by Nupur Tustin
But cross-referencing the list of names she’d obtained from the DMV with Reynolds’ client list was proving more daunting than she’d imagined.
They’d been operating on a number of false premises. And while it was one thing for her boss to make anti-feminist assumptions, it was quite another for a diehard feminist like herself to buy into them.
God, how stupid she’d been!
Reynolds’ notebook listed primarily male clients. But as she’d run down the list of registered car owners, Ella had noticed a few female names with last names that matched those of Reynolds’ male clients.
She’d made a note of the names, then instantly chided herself for assuming that car owner Linda Cottman was married to Reynolds’ client Glen Cottman. Or that Beverly Standish had to be connected to Peter Standish.
Ella’s pencil had hovered over the sheet of paper she was scribbling on, ready to scratch out the connections she’d presumed existed. Then she’d lifted the tip of her pencil up, letting her notes stand, just in case her initial assumptions had been accurate.
But what she hadn’t taken into consideration—and this was making her feel like grabbing fistfuls of her hair and tearing it out—was that some of the women on the DMV list might be associated with Reynolds’ clients even if they did not share last names.
For all Ella knew, Linda Cottman was married to Peter Standish or Roger Connery while Sofia Wozniak—the woman they were after—was married to Glen Cottman. Women frequently didn’t take their husbands’ names these days—and good for them. Ella smiled.
There was no reason for a woman to give up her identity just because she was married. Why didn’t men give up theirs? Oh, no, you’d never catch a man doing that. That had been the deal-breaker in a couple of Ella’s relationships—her refusal to bow down and renounce Rawlins as her last name.
Not gonna happen in a million years, Ella thought. She reined her thoughts in. Better get this done quickly or Blake would have a hissy fit.
She ran her eye down the DMV list.
This car Sofia had borrowed, had it belonged to a girlfriend—Trina DiMaggio (the name appeared on both lists, Ella noted) or Jane Elks? Her eyes, shifting from the DMV list to Reynolds’ client list, spied a Dennis Elks on the latter. She circled it.
You’re doing it again, Ella, the ultra-critical voice in her head chided.
Well, some women do take their husband’s name, she countered, resenting herself for being on the defensive. It’s been known to happen.
She shook her head. Arguing with herself wasn’t going to get the job done. Now where was she? Had Sofia taken a girlfriend’s car?
Or had she been driving her husband’s or boyfriend’s car? Couples did tend to drive each other’s cars, she firmly informed her inner feminist critic.
But now that she thought of it, there was yet another option. Ella’s head swung over to Reynolds’ client list. Sofia could’ve been working for any of these men—or women?
Roger Connery. That name appeared on both lists. Had she made a note of that? Her head shifted to the other list. Nope. Better do it now.
And here was another that overlapped both lists: Gloria Aldman.
What was really disappointing, though, was that Norton wasn’t on Reynolds’ client list. He’d been such a promising lead. But he wasn’t on the list.
Not on the official client list, Ella reminded herself.
If there’d been shady goings-on between the two men, Reynolds was hardly likely to record it in a notebook easily accessible to anyone who chose to wander into his place and snoop around.
She dropped her pencil on the sheaf of papers on her desk. This assignment could take forever. Maybe it was time to put Blake’s plan in action and watch the SAC squirm.
She pushed her chair back, about to get up, when the phone rang.
Ella sighed. It was probably Blake wanting an update. Or—worse still—with more chores to add to her already full to-do list.
Chapter Fifty
Blake cruised past Harvey Street and parked by the curb on Everett Street. It had been a twenty-minute drive—give or take—from the FBI office in Chelsea, but here he was at last. Vince Soldi’s call had aroused his curiosity, but Blake kept his excitement in check.
This could turn out to be a dead end. With his luck, it probably would.
Soldi’s men had located Reynolds’ warehouse and searched it. It was what they’d discovered in it that had caused Soldi to put in an urgent call to Blake.
