Gold of the Knights Templar

by Preston W Child

  The sheriff scrubbed the side of his face.

  "Are you alright, Tom? How's Betty?"

  Tom gave her a sideways glance, "there, it's been ages since you came by the house."

  "Work, Tom, work."

  "Yeah, I know, I tell her so," Tom said and looked away.

  Olivia mentally noted to come by the couple's place soon. Tom was hiding something. Maybe Betty wouldn't.

  "Now, this Beatty guy, he's new—"

  "I thought so too."

  "He'd come after you after the prints come in, as I suspect, you are probably the last person to see Capaldi last night. But I don't want you to worry about anything."

  "Yet," Olivia added.

  Tom glanced at her. How could she tell him that she had stayed away from the couple to protect them? Would they understand?

  "Tom, Capaldi did little else outside his studio, he hardly got friends over. I'm afraid when the prints come in, they are going to find only two, his and mine."

  A grave look had come into Olivia's eyes.

  "And we had dinner twice."

  Tom chuckled, "I know what you're thinking. Expect routine to come round your end. Just routine, Olivia."

  She exhaled and shrugged.

  Beatty sauntered over with her camera presently. The detective gave Olivia a curious look.

  "You were friends with the diseased, I'm sorry."

  "Thank you," said Olivia with a pretty smile.

  "I just went through the cameras, you met with him last night?"

  "Yeah."

  Tom Garcia looked at Beatty, "Hey Alex, give us some moment—"

  Olivia touched the sheriff's hand, "it's okay, Tom, I can handle it."

  She joined detective Beatty on the stairs. He had a small notebook and a pen. Olivia noticed how tall the man was; his aftershave wafted from him. His jaw was hairless, however.

  "We're you dating?"

  "What?"

  "You had a thing for each other," Beatty rephrased, "you and Capaldi?"

  Olivia shook her head slowly, "no, it wasn't like that?"

  "It was how? Can you describe what was going on with you both?"

  Olivia said she'd rather not.

  "When did you leave the mansion last night?" asked Beatty.

  Olivia's mind wandered from there off to last night, and the others before. It was mostly friendly banter, wine, and Capaldi showing her around the house, his paintings. And just plain talking about his family mostly.

  Beatty's mouth moved soundlessly. Olivia wasn't listening. Her mind was miles away on the ocean of despair. Was someone trying to frame her? Or was it just the thing she feared most, that somehow she was jinxed, her life hexed so that she could never be close to anyone? Any man?

  "Miss Olivia, are you alright?"

  She rubbed her eyes, "I'm sorry, detective, this is just so awful for me."

  Beatty out his notebook away. He tried to smile.

  "I'm sorry too. How insensitive of me, maybe you could come by the station when you can?"

  Olivia nodded.

  She was sitting in her car, still bummed by the death of a man she was only getting to know when Tom Garcia tapped on her window. She wound the window down.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yes, Tom."

  "Beatty said you had a moment right there, I've told him to give you some time to settle down. How about your interview, Edgewater?"

  "I'd just skip it now."

  Genuinely concerned, Tom said, "I'm sorry about your friend."

  It was raining again, and that was a good thing. Olivia Newton was writing again and that was even better. Her article had been coming all early morning. It was one about America's stance on global warming.

  Her gaze was fixated over the back of her chair at the screen of her computer. She was rereading her draft over. Sweat poured down her face from working out.

  Olivia had been taking karate lessons for six months. She began right after Rome. Her Sensei gave her news the day before that she could grade to the next belt soon. From a beginner to an intermediary. Yellow belt.

  She felt some lift in her mood after the sad news yesterday. Every time her phone rang, her nerves almost broke.

  She showered and was about to call the folks out in Edgewater to reschedule the interview when her phone started ringing.

  It was sheriff Tom Garcia.

  "The autopsy is out, Olivia, do you wanna come down and see it?"

  "Yeah."

  Tom asked if Olivia noticed she walked straighter.

