“What about Bertrand Zaviroff? Did you have a relationship with him? Did you know he was ill?”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know what it means.”
Jason shook his head. “I thought we could have a casual conversation over drinks. Why are you harassing me, Sarah? I think you're forgetting that I'm a victim, too. I didn't conspire to scam any insurance companies and I sure as hell didn't have Glenn killed. So I suggest you back off or else.”
“Or else what?” I asked.
He turned away from me and gazed into his martini glass. “Just leave me alone.”
* * *
I got back to my apartment around seven-thirty with a box of take-out from the neighborhood Thai restaurant. I changed into my comfy sweats, grabbed the Fleming's case file, and reclined on the couch with my bowl of spicy noodles. I placed the three client lists before me and began my review. Within half an hour I had a short list of five people whose names appeared on all three lists.
Marcy Broderick
Justin Lesowski
Patricia Mitchell
Quincy Phelps
Victor Rowley
I hadn't expected Victor Rowley, but it shouldn't have surprised me. He was an avid art collector, and certainly wasn't bound to purchase art at just one gallery.
The other names on the list didn't ring any bells, so I simply looked each of them up on the Internet, focusing mostly on the male clients. Nothing about them stuck out as suspicious.
Jason Trask kept popping into my head. Could he have known that Bertrand Zaviroff was ill? Could he have orchestrated the robberies to collect insurance money? And whom might he have conspired with to help pull it off? Was Glenn's death an accident, or was foul play involved?
There was one person who might be able to answer some of those questions.
I really didn't want to bother Angelique, but I didn't know who else to ask.
Chapter 15
Monday, April 29
I spent most of the morning researching anything I could find about Zaviroff's fiancée, Angelique Mayor. She was an intriguing woman, and I was interested in knowing more about her. Not only did she design a clothing line for a major department store, but she also worked as a consultant for several fashion magazines. As for her personal life, she spent her free time teaching art classes to underprivileged kids. As it turned out, she was scheduled to teach a class that afternoon at the YMCA. I had to believe, under the circumstances, that Angelique would either cancel the class or get someone to fill in for her. How could she be in the right frame of mind to deal with a bunch of rowdy kids? On the other hand, maybe it would serve as a therapy to help get her mind off the loss of her beloved.
I entertained the idea of going to her home to see if she'd talk to me, but thought it might be better to approach her on neutral ground; like the parking lot of the YMCA after her class.
Around noon, I heard someone knocking at my door. Not expecting anyone, I shot up from the couch and rushed over to peer out through the peephole in my door. My pulse quickened when I saw Max standing there with his overnight bag.
I eagerly opened the door and smiled at him. Poor thing had dark circles under his eyes. “Back from the job already?”
“I finished early so I thought I'd come over and surprise you.”
Before I had a chance to say anything, he scooped me off my feet. Good thing I washed the dye out of my hair.
“I missed you,” he whispered in my ear.
“I missed you too.”
He kissed me on the lips as he pressed me closer, his hands cupping my ass. “I hope you don't have any plans for this afternoon.”
“Why? What did you have in mind?”
“Take a wild guess.”
* * *
Two hours later, Max and I were cuddling in bed, our skin slick with sweat. It felt heavenly to lie there, listening to his breath and thinking of nothing else.
“How is your case going?” he asked, eyelids heavy. “Did you find the bad guy yet?”
Max knew better than to ask me details about my cases, so he often talked in generalities.
I moved closer and rested my arm across his chest, wishing he could remain quiet a few minutes longer. Somehow the conversation always reverted back to our jobs. “Carter had to leave town a few days ago, so I've been doing this on my own. I have half a mind to tell our client she's better off saving her money. You know … let the cops do their job.”
“Where did Carter go?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“So he just dumped the case in your lap and took off?”
“Pretty much.”
“And you haven't heard from him?”
“Nope. I haven't tried calling him because I got the impression he didn't want me to.”
Max cradled my face in his hand and looked into my eyes. “This job you're doing isn't dangerous, is it? Your last case almost got you killed.”
“I'm being careful.”
“Famous last words.”
I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. “Shit. I need to take a shower and get ready.”
“You have a meeting?”
“I should be back by five or six.”
“Good. I'll make us something for dinner. By the way, I have to leave town again tomorrow morning.”
“So soon?” I asked, slipping out of bed. “Where?”
“Florida. I'll tell you more about it tonight.”
* * *
According to the YMCA Children's Outreach Program's online schedule, Angelique's art class ran from three to four-thirty. Would she be there?
When four-thirty rolled around, cars filtered in and out of the parking lot as parents picked up their kids. After ten or fifteen minutes, Angelique materialized, wearing a long ivory coat and tall leather boots, briefcase in hand. Her cheeks had more color than the day before. There was even a hint of a smile on her face.
I exited my car and followed her to a red Volkswagen Jetta parked in the YMCA lot. When I got within a few feet, I called out.
“Angelique?”