Blake could see no sign of Soldi, but the warehouse was up ahead where the road curved gently to meet the other Everett, a narrower branch separated from the Everett he’d been driving on by a pony wall.
Eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, Blake peered through the windshield.
So this was where Reynolds had his workspace—in Allston. A neighborhood in the western part of Boston.
Blake thrust his door open and maneuvered himself out of the sedan. Makes sense for a man like Reynolds to have his studio here, he reflected. The neighborhood was named for the nineteenth-century American landscape painter, Washington Allston.
And Reynolds had lived and breathed art. Blake had noticed the Rodin reproductions and prints in his apartment. The books on classical and contemporary artists.
Allston, the painter, was considered the father of American Romanticism. But there was nothing remotely Romantic about the neighborhood named after him.
Fifty Everett Street—Reynolds’ warehouse—and the green dumpster in front of it looked like something straight out of an industrial wasteland.
Adjusting his shades, Blake surveyed the area. Nope, the Cambridge Police cars were nowhere in sight. He figured they were in the parking lot attached to the complex he’d just passed—it boasted a Stop & Shop, a Home Goods, a Dollar Tree, and a Citizen’s Bank.
He’d noticed the names on the picturesque sign at the entrance to the lot, but not the blue-and-white vehicles of the Cambridge PD fleet. But he resisted the temptation to walk back to the parking lot. Soldi and his guys had to be somewhere here. They’d agreed to meet at the warehouse.
He’d obviously missed the squad cars as he drove past, he told himself. Scanning his environment was second-nature to Blake, and usually very little tended to escape his sharp eyes. But the parking lot had been packed.
It would’ve been easy to overlook a few white-and-blue sedans.
Arms swinging by his side, Blake strode up to the warehouse—an ugly white brick building with a pale-green roll-up door of corrugated iron.
“You’ll want to come check this out, Special Agent. We found something,” Soldi had informed him tersely a half-hour back when he’d called. But that was all he’d said.
That and the fact that ADA Mariah Campari had insisted the FBI be called to inspect Reynolds’ warehouse.
Check out what, Blake wondered. There’d been an undertone of tense excitement in Soldi’s voice that had aroused the agent’s curiosity.
Approaching the studio entrance, he noticed the corrugated iron door was rolled halfway up.
Not high enough to see who or what was inside. Or to allow a full-grown man to walk under it erect. He poked his head under the door.
“Soldi?”
A team of police officers swarmed the large, brightly lit area. Gigantic works in marble, bronze, and plaster of Paris lined the walls. A huge worktable stood in the center.
At the sound of his voice, the cluster of uniformed men thinned out, and Soldi emerged from their midst.
“Agent, there you are.” Soldi waved him in. “Come on in.”
Back bent in a low crouch, Blake entered the warehouse. As he approached Soldi, the crowd of men parted like the Red Sea. Through the thinning ranks, Blake detected a stack of gold-framed paintings standing by the wall.
The Gardner loot?
He caught Soldi’s eye; saw the glimmer of excitement in the Deputy Superintendent’s gaze, the satisfied expression on his face. Look at what we uncovered, Special
Agent.
Jesus Christ, had Reynolds had it all along?
Chapter Fifty-One
Muttering under her breath, Ella picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She didn’t bother to add her usual message: “Blake Markham’s office.” It was probably the man himself.
“Ella?” The female voice startled Ella, and it took her a second to place it. But the caller was already identifying herself. “It’s Julia. Listen, I’ve been trying to get through to Blake. Is he available?”
“Oh, Julia, hi.” Ella had always admired the older woman. There was a no-nonsense efficiency about the former agent that Ella respected. “Blake’s probably got his phone on silent or vibrate. He was called out to Reynolds’ warehouse. Cambridge PD may have found something.”
“At Reynolds’ warehouse, you say?” There was a pregnant pause.