  She shrugged and smiled. "Must be all the kicking and karate chops," Tom observed.

  "You should get some too, Tom."

  "Naw, my time is over," he said, rubbing his protuberance.

  Beatty was waiting in the small situation room. It was a dank place. Boards with pictures of past convicts, murderers, wanted and missing persons, sticking to them. A standing fan whirred in the corner. A persistent heat continued despite the constant rain.

  Beatty asked her if she was comfortable.

  "Sure, go one."

  The detective spread the photos of the body on an empty table. He pointed at a photo showing the neck of Capaldi, his groin, and his left side, where there was a dark blotch under the rib cage.

  "The attacker was powerful, he delivered blows to the victim here," he touched the neck, the groin, and ribcage, "and here, incapacitating him. We think Capaldi may have resisted, hence the concussions."

  Beatty picked read from the autopsy result.

  "He was injected with the poison botulinum. That's a poison that was thought to be untraceable," Beatty reflected. "The untraceable poison is such a myth. Well, that's it."

  Olivia rechecked the report. She read everything.

  "He was dead before he went in the water?"

  Beatty nodded.

  "But why go through that trouble?"

  "Every killer has his own M.O. Our guy likes to hide behind a finger."

  When Olivia looked at Beatty, she noticed changes in his demeanor toward her. She wondered what changed since the day before.

  Tom Garcia was smiling.

  "Some thing's come up," he said, he glanced at Beatty and nodded.

  Beatty went to a drawer in the corner of the office and pulled up a file. He came back to the table and dropped it.

  "I just had that printed this morning," he said, "we'd like your opinion on it, miss Newton."

  Confused, Olivia looked at Tom and Beatty. This cops should be arresting her right now if they knew what they were doing. She was the person to see Gabriel Capaldi last. She could inflict those injuries on the young man —she could manage minimum damage on someone with the skills she had. Every evidence pointed at her, except motive.

  "What's going on, Tom?"

  "Read that report, please," said Tom with that same pleasantly occupied look.

  Olivia grimaced as she read. When she finished, she said, "the painting, the killer wanted the painting? But why kill Capaldi?"

  Beatty came closer, "you have to note that all the victims were killed too. With the same poison every time."

  "So we have a cross-continental killer reaping artifacts," Tom added.

  Olivia's heart was racing. She reread the report.

  "How did you guys get this?"

  "We now have a software for crossing and comparing crimes across a vast space of countries," Beatty explained, "it's a database created for law enforcement agencies across the globe. It automatically matches crimes that share similar elements."

  "You can rest now," said Tom, "you haven't left Florida in more than six months. You couldn't have killed Capaldi."

  Somehow Olivia doubted she would rest now. If anything, she had just been drawn into a bottomless whirlpool. She was looking at the same pattern of killings in faraway England, Morocco, and now Miami. Indeed, all these crimes were linked. All the missing artifacts from those places must be connected to the painting that was stolen from Capaldi.

  Suddenly, Olivia ga
sped, "oh God."

  The two men frowned.

  "The painting…"

  "What about it?" asked Tom.

  "It's fake."

  Alex Beatty grinned, "well, how about that, I'm glad."

  She shook her head vehemently, "no, you don't understand—"

  "Understand what?" Tom was on the move.

  "The painting in Capaldi's gallery was fake, he made it himself. The original painting is in his wife's place—"

  "You've gotta be kidding me, Capaldi has a wife?"

  "Oh shit," Beatty raised his brows.

  "Yeah, Tami Capaldi, she lives in the house Capaldi bought for her. They are estranged from each other," she broke off, she gave the men a flat look, "I know what it seems like, but we weren't dating okay; Capaldi was still married to her. He kept the original painting in her bedroom. It's hanging there right now. We've got to get out there, Tom."

  "Where is she?"

  "Wynwood."

  Tom grabbed his jacket, "let's go."

