Painted Beauty

by J. M. LeDuc

Ash glanced down at his shirtsleeve and lifted the wet, coffee-stained spot away from his skin. “Nah,” he smiled, “it’s an old shirt anyway. I usually just wear it when I paint. Can I help you with your things?” Ash asked, holding out his arms.

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, thank you. I live right there,” she cocked her head in the direction of an old, Spanish-style mansion that had been retrofitted into apartments.

  “Are you sure? You seem to have a lot of bags, and I know those old buildings don’t have elevators.”

  Eyes pointed to the ground, she elicited a slight smile. “I’m fine, thank you anyway.”

  She flicked her eyes up toward Ash and gave a glimmer of a half-smile before ambling on her way.

  Ash hung back, but when she crossed over at the end of the block, he followed. From across the street, he could see her stop at the small bank of mailboxes, open the first box on the bottom, check for mail, and then continue into the building.

  The corner of Ash’s mouth rose and quivered. His anticipated victory had him dreaming of how he would attack his next project.

  He crossed the street, checked the apartment number that corresponded to the mailbox, and quickly walked away.

  There was a lot of preparation to be done before he could be sure she was the right one.

  But if everything worked out as Ash hoped, he’d soon be back for his new, beloved canvas.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sin entered the Stokler Gallery, flashed her badge, and asked to speak to the proprietor.

  A blonde with expensive highlights, roughly in her mid-thirties, greeted her with a smile. “Hi, I’m Ashley Stokler, the owner of the shop. How can I help you?”

  Sin asked if they could speak in private, and the woman led her to a small office in the back of the busy gallery.

  “I’m here investigating the death of Vivienne Spinner,” Sin said, her eyes taking in the expensive furnishings before coming to rest on Ashley. “I was hoping you might be able to help.”

  “I will do what I can,” she replied amiably.

  Sin pulled a photo out of her file and placed it in front of Ashley. “Does this girl look familiar?”

  “I’ve seen her face on the news.”

  “I’m curious,” Sin continued, “if she’s ever come into the gallery.”

  Ashley walked behind her desk and opened the bottom drawer. Sin sat and watched as she lifted a half-empty, recorked bottle of wine and deftly popped the top. “It’s about that time,” she said, pouring herself a glass. “Care to join me?”

  “Maybe some other time,” Sin said. “Now back to Ms. Spinner. By your expression, I assume you knew her.”

  “She was a frequent visitor to the gallery. Very quiet, never really spoke until,” Ashley lifted the glass and took a healthy sip of the dark red wine, “she found out that I was Miranda’s daughter. Then I couldn’t shut her up. It was so bad that when either my receptionist or I saw her coming, I hid back here until she left. She became a nuisance.”

  “Tell me about Miranda.”

  “Not much to tell,” Ashley said, refilling her glass. “She was my mother. I opened the shop a few years after she passed when her work gained popularity.”

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  Ashley waved away her apology with another sip of wine. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary. My mother died fifteen years ago.”

  “She must have been a big deal around here,” Sin said.

  “How do you mean?”

  Sin looked at her strangely. “I mean there is an entire gallery out there with her name on it, and I noticed her books at the college.”

  “It’s funny how that works,” Ashley replied. “Miranda was a local artist with no real following. After her death, her work picked up a lot of notoriety. It seems to happen to artists after they’re buried. When her art started to increase in price, I opened this gallery. It only made sense to use her name.”

  Sin noticed a coldness in Ashley’s voice when she spoke of her mother.

  “What type of questions did Vivienne ask about Miranda?”

  “Questions about her technique and why she painted what she did. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.”

  “How so? I would think you would be an expert on your mother’s work.”

  Ashley swallowed the rest of her glass and placed the empty bottle in the trash. Her words began to fumble on her tongue. “Miranda and I weren’t close. I didn’t live up to her expectations. And let’s just say that she didn’t have time for anyone who didn’t live up to her standards.”

  “Kind of harsh for a mother.”

  “She was a perfectionist in her art. Not so much as a mother. My artistic talent was minimal and therefore she spent little time or effort on me.”

  “You seem bitter.”

  Ashley smiled. “I grew up in a boarding school where Miranda worked. In fact, I was born there. I saw my mother every day, but I never knew her. My childhood was not filled with the fondest of memories.” She stood and flattened the material of her designer dress. “My bitterness died with her,” she smiled. “After she died and her work skyrocketed in price, I can assure you my anger faded with every dollar I made.”

  “But not your hatred,” Sin said.

  Ashley opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it.

  Walking closer to Sin, she asked, “Do you believe in karma, Agent O’Malley?”

  “I haven’t really given it much thought.”

  “Karma is a wonderful thing,” Ashley said; her wine-saturated breath hanging in the air between them. “Her death made me a comfortable woman.”

  Sin hesitated and then stood up. “Can you show me her work and help me understand what makes her such a standout?”

  “Follow me.”

  Sin walked as her guide swayed back into the gallery. Most of the paintings and prints were portraits, all of them stunning.

  “She painted some beautiful subjects,” Sin commented.