Julia was obviously fishing for information—information she wasn’t exactly entitled to. Not that Ella would’ve minded sharing, if she had anything to share.
“I’m sorry, Julia,” she said after the silence had stretched out several seconds. “I don’t know much more than that. Soldi wasn’t very forthcoming and Blake hasn’t phoned in yet. But that isn’t why you called, is it? Anything I can do to help?”
She listened carefully, taking notes, as Julia explained what she wanted done.
“You know, I think”—Ella tucked her pencil between her lips and pushed aside some of the papers and files on her desk—“Oh yes,” she said, finding her Post-it reminder from a few days back, “Blake did ask me to call Mailand to check out Reynolds’ story.”
“But you never got around to it?” Julia asked.
A remark like that coming from anybody else would’ve offended Ella, but Julia’s tone hadn’t implied she thought Ella had been shirking her work. Just that she—Ella—had been too overwhelmed to get to everything on her to-do list. Which was certainly true, although she had made the call.
“No, it’s not that. I haven’t had a chance to check back with him. I’m making a note to myself to give Mailand another call. I’m sure he’d have gotten back to us if he’d found anything, but—”
“But now you can also convey Celine’s concerns to him . . .” Julia hesitated. “It might be better coming from the FBI.”
Ella nodded. “Sure, no problem. I’ll get on it ASAP.”
Right after she’d cornered the SAC and confronted him about his friend’s car being seen under suspicious circumstances.
“Ah, Ella! Come in.” SAC James Patrick Walsh waved her in with an expansive gesture and indicated the chair across from his desk.
When Ella had carefully lowered herself into the chair, primly crossing her legs, and smoothing her skirt over her knees, Walsh leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“Well, what have you got for me, young woman?” He gazed at her with avuncular fondness.
Ella had a feeling Walsh’s geniality would be completely eroded once she’d revealed her information.
“There’s something I thought you should know about, sir.” She fixed her eyes on him.
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Walsh was beginning to sound impatient. His eye drifted to the clock on the left wall. Ella could see it out of the corner of her eye as well. “Go on.”
“As I was running the partial you gave me, sir, I found something a bit disturbing.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but I thought you should know before we go any further with this.”
“Ella, I’m a busy man. What exactly is it that you want me to know? You ran the partial. I’m assuming you came up with a name, address, that sort of thing?”
“Yes, sir, I did. The system returned a match.” She took a deep breath and dropped the paper she’d been clutching in her hand onto Walsh’s desk. “The car belongs to your golfing partner, Hugh Norton.”
She pushed the paper across the desk and waited until Walsh drew it toward himself and peered down. She saw the question flickering over his features, but before he could raise his eyes, she hurriedly continued.
“It gets worse. This car was found at a crime scene in Cambridge. The sculptor Tony Reynolds’ neighborhood. The woman driving it is suspected of having drugged a police officer to gain access to the crime scene. Cambridge Police has a BOLO out on her.”
She didn’t know this last to be true. But if there wasn’t already a BOLO out, there would be soon enough.
Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “Ella, all I gave you was a partial. There’s got to be more than one car that ends with the same sequence. And they can’t all be Mercedes Benzes, can they? In fact, I don’t recall telling you we were looking for a Mercedes Benz.”
Ella flushed. The old boy had more intelligence than she’d given him credit for. She’d taken him for a clueless bureaucratic nincompoop.
“Yes, sir, but you mentioned a silver car and when Special Agent Markham called in with a request from Cambridge Police to track down a silver Mercedes Benz with the same sequence . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I simply assumed it was the same car.”
“I see.” Walsh’s eyes remained narrowed. He glanced down at her hands, resting on her knees now. “And the rest of the names?” He raised his eyes. “I presume there are more.”
“Oh, yes,” Ella nodded. “I haven’t downloaded them all yet.” She resisted the urge to clench her fingers as was her wont when telling a lie. “I just thought you should know about that . . .” She pointed at the piece of paper in his hand.