  Olivia explained as they drove that Capaldi truly loved his wife. His marriage hit the rocks shortly after he moved in Miami two years before. Tami Capaldi suffered immeasurable depression. Capaldi thought he was responsible for his wife's sadness because he was a recluse.

  "Why did he marry her then?" asked Beatty.

  "He needed someone to liberate him," said Olivia.

  "Bullshit."

  "Yeah, right, bullshit," Tom side from the driver's seat, "Betty's liberated me for twelve years now."

  "I think we're close enough. Pull up in front of this house," Olivia said.

  Beatty said, "but this is like two blocks away?"

  Olivia was on the street already; Tom and Beatty joined her. She started walking.

  "She's even better than us at this police work, Beatty, admit it."

  "Yeah, she connects," Beatty whispered, "does she kick any ass?"

  "I heard that," said Olivia.

  This was Northwest 26th Street, said one sign in front of HelaoMelao Ice Cream. Another sign on the other side of the intersection declared that they were now heading up Northwest 2nd Ave. They passed by Wood Tavern, country music poured from inside the bar. Olivia slowed down as a greyhound pulled into the curb.

  The two men caught up with her. Tom was panting, thinking he be needing some aerobics or drop dead on the sidewalk someday soon.

  Olivia gestured at a house that looked like a condominium.

  "She lives alone in that?" asked Beatty.

  Tom said, "Beatty get the door."

  Detective Beatty knocked twice, and the door opened. A girl appeared at the door. Intense blue eyes looked stared at the three people. She wore what looked like a maids uniform.

  The girl turned back in the house and called, "ma'am Tami, you got visitors?"

  She was a maid, Olivia concluded. Then it occurred to her that the cops hadn't known about her. That meant she was yet to get the bad news. Olivia touched Beatty's hand.

  "I got this."

  "What?"

  Tom said, "the wife doesn't know he's husband is dead yet."

  Beatty stepped back, "I hate this job sometimes," he whispered.

  "Yeah, me, too."

  The woman that came out had very long black hair tied on her head. Her Italian features were robust. She wore a laced white blouse and a brown skirt that fell just above her knees. Straight legs and nails cut short.

  "What's going on?" she asked in a tiny confident voice.

  Her eyes stayed on Olivia's.

  "My name is Olivia Newton, I'm a journalist, can I have a moment with you?"

  "Do you wanna come in?"

  Olivia said she'd love to. She left Tom and Beatty in the street.

  The house was huge. Two stairways on opposite sides of the living room led to a hallway up there. The walls were covered with beautiful pink wallpapers. The floor was covered everywhere with delicately embroidered carpet.

  Tami Capaldi led the way to a smaller living room. She sat and told Olivia to feel comfortable. The made appeared again with two cups of strong cocoa drink.

  "Do you want milk with that?"

  "Nope, it's just fine."

  "Sugar?"

  "Yeah, a little."

  The cocoa was spicy. Olivia felt instantly refreshed, and her head was awash with clarity. The woman sipped from her cup and waited with open dark eyes. Olivia searched them and found no animosity.

  She doesn't know you.

  After a pause, Olivia said simply, "your husband is dead."

  Tami's hand suspended in the air. It didn't tremble; her mouth dropped open. After about ten seconds, she placed the cup gently on the table between them.

  "When?" she asked, a little tremulously.

  "Yesterday."

  "How did it happened?"

  "We think he was murdered," Olivia said, choosing her words carefully.

  A single tear rolled its way down Tami's left cheek. She swallowed, and her face experienced instant distress. Her lips pressed together, she sat back and cried quietly. Olivia opened her bag and fetched a napkin.

  Tami took it and blew her nose.

  "The men outside are cops, they had no idea Capaldi had a wife in Miami," Olivia explained, "your husband lived a private life."

  "Yes, maybe too private."

  "The killer took a painting from the house, you'd see it's missing when you come down to see about his things."

  Olivia waited to see if she’d flinch at the mention of the painting. She did.

  “We think the killer has a particular interest in the painting.”

