Odd Partners

by Mystery Writers of America

  “But that wasn’t true.”

  Marty looked at his shoes. “No, I guess not.”

  Just past the turnoff to Los Cerrillos, Marty steered Tom onto a rough dirt track through some scrub junipers and piñon. They crossed an arroyo and made a sharp right into a meadow of sorts, though the occasional blades of grass had few neighbors. A rusted, white single-wide trailer sagged on cement blocks at the far end. The shades were closed.

  Marty pointed at a battered white Ford F-150 with a long crack traversing the windshield. “That’s his.” He led Tom up the steps. The front door wasn’t latched, and it swung inward with his first knock. “Hey, Alex. You in there?”

  Marty fidgeted for a few seconds in the silence. Tom could smell death as he stepped through the door. Alex lay on the living room rug next to the sprung sofa. His empty eyes were aimed at the greasy ceiling, but they hadn’t seen anything for at least two days.

  Tom pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and knelt beside the corpse. Cause of death was obvious from the round hole in the forehead. He glanced back at Marty. “You okay? Best you go wait by the car. This is a murder scene.”

  Marty stumbled back out the door without a word. Tom quickly searched the body. Alex had twenty-five bucks in his wallet along with his driver’s license and a couple of credit cards. No notes or other ID. Car keys in the right pants pocket but no phone on the body. Tom made a quick survey of the usual spots a man would leave one, but came up empty.

  He stepped outside and made a quick search of the truck. Still no trace of Alex’s phone. He took out his own and placed a call to Eddie Romero, who worked homicide for the Santa Fe police. This wasn’t in Santa Fe’s jurisdiction, but Tom and Eddie went back to high school in Albuquerque, and Eddie would make the right connections. Eddie didn’t pick up, so Tom left a short message and escorted Marty back to the Tacoma. “We’d best get out of here. I’ll figure out the story later.”

  They rode in silence. The dust storm upped the ante as they approached downtown Santa Fe. Tom bypassed the office and took Marty to his little condo on a ridge overlooking downtown.

  He shoved Marty down on the sofa next to Stella, his wary corgi, and poured two doubles of Bushmills on the rocks. Tom sat in a purple stuffed chair, leaned over the coffee table, and clinked glasses. “Drink it all, and then we need to get busy.”

  Marty looked as dead as his cousin, but he knocked the Black Bush down like a pro. Tom poured him a refill, but set his own glass on the table. “Okay, Marty. I’m beginning to take your plight seriously. You got any idea who gunned down your cousin? A name, his job, any description at all?”

  “Sorry. Not a clue.” Marty stared at the floor. “I think Alex wanted to protect me by keeping me in the dark. Figured I wouldn’t spill anything mouthing off.”

  “You’re probably right, but he must have spilled it himself.” Tom shook his head. “Okay, here’s the deal. As I said earlier, I make my living on commission. But in this case, I’m not likely to get anything, since you—I’ll try to put this delicately—have no money. Still, if we recover the painting, we might get a reward from the owner, and you might keep on living. So let’s do this as partners. You pay me nothing, but I get the reward. If it’s big enough, I’ll cut you in for something. If not, at least you survive.”

  Marty didn’t hesitate. “That’s all I want, Tom. To put this behind me. I don’t deserve any share in the reward anyway.”

  “Okay. I have a plan. Fortunately, this is Thursday, so I’ll only need a week or so to set things up. Meanwhile, we’ll make a trip to visit Ms. Littleton. I’ve got a hunch about what’s going on here, but I need to talk to her to confirm it. That sound good?”

  “I guess so, but I don’t want to face her.”

  “Fine, but you ride along to show me the way. You can hide behind a juniper when we get close. Meanwhile, I’ll drop you off at Willie’s place. It’s secure and inconveniently located in case of snoopers. And don’t fret about losing your Uber fares. Trust me, you can’t be out there trolling for bullets this week. Willie will comp you room and board if you help feed the horses.”

  * * *

  —

  At nine on Friday morning, Tom strolled into the office of the Santa Fe New Mexican. It cost him two hundred bucks, but he managed to place a small ad with a photo in the Pasatiempo, the paper’s weekly magazine of all things Santa Fe, advertising a book signing. Marty’s name was prominent, as was the fake title, “I Stole an O’Keeffe.” The bogus signing would be at a small coffee shop on Guadalupe Street. Tony Milan, the owner of Espresso Junction, owed Tom a favor for keeping quiet about his daughter snitching some jewelry from her employer. The date was set for Saturday, eight days hence. He chose the afternoon to keep the crowd down. He phoned in smaller ads to a local weekly and to the Albuquerque Journal calendar page.

