The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “This is Harrison R. Endicott,” Fred said in an appropriately haughty tone, a little nasal and a lot brusque. He stated his phone number. “I’m calling in reference to the wisteria-patterned Tiffany lamp you offered for sale. I represent a major museum that might be interested in acquiring it. I understand you withdrew the ad. I hope that doesn’t mean it’s already sold. If you would like to hear more about the museum’s interest, I’d be most pleased to discuss it with you. I will be here for another hour. If you can’t return the call during that period, perhaps you’d leave me some time options when you’ll be available. That way we can, I hope, avoid phone tag.” He repeated his phone number, then ended the call.

  We sat in silence for a moment, then Ellis said, “That was excellent. You sounded like … like … I don’t know what.”

  “A prig,” I said.

  “A snob,” Ellis said.

  “A priggy snob.”

  “A snobby prig.”

  “No one calls him Harry,” I said.

  “No one wants to call him Harry.”

  “All of that,” Fred said, “and more.”

  “Now we wait,” Ellis said.

  Ellis reminded us we were welcome to boot up our computers or do whatever we wanted as long as we stayed in the room. Detective Brownley would also stay. He would be in his office and would come on the run the minute Orson called back, if he did. He had his hand on the doorknob ready to leave when Harrison’s phone rang.

  We all looked at Fred. We all got our headphones in place.

  Fred answered on the third ring. “Harrison Endicott speaking.”

  “I got your message,” Orson said, sounding even younger than I recalled. “Who are you exactly?”

  “I’m an antiques appraiser and art consultant. I’ve been retained by a museum to advise them on whether this Tiffany lamp would be an appropriate addition to their permanent collection.”

  “Which museum?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal that information.”

  “Why not?”

  “If they wanted it known they were in the market for a Tiffany lamp, they wouldn’t have hired me. Why did you withdraw the listing?”

  “Life got a little complicated on our end, and we realized we couldn’t pay as much attention to the sale as we should. We figured waiting a few months would give us a breather, let our personal situation sort itself out.”

  I admired his answer. It was simultaneously unprovable and vague, yet it held a ring of truth. Clearly, asking follow-up questions would be crass. Ellis slid a slip of paper in front of me. Do you recognize his voice?

  I nodded and jotted Yes.

  “How did you know to call me?” Thompkins asked.

  “I got your details while the ad was still up. It took my client a while to authorize the purchase. He needed board approval. From the listing, I see you have an appraisal in hand. If you would e-mail it to me, and everything seems in order, I’ll fly in tomorrow to examine the lamp. I’m based in Chicago.”

  “Chicago? The phone ID lists your number as originating in Maine.”

  “Yes, I bought the phone last summer. I spend time in Kennebunkport. Are you able to send the appraisal?”

  “Sure. I can do that.”

  Fred gave him the e-mail account that linked to the “Contact” page of the Web site we’d created, and Thompkins said he’d e-mail it right now.

  “Give me a few minutes to read it,” Fred said, and Thompkins said that was fine.

  “How certain are you that’s the same voice?” Ellis asked me once the call ended.

  “A hundred percent. That’s the man who called me pretending to be Edwin Towson.”

  Fred downloaded the appraisal. As expected, it was mine. My blood began heating up, a slow burn certain to ignite. Orson Thompkins was going to be sorry he tried to involve me in his con.

  We waited half an hour; then Fred called Thompkins back, saying the documents seemed in order and he’d make the trip.

  “My assistant booked a suite at the Austin Arms—do you know it? The weather looks good, so I expect my flight will be on time. Can you meet me at the hotel tomorrow at two?”

  “Two will work.”

  “Bring the lamp. I’ll arrange its transport back to Chicago.”

  “That’s getting a little ahead of the curve.”

  “I meant for the appraisal.”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve seen the appraisal.”

  “I’ve seen an appraisal. I need to verify that the appraisal you sent me is for this lamp.”

  “Which is why I’ll bring it with me.”