  Tami looked at her, “why would he?”

  “The people in the painting, three men and a woman, and an inscription on a wall. Do you remember it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have the original?”

  Tami Capaldi frowned, “how’d you know that?”

  “Your husband told me we were acquainted.”

  “I see,” said she, but there was no judgment in her eyes.

  “We have reasons to believe if the killer finds out he got the fake on, and he will, he may come visiting you.”

  For the first time since they met, Tami’s confidence faltered. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, the napkin was forgotten. She looked down the hall. The original painting is down that way, thought Olivia.

  “Are you sure what you’re saying?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Almost a minute passed in which Tami Capaldi stared at the little piece of real estate between her feet. Her hands hung from the edge of her knees. They did not tremble; the woman gained Olivia’s respect even more. She looked up at Olivia and rose.

  “Follow me.”

  Olivia swallowed the rest of her cocoa and did.

  They walked down that hallway that went on for so long Olivia wondered if they were still in the condo or not. Tami turned to the right, they met the maid coming from what appeared to be the kitchen. She was wringing her hands in a dishcloth; they went through a door, and yet a short dark hallway. It smelled like disinfectant in there.

  “Sorry about the smell, my grandma is here, she’s very old.”

  Tami poked her head in a doorway, “hola, mama, come stai?”

  Olivia heard the grumble of a reply. She looked in the room as she went by. An old woman, hair completely white, sat in a wheelchair. She looked stared blankly at Olivia.

  Tami stood before a door. She said, “the painting is here.”

  Olivia stepped onto the soft carpet, the like of which she had never touched before. It was like walking on clouds. The bedroom was enormous. Capaldi made sure his wife beheld his gallery anywhere she was.

  The room was white, like a gallery, paintings hung on the walls. The curtains were thick with colors, Venetian, Olivia supposed.

  “Wow.”

  “My husband was obsessed with paintings,” Tami said, a tinge of regret in her tone, “it was all he talked about. I got tired of making love with him, and he is talki
ng about brush strokes and palettes and shit. I couldn’t reach him, his part of him that is my husband, different from the artist. I married a man, not an artist. He didn’t get that.”

  “Yet, you let him keep this one’s with you?” Olivia puzzled.

  “I still love him, I’m angry with him, but I still love him.”

  Well, that’s one hell of a way to love someone, I’d say, thought Olivia. She went from one painting to the other, fascinated by the dexterity, the clever blend of style and colors. Each work seemed to say something different about the artist. It wasn’t dull.

  The painting with the three men and woman was the last in the row before the large windows. Olivia pulled the curtains aside and saw downtown. The back of the street. There was a pool below, dirty with dried leaves floating in them.

  Capaldi floated like that.

  Olivia went back to the painting. She touched the canvas, she loved the feel of rough brush strokes, the gritty scratch of the caked paint.

  “It’s is beautiful.”

  “I hated it,” Tami spat.

  Olivia looked at her. Her eyes flashed in her face like black flames. She was coming to grips with her situation every minute.

  “Tami, can I call you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me, Olivia.”

  “Okay,” she said, fresh tears leaked from the side of her eyes, “Gabby talked about you the last time he came here. He always came after dark. He talked all night about you and what you want to do for him, so I checked the internet and found you. I knew it was you. He said you were going to help him with his image?”

  Olivia felt a prick of conscience.

  “What did he mean?”

  Olivia sighed, “I was going to write articles about his work, give him special treatment in the media. I thought he was an awesome artist and a good man. That was it, nothing more.”

  She sniffed, “okay, I thought maybe Gabby was seeing another woman.”

  “I’m sure he loved you, he may not have mentioned it, but he must have adored you. He never talked about another woman—”

  “He never talked about me either.”

  Olivia swallowed. That was correct, but Capaldi was dead now. Olivia held the woman by her shoulder, “the killer takes the artifacts, then he kills the keepers. We must not let him find the painting here. Do you understand?”