  “That’s what made her special. Her subjects weren’t pretty. She took ugly models and made them beautiful. She said that she painted the beauty within.”

  Sin’s mind was spinning. Ugly made beautiful. Something about those words hit a nerve.

  “I appreciate your time,” Sin said, “I just have a couple more questions and I’ll let you get back to work. You said you went to a boarding school. Where did you attend?”

  “The Water’s Edge Academy in Key Biscayne.”

  “Do you ever go down there to visit?”

  “Never. I hated that place. As soon as I graduated, I came up here. Besides, the place has been closed for years now.”

  “Is your mother’s art big down south?”

  Ashley nodded. “Bigger. There is another gallery in Coral Gables.”

  “Who runs that one?”

  “My brother, George.”

  “Are you close, you and your brother?”

  “We are the epitome of the dysfunctional family, Agent. No one ever got along. He stays in Miami and I stay in Delray.”

  “No contact? You’re only an hour or so apart from one another.”

  “It might as well be three thousand miles,” she said. “Christmas and birthday cards, that’s about it.”

  “So he never comes to Delray?”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt he comes up here. He would fit right in with the culture, but ‘stopping by to catch up’ would not be in his itinerary.”

  “One more thing,” Sin said, taking a piece of paper out of her pocket. “Do these words mean anything to you?”

  “ ‘Cruelty has a human heart,’ ” Ashley read. She looked up from the paper and shook her head. “No, I can’t say that they do.”

  Sin folded the paper, never taking her eyes off Ashley. “All right then, thank you for your time. If I have any other questions, I’ll give you a call.”

  Just moments later she was straddling her bike and wondering about the odd meeting that had just taken place.

  Sin looked back at
the gallery. You’re lying, Ashley. I don’t know why, but I will find out.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was a little after ten when Sin rumbled to a stop in front of headquarters in Miami Beach. She knew she should have headed straight for bed, but she had an itch to organize her notes.

  Before even turning the lights on in her office, she saw the red message light blinking on the wall phone.

  Turning on the light, she noticed a new smartphone on the table with a note from Evelyn.

  I like that woman more every second, she thought.

  Checking the wall phone, there were three messages—all from Frank.

  Checking the time, Sin called his cell.

  “Where have you been?”

  “No hello? How’s your day been? What’s your favorite color? Nothing?”

  “This is no time for jokes, Sin. The press is having a field day over the lack of information. The rumors are running rampant and getting crazier by the minute. I need you to hold a press conference and calm things down.”

  “Let Jack handle the press when he gets here. He’s good at sucking up.”

  Frank sighed. “Being polite doesn’t equate to sucking up, Sin.”

  “I didn’t say he was polite, just a suck up.”

  “Sin, I need you to do this for me—for the Bureau. Like it or not, you’re the face that people are looking for on this investigation. Besides, McGuire and Gonzales got hung up in Charlotte. They won’t be there until sometime tomorrow afternoon, and I scheduled the news conference for eight a.m.”

  “Eight a.m.? How did you know I would even get this message before then?”

  “I had hoped you’d get the message. But if you hadn’t I’d have sent someone to wake you up.”

  “Fine. But I’m not promising I’ll be nice.”

  “I have faith that you will be on your best behavior. Now go home and get some sleep.”

  Sin was about to hang up when Frank continued, “What happened to your cell phone? When I tried to call you earlier, it said that it was the FBI’s hotline.”

  Sin smiled. “Evelyn happened. Goodnight, Frank.”

  Seven thirty in the morning came sooner than Sin would have liked. She had put off heading for the news conference for as long as possible. She checked her notes, shoved them in her back pocket, resigned herself to what she needed to do, and stepped off the houseboat onto terra firma.

  She saddled her bike and headed for the inevitable. Along the way she kept thinking: Just a press conference. It’s no big deal.

  Riding up, she saw the crowd for the first time. It was bigger than expected. Pulling the Harley up to a bank beside City Hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. Rand was nowhere near the platform.

  Sin stepped off her hog, removed her gun belt from her saddlebags, and strapped on her pearl-handled revolvers. Her confidence rose as she cinched the buckle. By leaving the belt loose, when she let it go, the weight of the .45’s allowed the belt to hug her hips.

  She strutted to the building with an air of quiet coolness. Her cool simmered to a boil when the doors opened and she saw Rand walk out, taking a place of authority beside the mayor.

  Her nostrils flared and her eyes locked on Rand. Focused on the moment, she walked right into a microphone suddenly shoved in her face.

  “What the—?” Sin stopped herself just before the profanity began. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the origin of her irritation.

  “Are you in charge of this investigation? Why is the FBI being so close-mouthed about everything?”

  Sin glared at the bleached-blonde, Barbie replica who was trying to shove the microphone in her face. She smiled politely and waved it away. “I will address your concerns during the press conference,” she said, without breaking stride.

  Sin climbed the steps of City Hall never acknowledging Rand’s presence, but shook Mayor Sanchez’s hand. “What’s he doing here?” she said through a closed-mouth smile.

  “The governor thought it would be a good idea to have him here to make the transition smoother, so I acquiesced.”