  “Appraisals take time and specialized materials and equipment. I can’t do it in a hotel room.”

  “What kind of materials and equipment?”

  “Chemicals to test that what seems to be wax is. Equipment to assess electric currents. As examples.”

  “You can’t take it out of the hotel. No way.”

  “I’ll give you a receipt.”

  “Anybody can write a receipt.”

  Fred sighed impatiently. “Look me up. I have a peerless reputation.”

  “I did. You look fine. But this lamp is worth millions.”

  “I don’t know about value yet, but the museum would be willing to put up a reasonable sum as earnest money. We would be fine with depositing it in escrow with your lawyer or CPA.”

  “How much are you talking?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “A hundred thousand.”

  “That can be arranged,” Fred said superciliously. “If, when I look at the lamp, it seems genuine, I’ll authorize the deposit via wire transfer. As you know, such transfers are essentially instantaneous.”

  Thompkins agreed and said he’d e-mail his lawyer’s escrow account information, and they ended the call.

  “Well done, everyone,” Ellis said. “We’ll meet here at eight tomorrow morning, all except Fred and Dawn, who will be renting a car at Logan and driving up.” He turned to Fred. “You’ll arrive at the hotel at ten.”

  “Right—but isn’t that kind of overkill? Why don’t I just drive my own car?”

  “If Thompkins wants to carry the lamp to your car,” I said, “and makes a note of the license plate so he can check up on you later, we want him to learn it’s a rental issued to Harrison, not a car owned by some guy named Fred.”

  “Fair point,” Fred said. “And our fake IDs will be ready in time?”

  “They should be here now,” Detective Brownley said. “Let me check.”

  She slipped out of the room. We waited silently.

  The IDs were ready. Harrison had an Illinois driver’s license, a Platinum American Express card, a debit card, and a membership card from the International Art and Antiques Appraisers Association. Dawn, using the name Veronica Brooks, had a driver’s license, a Visa card, and a debit card.

  “What should I wear?” Fred asked.

  “Something artsy?” Ellis asked, looking at me.

  “Something sharp,” I said. “You’re a sharp dresser in general, Fred, so I’d just go with one of your Italian suits.”

  “With enough room for a bulletproof vest. We can get you a loaner if you need one.”

  “I probably will.” Reacting to the surprise apparent on Ellis’s face, he added, “I buy the slim fit.”

  “Let me make a phone call.”

  I turned to Dawn. “You should dress for your pay grade. You’re an assistant.”

  Dawn was short and stocky, with short layers of chestnut brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose. “I go by Ronnie. I’d wear trousers and a blouse.”

  “Even in this weather?” I asked.

  “Everything is air-conditioned.”

  “Each of you bring a suitcase,” Ellis said. He stood up. “Any other questions?”

  No one had any. Fred walked with Ellis to his office to see about the suit, and I left.

  * * *

  Wes ca
lled around six asking what was up.

  “My police scanner is buzzing, but no one is saying anything. The technical team is to meet tomorrow morning at eight. Ellis and the ADA are meeting tonight. You’re cooperating, but they don’t say how. What gives?”

  I couldn’t tell him anything, and I didn’t feel like fencing. “I need to go, Wes,” I said, and hung up.

  * * *

  I was willing to bet I wouldn’t sleep a wink, not one single wink, all night.

  I was wrong. Now that the sting was under way, I was cloaked in crisiscalm, and I slept like a cat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was noon on a steaming hot Wednesday, and we were eating from room service wheel-in tables. I was dressed for work in jeans and a collared T-shirt. My hair was up, my bee spears in place. I’d selected a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on white—comfort food. The tomatoes were standard restaurant fare: pink, hard, and flavorless, neither grown nor harvested with love.