  Next, Tom began the search for Maureen Littleton’s phone number. It would be unlisted, but he knew a lot of folks in Taos. He eventually found a contractor who had redone her roof recently and who was willing to cough up her number for a hundred bucks. A woman with an old but firm voice answered on the seventh ring. “Yes?”

  “My name is Tom McNaul, and I’m trying to reach Ms. Maureen Littleton on behalf of my client. Is she available?”

  “I’m Maureen, but I don’t take unsolicited calls. How did you get this number?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I have received information that could lead to the recovery of a painting stolen from you this past year. I understand it was by Georgia O’Keeffe. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’m not willing to talk about such things with a stranger on the phone. I’ve been bothered enough by the press checking to see if I’m dead yet. I’ll give you my lawyer’s number, and you can talk with him.”

  “Please, Ms. Littleton, this is for real. Could we meet at your lawyer’s office early next week? I’m a licensed private investigator in Santa Fe, and your lawyer can check me out before we meet.”

  She hesitated long enough to worry Tom, but he finally heard a resigned exhale. “I’ll call my lawyer, and he’ll get back to you. Goodbye, Mr. McNeal.”

  “That’s McNaul, Ms. Littleton.” He heard the phone go dead.

  * * *

  —

  Tom and Stella were halfway around their second lap of the plaza when his cell sounded. The number was unfamiliar, but he answered and recognized the voice of Maureen Littleton.

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Ms. Littleton. I’m down at the plaza walking my dog. She likes to bum for treats before dinner. Pretty good at it.”

  “That speaks well to your character, Mr. McNaul. I don’t trust a man who doesn’t have a dog. More to the point, I discussed you with my lawyer. He expressed a few caveats, but he did vouch for you. He said you are the best art detective west of Chicago. Is that true?”

  “My mom thought so, but I don’t actually know of any good ones in Chicago. If you’d like another reference, I could refer you to Agent Kate Bacon of the FBI Art Crime Team, in Washington. I used to be her partner.”

  “I’ve already spoken with her. I’m afraid I treated you somewhat rudely before, but you did surprise me. Are you free tonight? Why don’t you come see me after dinner? Say, nine? Just one rule—no film talk.”

  Tom felt his back stiffen. “That would be okay, Ms. Littleton. How do I find you?”

  Maureen swore him to secrecy, passed on directions and the code for her gate, and hung up. Tom and Stella scurried up the hill to his condo, where he nuked some leftover pasta and chewed on a few lettuce leaves.

  * * *

  —

  By seven-thirty, Tom and Marty were on the low road to Taos. They passed through the town, still heading north, just before nine.

  The turnoff to the Littleton estate was not marked, but Marty recognized the turn onto a rugged dir
t track. A hundred yards later they cleared the gate. As they rounded the third hill, Tom stopped and examined a long, low adobe structure carved into the side of a ridge and lit by spotlights. It faced east, toward the mountains. In daylight it would have quite a view.

  Marty hopped out carrying his flashlight, a water bottle, and a nearly empty gym bag. He waved to Tom and slipped behind a dense juniper. The drive up sported two switchbacks and ended in a circular drive in front of massive twin doors of dark, carved wood.

  Tom knocked. He didn’t hear footsteps, but after at least two minutes there was a shuffling noise, and one of the doors swung inward into a dark entryway.

  In the shadows stood a magnificent lady—tall, slender, and clearly in her eighties. Her face was side-lit by a floodlight near the door. It reminded Tom of a scene from Casablanca. He was sure the veteran actress had planned the entry lighting herself. “Please come in, Mr. McNaul.”

  “Tom, please. And thank you.”

  “Tom, then. Feel free to call me Maureen. I’m long past acting like I’m somebody of importance.”

  They walked in silence down a dark corridor to a dimly lit living room with broad windows and seating facing the mountains. She settled into a mission-style recliner and guided Tom onto the near end of a dark leather love seat. He guessed both were original Stickley pieces. Light from an art deco floor lamp bathed their faces in a dim amber glow. “Now then, would you like a drink? Agent Bacon said you were somewhat fond of Irish whiskey.”

  “Kate gives out a lot of information for an FBI agent, but yes, I do have some taste for the juice of the barley.”

  “Then please help yourself.” Maureen flicked her hand toward a bar built into the far wall. “And bring me a drop of the Redbreast, if you would. Just half a finger. For memory’s sake. I’m from County Tipperary, you know.”

  Tom didn’t know, but he fetched the drinks. They clinked the crystal glasses before taking silent sips. As Maureen leaned forward to set hers on the coffee table, he caught a whiff of her perfume. He had no clue what it might be, but assumed it was expensive.

