I did, but I wondered fleetingly if Gehrz was concerned about the amount I’d paid, or that it might have been one of the same bills he’d paid me. I didn’t ask.
“I was able to snare the names of some of the people living on the same floor. It seems they did not know Ms. Market very well. Really, not at all. None of them admitted to having seen or talked with her more than once or twice.” I neglected to mention that none of them recognized the tall figure of a man in the other picture I showed them. The one I’d surreptitiously snapped of my client after he left my office the first time.
“There was one oddity.”
Gehrz seemed to tense just slightly. “Really?” “
Yes, one of the tenants mentioned that he’d seen Ms. Market leaving the building in a long padded white coat with a thick hooded collar. In this climate, that’s not so unusual, but since it was the second time he’d encountered her, he noted that this time she was also wearing a dark-brown wig.”
“Whereas Tiffany is a blond,” Gehrz acknowledged. “I assume you trust this information?”
“I do. They passed each other at the door to the elevator and he’d talked to her previously when she was without doubt the blond Ms. Market. I have also traced your Ms. Market to her former place of employment and, through various stratagems you needn’t inquire about, I’ve determined that she’s not been seen for some time in any of her usual places, including the health club where she was a regular. Near as I can place it, since you asked me to locate her last week.”
“I see. And do you think you should continue my search?”
“That, of course, is ultimately up to you, but if I do I will find the woman or if it happens that she’s left the Twin Cities, I’ll determine that as well.”
“I see. Since I am more anxious than ever to find her, let’s continue.” Gehrz’s lips under his sandy mustache twitched and he reached into an inside pocket. Out came a brown envelope. I was betting it was the same one he’d been carrying the other time we met. He fished out more Benjamins and laid another two grand on the desk top. Once again, with the tips of his fingers, he slid them toward me. He had a peculiar way of handling the bills and I was willing to bet there weren’t any useful fingerprints to be found on any of the money, should I look. I read somewhere that agents employed in covert roles in foreign countries were taught how to handle money smoothly without leaving fingerprints.
“Is there anything else on your mind, Mr. Sean?”
I shrugged. I had a lot on my mind but nothing I wanted to share. Gehrz stood up and slung his coat over his shoulder on the way out. He didn’t say goodbye.
Chapter 19
Are you ready to go?”
“Shoes,” I said. “Or boots?”
“I’m going to wear my snow boots and carry shoes. We’ll park under cover at both ends, so no slogging through slush, but—”
“You’re afraid I might get us stuck on these city streets,” I said.
Catherine smirked at me. “Just being prepared.”
I went to the front entrance and smiled up at my lady. Catherine was examining herself critically in the full-length mirror, heels and all. The smart heels put her at just over six-three. You’d expect a massage expert to avoid heels, but sometimes fashion rules all. She had chosen to wear a silk satiny deep-maroon blouse over a long black skirt that swung just above the floor. The blue shawl added a nice accent.
The rubber heels on my black soft-soled slip-ons put me at just over five-two. The tassels didn’t count. I was wearing my standard single-breasted black suit over a figured white dress shirt, complete with black onyx studs in gold settings. We made an outstanding looking couple on the social scene.
The holster for my piece was strapped snugly to my left ankle. The holster, made of soft supple kidskin with nice comfortable straps, was an expensive affair. I’d figured Catherine had come to terms with my hardware when the holster showed up as a Christmas gift. But she still didn’t let me store a heavier gat in her new Lexus. She didn’t like the odor, she said.
I slipped out of my dress shoes and into my galoshes. Catherine grinned and held my overcoat for me. Unless there was a chair or stool close by, it was nearly always impossible for me to do the gentlemanly thing and hold her coat. We’d come to terms with that a long time ago.
Out the door, along the hall, we turned right to the elevator shaft, and down into the garage. I didn’t think it showed, but my nerves twanged when Catherine didn’t hesitate, just shot out the door into the garage.
I had the key in hand and we made our way smoothly out of the space and into a snowy evening. So, what else is new?
The gala we were headed to was a civic affair of some kind in the ballroom at the Hilton Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. We were gathering to drink and schmooze and congratulate ourselves for meeting some fund-raising goal.
I’d debated ordering a cab or a limo, but I have a tendency to want a little more control than that. After all, a lot of my moxie, my presence, and my success, comes from being the little man who wasn’t there. Even in circumstances where I’ve been employed for temporary security, I’ve almost always been the least noticeable, and that’s not just because I’m a shrimp in the height and weight department. I discovered early on that people of “normal” height tend to overlook those who are shorter, unless they make a fuss. Being the little dude who wasn’t there has been useful and even instructive at times.
The congratulatory gathering was in one of the Hilton’s smaller ballrooms. The hotel had laid on a couple of cash bars stocked with comely bartenders and an upscale selection of wines and stronger potables. We weren’t the first to arrive and the tip jars were already well-stuffed. As is the usual custom at these shindigs, couples arrived, made a quick survey, usually grabbed a drink and then split to personal interactions. Social networks being what they were, the couple frequently connects with people one of the partners may not even know. Catherine had a wide circle of acquaintances and associates. I had few. Moreover, the ones I did know quite often didn’t want it known they knew me, or I them. That left me free to offer occasional subtle nods across the room, and to circulate alone with a drink in my hand and listen to the conversations. In a word, eavesdrop. Information, after all, is the primary currency of the detective biz.