  Harrison’s suite at the Austin Arms comprised two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and a spacious living/dining area. The main room was nicely furnished, decorated in various shades of orange and green. One of the attached bedrooms was staged as Harrison’s sleeping room. Fred’s suitcase was on the mahogany luggage rack at the foot of the bed, and a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, provided at the last minute by the hotel, were on the marble vanity. If Thompkins asked to use the restroom, he’d be directed there. The other bedroom, where we were holed up, was decorated in cool blues and grays.

  Besides Ellis, Dawn, and Katie, there were five of us packed into the room. Fred and I were the only outsiders. The other three were police officers, two I knew, F. Meade and Daryl Lucher, and one I didn’t, a medium-sized man who looked like he’d lifted a lot of weights in his day, named Stan Rogers.

  Fred and I sat on one of the two queen-sized beds, our food spread out on a bath towel, a makeshift picnic.

  “Anything from Hong Kong?” I asked.

  “All good. The man I spoke to is the curator of the museum’s furniture collection. His name is Vincent O’Reilly. He recognized Aunt Louise’s desk from the exhibition catalogue. According to notes written by the curator at the time, Jerry Ross, Aunt Louise loaned her desk to the museum after a friend of hers, Peter Gerstein, introduced her to his friend, the curator. The exhibit was called ‘British Colonial Keepsakes: Cherished Artifacts from Around the World.’ Mr. O’Reilly is a punctilious sort, very thorough and well informed. He conferenced in his assistant to our call. She’ll be photocopying all of Mr. Ross’s notes and sending us a copy of the catalogue. While she was on the phone, she read the notes so I could get a sense of what we can expect. Aunt Louise got the desk as a gift from a man named Ferdinand Locke. Interestingly, he was not on the archivist’s photo list. Upon inquiry, Mr. Locke gave Mr. Ross a copy of his purchase receipt. He bought the desk from Universal Antiques and Auctions for twelve hundred and eighty dollars, delivered. The delivery address was Aunt Louise’s apartment.”

  Fred paused to take a bite of his Cobb salad.

  “This sounds very promising, Fred.”

  “Universal was acquired by another firm in the mid-1980s.” He grinned. “Want to guess?”

  “Are you going to make my day?”

  “Oh, yeah. Frisco’s.”

  I soft-clapped. “Send me the particulars, and I’ll call my friend.”

  “You don’t need to. I called a guy I know in the Furnishings Department. They’ve computerized all Universal’s records. The desk comes with a perfect—and I mean perfect—paper trail. Universal bought the desk as part of an estate sale, Melinda Trent of Saddle Brook, New Jersey. The desk had been in the Trent family since it was custom-made for Bernard Trent, a British envoy who served in India from 1799 to 1804. The cabinetmaker was none other than Thomas Sheraton.”

  “Sheraton.” My smile grew.

  “It was in the Trent family for more than a hundred and fifty years.”

  “Whoever buys it will be only its third owner in more than two centuries. Did Sheraton make many desks with hidden compartments?”

  “Yes.”

  “The museum association will add to the value. Are you ready to name a number yet?”

  “Not definitively. I should think it will be somewhere in the eighty-thousand-plus range.”

  “Way to go, Fred!”

  He grinned again and went back to his salad.

  Ellis walked over to the bed. “I don’t like your being here.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s dangerous.” He glanced at Fred. “I don’t like you being here either.”

  “It’s too late to turn back now,” I said. “Thompkins is expecting Harrison Endicott. Who’s going to play that role? You? Daryl? And I’m the only person who can ID the fake Ava.”

  “If he brings her.”

  “She’ll be here. If I had an interest in a one-point-five-million-dollar lamp, I’d be Johnny-on-the-spot before letting my partner hand it over to a stranger.”

  “No offense intended,” Fred said, “but there have to be at least a dozen people who know what we’re up to. More if you add in the team from the DA’s office. I’d worry more about that than gunplay. Thompkins wants money, not trouble. Loose lips sink ships and all that.”

  “No offense taken, but we’re a pretty discreet lot.”

  “Plus I bet you’re watching Phil Wilcox, aren’t you?” I asked. “Just to make sure he doesn’t slip away.”