She spun around and blinked at me. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“Hi. My name is Sarah Woods. We met yesterday at the wake.”
She narrowed her eyes in confusion, as if she hadn't recognized me at all. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I met a lot of people yesterday.”
“I understand. Look, I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes.”
“What is this concerning?” she asked.
“I'm a private investigator hired by Elizabeth Fleming. Does that name ring a bell at all?”
“No. Should it?”
“Her husband was shot and killed at his gallery a month ago. It was in the papers.”
She licked her lips as something registered in her eyes. “I remember. What does that have to do with me?”
“Three of your fiancé’s paintings were stolen that night. One from each of the galleries that was robbed.”
She stood there for a moment staring at me as if she wasn't sure what to do. She checked her watch and sighed. “I can give you twenty minutes.”
* * *
The coffee shop was rather loud, but we found a private table near a window overlooking the street. Angelique ordered tea and I ordered coffee. She didn't bother removing her coat.
“Why did the gallery owner's wife hire you?” she asked. “Aren't the police actively pursuing this?”
“Yes,” I said, “but Elizabeth feels they aren't giving it much attention. I'm sorry to bring this up, but I have a number of questions concerning your fiancé’s death.”
“Okay.”
“Do you suppose the thief could have had prior knowledge of Bertrand's illness?”
“No, that would be impossible,” she said. “No one but myself even knew about his diagnosis when the thefts occurred. I can tell you the exact date Bertie was diagnosed.” Angelique consulted her phone and scrolled. After a minute she said, “Bertie hadn't
even been diagnosed with Lymphoma until Friday, April 5th, a week after the burglaries took place.”
So much for that theory. I sighed in frustration. “Had your fiancé ever mentioned the name Jason Trask?”
She stared at her hands for a moment. “I don't think so. But Bertie was involved with so many different gallery owners and collectors, it was hard to keep track. ”
The waitress arrived with our beverages. I waited for her to leave then asked, “How about the name Chloe Goodwin?”
Angelique blew on her tea. “Who is she?”
“She's connected to Glenn Fleming somehow. She refuses to talk to me.”
“You think she's involved with the theft?”
“I don't know. But she's acting very suspicious. Makes me think I'm on to something. I just wish I had a clue what that something was.”
Angelique sipped her tea and appeared to think things over. “I studied art and business in college for five years, and I can tell you one thing: trying to resell stolen art is very difficult, and certainly not worth the risk these days. Sure, there are dealers out there who don't care if a painting is legit or a fake, but they'll still only pay five to ten percent of the fair market value. For paintings worth only a few thousand to begin with, why bother? Honestly, you'd be better off robbing a bank.”
“That makes a lot of sense, but I keep thinking there's a reason that your fiancé’s work was taken from all three galleries. Any ideas?”
“Ease of transport, perhaps. Bertie worked small. None of his paintings were larger than twelve by fifteen inches. I know it sounds too simple, but sometimes that's what it amounts to. I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you.”
“I'm the one who should be sorry,” I said. “You have enough going on right now. I really appreciate the fact you were willing to take the time to speak with me.”
“Sure. You know, I really thought seeing those kids today would bring me joy, or provide a distraction at the very least,” she said as her gaze drifted out the window. “But then I kept thinking about my desire to have kids with Bertie. We wanted to start a family right away. Now it just hurts to look into the eyes of children. Everyone keeps telling me I'm still young. I'll find someone. But there is no one out there like Bertie.” Tears began to fall, and she didn't try to stop them. She grabbed her purse and car keys. “Thanks for the tea, but I should go. If you want my advice, tell your client to move on with her life and stop opening old wounds. Her husband is dead. My Bertie is dead, too. And you know what? There's absolutely nothing any of us can do to change that.”
* * *
I got home around six. The smell of garlic and spices helped alleviate the sadness I felt for Angelique. I knew Max was in the kitchen whipping up dinner, though I didn't have much of an appetite.
I tossed my pocketbook on the couch, headed straight for the wine rack, and chose a Cabernet I'd been saving for a special occasion. This wasn't really what I'd had in mind, but I needed something to cheer me up.
Max handed me the corkscrew. “How did your meeting go?”
“I wish Carter would come back.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Dealing with death is heavy. I don't know how cops do it day in and day out.”
“I'm sure you'll get a handle on all of this,” Max said. “It's only been what … less than a week, right?” He grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet and set them on the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really. Let's talk about something else,” I said, pouring the wine. “You wanted to tell me about your job in Florida.”
Max sat down at the table next to me, but he seemed hesitant. “The company I'm installing the surveillance for is called Network Social, LLC. They specialize in high-profile websites, advertising, and promotions. They've had some breaches in the past few months at three of their locations. They want me to go down and do a thorough evaluation of their security. I really have no idea how long I'll be there.”
“Sounds like a lucrative opportunity.”
“Yeah, but there's something you need to know. The CEO of the company---the one who recommended me for the job--- is my ex-girlfriend.”