  She glanced at her watch and noticed it was 7:58. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Sin went to take her place behind the bank of microphones, but Rand nudged past her and banged on a mic. His action had the desired effect of quieting the crowd.

  “As you all know, the FDLE and Mayor Sanchez have asked the FBI for their help in this case. Allow me to introduce you to Special Agent Sinclair O’Malley. I’m sure she will answer all your questions.”

  Standing still, Sin faced the crowd of reporters and onlookers and began to read the prepared statement.

  “Due to the nature of the crime committed, Mayor Sanchez has asked for the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s assistance. There is not much that I can tell you at this point other than we are checking every lead and have begun conducting a series of interviews in order to apprehend those responsible.” Sin eyed the crowd and the already-raised hands before continuing, “The FBI is giving this case top priority. With the cooperation of the sheriff’s departments in the tri-county area and the FDLE, as well as additional agents who are on their way to Miami-Dade, we will leave no stone unturned in our pursuit for justice.”

  Sin folded the paper and looked out at the crowd. “I will take questions from the press, but let me first state that I will not be giving out any information that might hinder or cause damage to the investigation.”

  She pointed to a man in the front row.

  “Agent O’Malley, Rick Martinez from the Miami Herald. Can you tell us if you have identified any suspects as of yet?”

  “As far as we are concerned, everyone is a suspect. However, through verifiable leads, we have started to narrow that list significantly.”

  “That seems pretty vague, Agent. Can you be more specific?”

  “Not at this time.”

  A slew of hands immediately reached for the sky.

  Sin continued to deflect questions with vague answers which only led to more questions.

  In her peripheral vision, she witnessed Rand’s smug expression. He seemed to gloat in the sea of turmoil that was churning around her.

  The perky reporter who had shoved the mic in her face when she arrived pushed her way through the crowd until she was standing right in front. She waved frantically until Sin had no choice but to call on her.

  “This is Tiffany “Tiff” Swenson of Action News reporting from the steps of City Hall and I . . .”

  “This is a press conference, not a sorority talent show. Do you have an intelligent question or should I move on to someone else?”

  Tiff’s expression hardened; she shot daggers at Sin as snickering rose from the crowd.

  “It has come to this reporter’s attention that the FBI has wrangled the investigation away from the very competent hands of Captain Rand and the FDLE, and that you have stonewalled the press on purpose, thus endangering the citizens of South Florida. What exactly makes you think you’re capable of running this investigation?”

  Sin bit the inside of her cheek in order to stop herself from saying anything she shouldn’t. She glanced to her left and noticed Rand winking in the direction of Tiffany Swenson and it took all of Sin’s resolve not to claw his eyes out. Instead, she targeted the pert reporter.

  “Let’s get a couple of things straight, Biff. First,” Sin continued, “the FBI is not keeping the press in the dark. We deal in fact, not inference. When there are facts to report, we will do so. We will not discuss assumptions. That only leads to spectacles like this one. Second, your facts on why this case is being spearheaded by the FBI are wrong. The next time you decide to quote a source, make sure your source is credible.

  “Now, if the rest of you will excuse me, I have an investigation to run. There will be no further word until I deem it necessary to report it.”

  With her final statement, Sin turned, glared at Rand, and pushed her way past him. She made her way down the stairs, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea as she should
ered her way to her escape. With an angry thrust, Sin kick-started her Panhead, gunned the throttle, and screeched out of the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ash was glued to the television as the blonde reporter gave her final comments.

  “I stand by my sources and will demand answers for my listeners. We, the public, need to stay in the know so we can better guard ourselves from falling victim to the Painted Beauty Killer.”

  “She is such a wanker,” the voice said. “Look at that little bitch. There is enough space in her head for someone to smack a tennis ball around.” The voice sighed and began reciting, “Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face . . .”

  Ash blocked out the rest as he concentrated on the TV. He couldn’t let on that he heard her or that she was getting to him. It would only make things worse. He brought his hands up to his head and pulled at the roots of his hair in order to quell the internal storm. After a few moments, it was again quiet in the room—but not for long.

  “Now, that FBI agent,” the voice said, “she’s got a head on her shoulders. I like her!”

  The voice paused and Ash nervously waited.

  “Nevertheless, if she gets in the way of the art, she will have to be dealt with. Nothing gets in the way of the art.”

  Ash had been stalking his latest canvas for the past twenty-four hours. He now knew that her name was Sylvia Lang and she worked at a printing company in South Miami. In the time he had been following her, she hadn’t met up with any friends, or had much communication with anybody. The best part, she was plain—the perfect canvas on which to create.

  It was a little after two a.m. when Ash made his way back to the Grove condominium where Sylvia lived.

  It was time…

  Time to begin his newest creation.

  CHAPTER 16

  The more Sin reviewed her notes, the more Miranda Stokler’s art and her discussion with Ashley seemed to stick out in her mind.

  As she stared at the Stokler names, she added other items of importance on the whiteboard. But then, a familiar voice—one she had hoped she would never hear again—ruined Sin’s concentration. The voice of Jack McGuire.