Thus it was I clearly heard a portly man of florid complexion and a too-loud voice standing off to my left, intone to his companion, a fellow of saturnine hue, “I think we oughta bomb them. Blast ’em back to the Stone Age. Too many of our so-called leaders are way too willing to compromise.”
“Did you hear about the looting?”
“You mean in Baghdad, at the museums?”
“Right. You’d think after what happened in Europe during World War Two, the military would have learned a lesson.”
The portly man gulped his drink and shook his head. “I’m on the board of the art museum, the big one here in Minneapolis, you know. We’ve been dealing with that recently.”
“Stolen art?”
“Somebody donated a painting back in the early sixties, I guess. Got a nice tax write off for it, of course. Now some kid is claiming it was stolen from his family by the Nazis. He wants it returned.”
“Can he prove ownership?”
“Huh,” snorted portly florid, “Not likely. Those people were the hoi polloi when war broke out and some of them supported Hitler at first. Least, that’s what I hear. If their goods got confiscated, maybe they just got what they deserve. So where do they get off claiming ownership now? If we have to return the painting it’s gonna cost the museum a bundle.”
I pivoted slowly away as the men moved off. I didn’t recognize the voices and I hadn’t recognized either when I first saw them. It was pretty clear to me who the ‘they’ and ‘those people’ the jerk was referring to. I didn’t think Catherine or the organizers of this event would appreciate my d
ecking the guy in the middle of the room. Instead, I went to the bar across the room and got a drink of scotch, one ice cube, no water.
A little while later I watched while Catherine was briefly recognized for a noticeable donation to the cause. When she mounted the low platform to receive a polite round of applause, her gaze sought mine and I saluted her with my glass. I noted that the chairwoman of the event managed to credit Catherine for her donation without revealing exactly how she acquired enough money to make such a generous gift and maintain the good life.
The evening passed without incident and we drove home through the deeply frigid night air. When we arrived in the garage below the apartment building, I made Catherine wait in the car while I did a quick survey of the space. We then took the elevator to our apartment and to our bed. Life did not intrude and we were undisturbed until the bedside alarm sounded in the gray light of early dawn.
Chapter 20
I’d had a telephone line installed in the apartment that was essentially an extension of my office phone. I had another in my house in Roseville. That way I could do some business if needed without being in my office. Yes, I know about cell phones. I’ve even considering buying one, but like my gats and my filing system, some things just require a certain comfort level. Leaping along with the latest technology doesn’t always fulfill one’s basic needs. Someday I might even succumb and purchase a laptop computer.
I was on my third cup of coffee, scanning the morning newspaper when the phone rang. My office line has a distinctive ring. I picked up.
“Good morning. Sean Sean, private investigations. How may I serve?”
“This is Aaron.” The voice was gravelly, as if the caller had just awoken from a long sleep with his mouth open the whole time.
“Aaron?”
“Yeah, Aaron. Jeeze. How many Aaron’s you know? Gottlieb. Aaron Gottlieb. Manny’s grand nephew?”
Testy testy. “Sure, Mr. Gottlieb. How are you today?”
“Rotten. I’d just been talking to your police department up there.”
“I see.”
“They aren’t being helpful. They don’t appear to be making any progress. And they aren’t telling me anything.”
“I’m sure they’d tell you if there was anything to report.” I was pretty sure the cops wouldn’t tell him zip until they were ready. “This is a difficult case and I’m sure they’re doing everything they can.”
“It’s been a couple of days and nobody’s even called. You haven’t called, either.”
“Exactly. It’s been a very short while and there are lots of details to look into. Leads to follow.”
“You have some leads to the killer?” he sounded eager.
“It takes time to build a case, to find enough evidence to nail a killer.”
“Yeah, but—”
How did I get to be a police apologist all of a sudden? “Look, Aaron, you have to be patient about this. And while I have you on the phone, I do have a couple of questions.” Pause. Silence. “Aaron?”
“What?”
“Have you noticed anything unusual since your—since Mr. Gottlieb was killed?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t have anything specific. I just wondered. Somebody who seems to be watching or following you. Unexplained changes in the routines of people around you, like the mailman?” I didn’t want to put ideas in his head, but since Catherine and I were both feeling watched sometimes, I thought I’d ask him. Since he’d called me anyway.
“You think somebody’s following me?”
“Didn’t say that, did I?”
He sounded a little sharper now. “My land line went out sometime yesterday. And after the repair guy came, the sound is fuzzy. You’re fuzzy.”
“Are they coming back to repair it?”
“Yeah, any time now. Do you think somebody bugged my phone? Why would they do that?”