Something inside my chest quivered. “Ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Jennifer Healy. We dated about four years ago.”
“Was it serious?”
“Apparently not. She left me for a rich guy. They got married a year later and moved to Florida. I hadn't heard from her since, so I was surprised when she contacted me a few days ago to offer me this project. I really can't pass it up.”
“Is she still married?” I asked.
Max diverted his eyes. “I don't think so. We didn't really talk about it, but the reason I'm telling you is because you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Even if I were single, I'd never go back out with her.”
I took a gulp of wine, feeling the muscles in my stomach contract. “How do you know this isn't just a ploy to try and get you back into her life?”
He shook his head and refilled his wine glass. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme. You don't have to worry about her, Sarah.” He got up to attend to the stove. “Dinner is almost ready. Hope you're hungry.”
Chapter 16
Tuesday, April 30
The next morning, I walked Max to the door and gave him a long hug good-bye.
“I'll call as soon as I get to West Palm Beach,” he said, caressing my cheek. “My flight gets in around three.”
“Okay.”
“Hopefully, I won't be much longer than a few weeks. I'll call when I can.” He smiled and kissed me again. “If you wrap up the case you're working on you could always fly down and stay with me for a few days.”
“Are you sure? Because I just might do that.”
“Of course I'm sure. They're putting me up in a resort right on the beach. Not that I'll have much time for sunbathing.”
“I have extra points on my credit card. Maybe I'll use them to come see you.”
Max kissed me again. “Sounds good. Gotta go.”
By ten I was strung out on caffeine from three cups of coffee. I had to get my mind off the nervous lump in my stomach over Max reuniting with his ex-lover. It's not that I didn't trust him, but this was another deal altogether. Max had never mentioned Jennifer before, and that sort of scared me. I had no idea what she was like or if she had an ulterior motive.
No point in worrying about it any longer. I had work to do. Carter trusted me enough to let me take this case over. So far all I had done was waste time and money on dead ends.
Time to step up my game.
There was still one person I needed to track down: Chloe Goodwin. Too many questions still remained, the principal one being, how did she know Glenn?
I'd never find out unless I talked to her.
* * *
It was almost 11:00 by the time I got to Chloe's apartment.
I clenched my fists in irritation when I saw the scooter parked on the front lawn. Damn it, why did Chad always have to be there?
I locked my car and ascended the stairs to the third floor landing. I knocked and waited two minutes, trying to peek inside the window. I knocked again. Nothing.
I stomped down the stairs, biting my inner lip. I eyed the scooter and got an idea. I saw the neighbor I'd spoken to a few days prior and waved. “Hi there. How's it going?”
He stared at me for a moment as if confused, but waved anyway. “Hello.”
“I'm Sarah, remember? We talked the other day about my friends in apartment 2C. Hey, they're not answering the door again. If you see Chad, just let him know I'm gonna borrow his scooter for a few hours. I think I'll be able to hot wire this thing pretty easily.”
The neighbor shook his head emphatically. “I wouldn't do that if I were you. Chad will be royally pissed. He loves that scooter more than life itself.”
With a hand on each handle bar, I pushed forward to disengage the kickstand and walked the scooter around the building, completely ignori
ng the shouts from the neighbor on the balcony. I heard another neighbor shouting to the neighbor who was shouting, and pretty soon they were arguing amongst themselves while I slipped away with the scooter.
Nothing to see here, folks.
I hustled down the back alley behind the apartment complex, running as fast as I could while balancing the scooter. The machine was pretty light, but running alongside it proved awkward. I had no clue how the thing worked, never having driven one myself.
I figured it wouldn't be long until Chad got a knock on his door, informing him that a woman wearing a baseball cap had just stolen his prized possession. How long would it take for him to come after me?
Panting heavily, I dipped behind another building and parked the scooter behind a dumpster. I then circled the complex in the opposite direction and headed back to the front of the apartment building and crouched behind a vehicle. Just as I had hoped, Chad came galloping down the flight of stairs as the neighbor pointed in the direction of where I'd headed with the scooter. I could hear Chad cursing with each step until he reached the landing and sprinted out of sight.
I hoped it would take him a good, long time to find his precious scooter.
The nosy neighbors had gone back into their respective dwellings. I wondered if anyone would bother to call the police. I kept my fingers crossed that the answer was no.
Taking two risers at a time, I climbed the stairs until I reached the door to apartment 2C. While catching my breath, I dialed Chloe's cell phone number. A few seconds later I heard it ringing inside the apartment.
Bingo.
I didn't expect her to answer, but at least I knew she was home.
I knocked on the door. “Chloe, this is Sarah Woods. I know you're in there. I'm not leaving until you talk to me. In fact, I'm willing to offer you cash for any information you might have.”
I'd obviously said the magic word. The door opened and Chloe peered out from behind it. “Make it two hundred and I'll give you five minutes. Take it or leave it.”
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