  Ellis grinned. “From a distance. We don’t want to spook him.”

  “Thanks for lunch,” Fred said as he stood up. Fred’s suit looked bulky on him. “I’m going back to the big room and review my notes.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Dawn said.

  Two officers wheeled the food tables out and away from our room. Everyone dispersed, moving to their assigned places. Ellis and I sat in straight-back chairs in front of a split-screen monitor. We each wore headphones and a bulletproof vest. Katie, who’d been assigned the role of tech project manager, sat in front of an array of listening, viewing, and recording equipment. Her headphones were bigger than ours. Officer Meade stood near the door that led to the corridor in case she had to intercept someone coming or going in the hall. Detective Brownley, wearing a pink sundress, oversized sunglasses, and a floppy straw hat, was positioned in the lobby as a lookout. Her glasses were equipped with a video hookup, streaming live to one quadrant of the monitor in front of me. Two of the other sections showed different views of the suite. One showed the corridor, including the suite’s entry door. Other police officers, also dressed in civvies, sat in unmarked cars, ready to follow anyone at a moment’s notice.

  “Officer LeBlanc, please walk around for me,” Katie said into a mic attached to her headset. “Talk in a normal voice. Sit on every chair. Go into the bathroom.”

  This was Katie’s fifth run-through.

  On the monitor, Dawn cruised around. She sat on the couch, at the table, and on the easy chairs. She stood facing the window, and a wall. Katie confirmed she had audio and video contact no matter where Orson Thompkins might go, including the bathroom.

  “We’re good to go,” Katie said just after one.

  My job was to watch the lobby video. People came and went. I recognized no one.

  We waited, drinking coffee, not talking. The tension in the room was intense, and growing.

  At 2:00 P.M. on the button, a tall white man about twenty-five, wearing khakis and a pale green collared short-sleeved shirt, crossed the lobby. He glanced around until he found the house phone.

  At 2:01, the phone in Fred’s suite rang.

  Fred answered with a stern “Harrison Endicott.” He listened for a moment, then added, “Eight-fourteen.”

  Ellis texted Detective Brownley: Target entering elevator now. I watched as the man stepped into the elevator.

  “That can’t be him,” I said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ellis asked.

/>   “That’s not Phil Wilcox.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Who is it?”

  “I have no idea. Besides which, he’s way too young to pull off something like this.”

  At 2:04, I heard a faint knock on the door and watched Fred walk across the room. I turned my attention back to the lobby feed.

  “Mr. Thompkins? Come in. I’m Harrison Endicott.” Fred turned toward Dawn. “This is my assistant, Ronnie.”

  “You’re from Chicago?” the young man asked Fred as he entered the room, looking in all directions at once, alert, concerned, guarded.

  I recognized his voice, except that he sounded less confident now than he had during our initial phone conversation.

  “Right. Where’s the lamp?”

  “I thought we ought to talk first, before I hand it over.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Money.”

  “The earnest money is a phone call away. The museum will wire the money into your lawyer’s escrow account on my word.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I have a letter of agreement—or I should say, Ronnie does. If I don’t return the lamp as promised, you keep the money. The document empowers you to use all means to recover it.” Fred pointed at an orange patterned club chair. “Have a seat.” I turned to the suite monitors. Fred sat across from him and crossed his legs, his right ankle resting on his left knee. “Tell me about the lamp.”

  Ronnie perched on a nearby ottoman, a notepad at the ready.

  “It’s terrific.”

  “How do you come to own it?”

  “It’s been in my family forever.”

  “Forever since when?”

  “You read the appraisal. What else do you want to know?”

  “Lots of times, people remember details in the days or weeks after recounting a story. The more information I get from you, the easier—and quicker—my appraisal will be.”

  “I just had it appraised. Don’t you think the one done by Prescott’s is good enough?”

  “Prescott’s is a very well respected house, but no one pays more than a million dollars without conducting their own appraisal. No one.”

  “The price is two million.”