“No, Aaron, I don’t think anybody bugged your phone. I can hear you just fine.” Unfortunately. “Listen, you just hang in there and relax. I promise I’ll call you just as soon as anything concrete develops.”
“Yeah, well, I guess.” Gottlieb hung up without saying goodbye. He’d sounded a little depressed. It was possible the people who killed his great-uncle were watching Aaron as well. But my sense, based on almost nothing, was that the focus was here in the Twin Cities.
The next time the telephone sounded I didn’t recognize the voice of the woman. Then she said her name was Ursula. Ursula Skranslund.
“I apologize,” I said when she identified herself. “I know you had to find someplace to stay after the fire and I should have followed up with you.”
“No problem, Mr. Sean. I’ve been staying with friends. They had an extra bedroom after somebody moved out. We’re all grad students. It’s a little more friendly now that I’m not rattling around in a big house all alone. I guess a house of grad students is a little quieter than a dorm or a house of under-graduates. This one is, anyway.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, or a dessert, maybe?”
No hesitation. “Gee, that would be nice. You mean today? What time?”
I hadn’t exactly figured my offer would be so promptly accepted, but my schedule wasn’t jammed this day so we arranged to meet at a small diner on Lake Street near the river. It was only a couple of blocks from her address, she said.
Half an hour later we sat at a small table in one corner of the place which wasn’t much bigger than a minute. I’ve heard that phrase applied to people, pets and places, but I’m not sure where it came from or what it really means. Size aside, the diner had a neighborhood reputation as a top pie place. In fact, that’s what it was called—The Pie Place. I had a big slice of banana cream pie with about two inches of whipped cream on top, the kind my momma used to make from thick cream, sugar, and vanilla, whipped thick with an eggbeater. Ursula was eating apple pie with a dollop of ice cream and a slab of cheese.
“Thanks for this,” she said between bites.
“You obviously enjoy eating apple pie, and I’m pleased things are going well for you. I did wonder if you’ve had any thoughts about your former housemate.”
“Not really. Mr. Gottlieb was always nice and even formal, like I told you before. Or I guess you’d say polite.”
“I’m afraid we, and I include the police here, haven’t made much progress finding his murderer.”
“I’m sorry. It’s sad that after so much tragedy in his life in Poland, he couldn’t find a little peace during his last years. Which reminds me, I meant to tell you earlier that I’ve had two people asking about him.”
“Police?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Once a man came to the house. He said he was an insurance adjuster. He wanted to know where the contents of the house had been taken after the fire.”
“I wasn’t aware they’d moved things out.”
“Yeah. The building inspector came and I met him at the house. He said they’d have to condemn it. I didn’t think it was that bad, but the whole place smelled pretty awful.”
“Did this inspector show you some credentials?”
There was a pause while Ursula swallowed another forkful of apple pie. She looked at me with those wise Finnish eyes and then said. “Oh, yes. That’s part of what I meant to tell you. The city guy showed me his identification right away. But the other guy—”
“The one who said he was an insurance investigator?”
“Yes, I had to fuss a little. Then he showed me a business card. It seemed legit, but anybody can print a business card, right?”
I nodded. Little did Ursula know that at that very moment, my card case in one pocket contained at least four cards in four different names, and four different professions, all with a thumbnail picture of yours truly.
“You’re right, of cou
rse,” I sighed. “There are people everywhere carrying false identification.”
“Well, in the end it didn’t matter all that much. Aaron Gottlieb had left me a message telling where the contents of the house were stored and what I had to do to get my stuff released.”
I raised an interrogatory eyebrow. It’s something I practice.
“All the contents of the house that’s left is in a security warehouse over in northeast. When I went to get my belongings, I had to sign some papers and prove who I was. I got the impression it would be pretty hard for someone to get into the place without a legitimate reason.”
I was reassured that if there was anything still in Gottlieb’s possession when he died, Aaron and I had missed it and it was still amongst the belongings, or it had flown away before I got there. Did that mean I should go look again? I was of two minds. Since I still wasn’t one-hundred per cent sure what I was looking for, it might be a monumental waste of time. But the appearance of a phony insurance adjuster—yes, I was morally certain the guy who’d approached Ursula was not legit—told me that some somebodies were still out there searching.
I thanked Ursula for the company and the info. She thanked me for the pie and the conversation. I went home to Kenwood to ponder my next move.
Chapter 21
I woke up feeling mildly discouraged. In my mind I replayed my chat with Aaron Gottlieb. I decided I was the one who’d sounded paranoid. I may have agitated the poor guy even more than he was before he called me. Just the thing a good P.I. should be doing. Then I replayed the conversation I’d overheard the previous evening at the fund-raising gala for that foundation. The conversation from the overweight florid-looking fellow who was on the MIA board. It was entirely too convenient that his conversation dealt with an area of life I was presently rooting around in. I say rooting because so far things were still very directionless. By this time I was usually trotting along a very specific trail that would eventually lead to a specific conclusion. Not always the last or even the best solution, you understand, but often that was the case.
The Case of the Purloined Painting Page 10
