. It was not surprising to me that Jefferson Brine was the consignor, but it was a little sad. An acknowledged son barely waiting for his father to be cold in the ground before getting rid of his most beloved possessions. The unacknowledged son in the end putting himself at risk to buy one thing that his father had cared about.

  Knowing who had consigned the desk was interesting but not helpful. But knowing who had wanted what was in the desk—that was a different matter.

  I was sitting there in my car when the phone rang. It was Rosa, returning my call.

  “Don’t get me wrong, kid,” she said. “I love talking to you. But I do have to make time for other people too, you know.”

  I laughed. “Okay. Point taken. But I think I’m getting somewhere.”

  “With what?”

  “Morrison Brine. Joseph MacLeish. Et cetera.”

  “Ah. Right. Okay. What have you got?”

  “I think someone killed Morrison Brine.”

  I heard her typing in the background

  “Nic, says here Brine was nearly ninety. I mean, a stiff breeze can kill you at that age.”

  “Still. It fits. He’d been making enemies for a lotta years. And whoever killed him wanted what was in the desk I bought. But his son sold the desk before they could get what they needed out of it. So then they found out my mom paid for the desk and went to her house and tossed it.”

  “You got your mom to buy your desk?”

  “That wasn’t really the point of the story, Rosa. I had trouble with a card, and… well, never mind that. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is someone went to her house and tossed it. They were looking for something.”

  “Okay, just stop for a second. Where does Joseph MacLeish fit into your whole scheme here?”

  “MacLeish was Brine’s illegitimate son.”

  “Of course he was,” Rosa said jovially. “Why the hell not?”

  “That part I can prove. Anyway, Joe just wanted the desk because it had been his dad’s. But he didn’t know there was priceless wine in the desk…”

  “What?”

  “And someone else—I don’t know who—knew about the wine and the desk and wanted to get their hands on it.”

  “And you have evidence to support all of this?”

  “Well…not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “Okay, barely at all.”

  “Listen, Nic, you’re a good kid. And I know you don’t mean to be wasting my time with this stuff, but this city is pretty busy with actual crimes getting committed. As much as I like chatting with you—and I do—hon, this one is unsupportable. You’ve got public figures getting killed by God knows who. And from what you’ve told me you’ve got pretty close to zero evidence of anything other than you bought a desk.”

  “And my parents’ place was broken into.”

  “Okay. And that. But the rest of it? Pretty close to pure conjecture. And I get it—you’re a writer. You can make stuff up. Not saying that you mean to, necessarily. But all of this plus five bucks will get you a coffee. I’ve listened to what you had to say really carefully, and there’s just nothing I can act on.”

  Though my first instinct was to argue, I knew that Rosa had a point. A lot of this stuff was just me doing my little investigations and piecing things together as best as I could. My wanting things to fit together didn’t mean they actually would. Maybe there were no answers. Maybe I’d only been pushing so hard because I wanted a story. Maybe there wasn’t a single story here, just the constant mosaic of stories. I suddenly felt very tired.

  When I got off the phone, I pulled my car back onto the road and headed to my favorite sushi joint, where I ate alone at the bar. Over a tekka maki, a California roll and a bowl of miso soup, I contemplated possibilities. But I realized right about then that I was done thinking for the moment. I couldn’t see anymore. Maybe things would look brighter in the morning, but for right now, I just wanted to go home.

  At my building, I parked the car and trudged up the stairs, my head full of all the unsubstantiated facts I’d found. Suddenly all I wanted was a bubble bath, or maybe a half hour of mindless TV.

  I was so intent on my thoughts, I almost didn’t notice that the door to my apartment was unlocked.

  I pushed the door open, not really thinking things through. “Kyle? Is that you?” I called out. Not even remembering in that moment that my brother does not have a key.

  What happened next unfolded so quickly that I can’t properly credit it.

  A hand came out of nowhere and pushed me down. Firmly enough that I feared I was in danger. I landed with my face on the floor, and I had the presence of mind to not lift my head. Part of me wanted desperately to see who was in my apartment. Part of me knew that my life might well depend on me not doing so.