“I think we can safely eliminate Hugh Norton from Cambridge PD’s list of suspects, Ella.” As she’d predicted, a hard, cold stare had replaced his earlier amiability. He leaned back, waving his arms expansively again. “Let’s be intelligent here. I mean the man’s a well-respected entrepreneur, a patron of the arts. How could he possibly be involved in anything shady?”
Ella watched the SAC closely. There was nothing to suggest the SAC did not believe the line he was feeding her. On the other hand, it sounded like such a crock of a certain something that Ella found it hard to believe the SAC was taken in by his own bull.
“Yes, of course, sir.” Let’s be intelligent. Had he just insulted her?
Well, she could play dumb as well as anyone else.
“But don’t you think, sir, your friend might want a heads-up about the Cambridge Police calling to ask him questions?”
“Ella!” The SAC threw his eyes up, exasperated. “I thought we’d agreed that it wasn’t necessary to let Cambridge PD have Norton’s details. It would be an utter waste of their time and resources to go chasing after a man who’s clearly not involved.”
“Oh, I see.” Ella nodded, eyes widening as though the penny had just dropped. “So, withhold Mr. Norton’s details from Cambridge PD?” She gave him a bright thumbs-up. “I got it.”
Walsh looked annoyed. “What about the other names you were supposed to give me?”
“I’ll have them to you ASAP, sir. There are a couple of things Special Agent Markham wanted me to do.” That was the truth. And Ella had promised Julia she’d call Mailand.
Walsh frowned. “What exactly does Blake need you to do?”
Ella hesitated. What could she tell the SAC that wouldn’t compromise their investigation—if it turned out he was the source of their leak?
Walsh was still looking at her, disgruntled. She’d already ruffled his feathers. How much worse could it get if she deliberately let loose a cat among the pigeons?
“He wants me to research the name Wozniak,” she said, enunciating the words carefully. “Sofia Wozniak may have been the woman driving the Mercedes Benz seen outside Cambridge PD’s crime scene. Cambridge PD thinks Tony Reynolds was killed for what he knew about the Gardner heist—”
“The Gardner heist?” Walsh bleated the words after her.
“Yes, sir. Someone must’ve thought Reynolds had a line on the missing art. And Sofia Wozniak and the silver Mercedes Benz she was driving are mixed up in it somehow
.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
“Enjoying your stay, ma’am?”
The plump, rosy-cheeked receptionist at the Boston Plaza Hotel smiled brightly at Celine as she took their room key.
“Oh, absolutely.” Celine returned her smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a hotel suite this opulent. And the food and room service have been just marvelous.”
The receptionist—the brass nametag pinned to her breast had the name Molly engraved on it—beamed. Her gaze traveled over Celine’s shoulders to where Julia stood by a magazine rack browsing one of the glossy publications on display.
“Headed out for some sightseeing?” Molly’s eyes returned expectantly to Celine. She had the look of someone eager to provide visitor tips and recommendations to a tourist.
“Not exactly.” Celine hesitated. She and Julia did need help. But it wasn’t a museum, or restaurant, or public garden they were in search of.
They had a few hours to kill before their appointment with Penny later that afternoon. With nothing much to do until then, she and Julia had decided to see if they could sniff out a sculptor to take Reynolds’ place.
Celine had promised Annabelle she’d find someone. And after last night’s break-in, she was more than ever determined to keep that promise.
It would also be an opportunity to locate some of Reynolds’ friends—assuming the man had any—and learn more about him. But the job was proving more elusive than the sculptor’s clues.
Penny, when Celine had asked her advice, had been unable to provide much help.
“I’m sorry, Celine, we don’t usually deal with sculptors. Reynolds was a one-off.”
With nothing better coming to mind, she and Julia had planned on walking around the Cambridge neighborhood visiting local art galleries. Maybe one of them could recommend someone. Julia was also leafing through the many visitor’s guides and directories on display in the hotel reception in preparation.