  I heard no voices, was aware only of the sounds of multiple feet. More than one person. The clinking of glass. The wine bottles, of course. And then the desk drawers and the rustling of paper. And as I heard the footfalls recede, down the hall and then down the stairs, I tried to drum up emotion for what was happening. Should I not feel sorrow or regret or sadness? Maybe I did, but in those few minutes that I was free of the burdens the desk had produced, I also felt quickly and strangely released.

  The feeling didn’t last long. Before the sounds of the thieves had fully receded, I heard the crash-banging of less careful feet. I picked myself up. Ran to the window. Saw half a dozen police cars and a police van fanned out in front of my building. Then heard more sounds on the ground floor beneath me. I could tell the cops were down there, doing their job.

  TEN

  “You told me you didn’t believe me,” I said to Sergeant Itani. She was Rosa when we were in her office or on the phone. But here, in uniform and with a whole unit of police officers under her command, and a couple of bad guys in the van, she had to be addressed with respect, even if just in my mind.

  “You’re right, I didn’t,” she said. “But after we got off the phone, I did a little digging. Enough of what you said checked out, so I asked a car to swing by, and they found suspicious activity.”

  “What checked out?”

  We were standing out in front of my building. The night air was refreshing after the smell of wood and wax I’d inhaled with my face pressed against the floor.

  “Well, for one, it seems possible to me that Morrison Brine’s death was not entirely accidental.”

  “Really?” Of all the things I’d expected to hear, that wasn’t one.

  “Yeah. And you’re right, your parents’ place getting broken into was odd. Considering the timing.”

  “Right?”

  “But what really got me thinking was the Mafia connection you suggested. And you were right there too. There were connections hinted at between Brine’s success and that of a certain branch of the Rossi family. I looked fast, and the connections I was able to make at a glance wouldn’t stand up in court. But it was enough to get me a little worried about all the poking around you’ve been doing. You never know what kind of hornet’s nest you’ll stir up with that kind of stuff.”

  “And here we are.”

  “Right. And here we are. Now, I’m not sure yet who those guys a
re, but I’m sure they didn’t have a key to your place. Am I right?”

  “Geez, Rosa, they were in there when I got home. Your timing could not have been better, or they’d have gotten away with the wine.”

  Rosa looked at me speculatively, as if weighing whether I was pulling her leg. She must have realized I wasn’t kidding around, because she shook her head and said, “No wine, hon. Just this.”

  She led me to a pile of crumpled paper. At first I didn’t realize what it was. And then…I sort of did, though not exactly.

  “I can tell by your face,” she said. “You recognize these.”

  “Kinda. Not really. They sort of look like the papers the bottles were wrapped in.”

  Her eyes kind of widened at that, but she didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Look more closely.”

  I did. The papers the bottles had been wrapped in were folded over onto each other. Unfolded, it became clear that each bottle had been wrapped in a sheaf of papers.

  “Stock certificates?” I ventured.

  Rosa nodded. “Good guess. Go to the head of the class. You recognize the stock?”

  “No. Is it the same one Joe was pumping?”

  “No. That was some cheap penny stock. That wouldn’t have been worth hiding. Or stealing. No. Look more closely.”

  I did. And then said, almost right away, “These are shares in Enzo Rossi’s development company.”

  “You’ve got it. We’ll have to look at it all more closely, of course, but I’m guessing this is some kind of holding stock we’re looking at. Like, not a significant share of the company.”

  “But valuable?”

  “I’d guess so. Based on the fact that these guys didn’t knock.”

  * * *

  Finally settled at my desk, a cup of tea cooling at my elbow, my story came together quickly. Oh, there were holes still to be filled in—lots of them—but I was well on my way, the pieces all fitting the way they should. This was the story that would make my career. I just knew it. It had everything—murder, intrigue, high stakes, significant sacrifice. I almost wept while I wrote parts of it. I was so astonished with the deftness of the piece, the variety of elements and my skill at handling it all. Truly, I thought, I was going to be unstoppable. I had trouble keeping my excitement down.