  She leaned back in the recliner and stared at him, her head turned slightly to her left. Once again, her face was lit like a studio still shot.

  Tom heard a thump from the far end of the house and turned his head. Maureen laughed. “Just my kitty. She stays out in the guest room when I have visitors.” Tom figured it sounded like a pretty fat cat.

  “Now, Tom. What do you want to ask me? Agent Bacon told me you’re excellent at finding stolen art, but isn’t it a little late for that?” Maureen drew her feet up onto her chair. “My lawyer says the painting, should it be recovered, now belongs to the insurance company. They paid me for the loss just last week. Perhaps you should be helping them find it.”

  “Your lawyer is correct.” Tom chewed his upper lip for a moment. “I think I only have one question to ask you. It’s a bit personal, but I assure you I’ll keep the information in confidence.”

  Maureen gave a practiced flick of her eyebrows followed by a wry smile. “Sounds intriguing. Ask away.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  She looked puzzled. “That’s all?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Maureen shrugged and stared toward the dark windows. After a few seconds, she shook her head and turned back to Tom. “Just under a million dollars. It must be worth far more, but that’s what it was insured for. You see, I bought that painting at least fifty years ago. I did raise the insured value once, but that was probably, oh, thirty years back.”

  “I assume you know it’s worth ten or twenty times that now?”

  “Is it? Well, I’m a big girl. I don’t need the money, and I was never planning to sell it anyway.” She shrugged and tried to look nonchalant, but finished off her whiskey in a single pull.

  “Still, I’m sorry you didn’t get more.” Tom glanced longingly at the rest of his Redbreast, but felt it would be poor form to drain it. “I’ll leave you in peace. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  He stood up, and she escorted him to the door. As he turned to say goodbye, Maureen leaned forward, her flowing hair brushing his nose, and kissed his cheek so softly he wasn’t sure they’d actually made contact. She gave a faint smile, turned away, and disappeared into the dark hallway.

  As Tom reached the bottom of her steep driveway, Marty stepped out from behind the juniper. He had removed his jacket and must have stuffed it into the gym bag. Seemed odd given the cold night, but Tom shrugged it off.

  * * *

  —

  Late Saturday morning, Willie drove Marty to the Staab Street office. As they entered, Tom greeted them with a fresh pot of coffee. “Well, boys, things are coming along nicely.”

  Willie shook his ragged mane and snorted. “Seems kind of dull so far. Glad I’m not part of this case, little brother.”

  “Oh, but you are. I need you to hang out in Espresso Junction next Saturday afternoon. Armed and dangerous, in case things get sticky.”

  “Well, now. You’ve got my interest.”

  Marty looked startled. “What are you talking about? Guns? Next week? What’s going on? Aren’t we heading out to find the painting?”

  “Simmer down. We’re not going to search for the painting because I have no idea where it’s hidden. Nor am I sure who is trying to do you in.” Tom leaned forward and crossed his arms on his desk. “I’ll need to search some public records, and government offices aren’t open in Santa Fe on weekends.”

  Marty clenched his teeth and snorted. “Surely you can tell me more than that. Who do you suspect?”

  “Don’t have a name yet. I’ll tell you if I find out. Meanwhile, you stay out of sight at Willie’s place. Next Saturday we’ll take you to a coffee shop on Guadalupe Street for a book signing. You’re going to stand up and discuss your new book titled I Stole an O’Keeffe.”

  “My what?” Marty’s voice went up an octave and he appeared close to hysteria. “I haven’t written any book. Are you nuts?”

  “We’ll debate that later. No, there isn’t a book, but I advertised the signing. I’m figuring it might draw out the man who’s trying to kill you. If not, I’ll think of something else.”

  “But how can I talk about a book that doesn’t exist?”

  “I’m betting that you won’t have to say much. For now, leave the details to me.”

  Marty twitched and whined for another ten minutes, but Tom just folded his arms and shook his head. Willie grabbed Marty’s arm and steered him outside to his aging pickup. Tom watched the trail of oil smoke as Willie and his houseguest roared off.

  * * *

  —

  Tom ran into the usual bureaucratic delays, New Mexico style. He eventually discovered that Kokopelli Insurance, a regional company headquartered in Albuquerque, had paid out for the stolen O’Keeffe. The local officials in Santa Fe knew only that it was a small private company licensed to do business in New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado. The owner was listed as Raymond Schubert, and their only office was in Albuquerque.

  Tom returned to his office and called Kate Bacon. The FBI Art Crime Team maintained detailed records of major art thefts in the United States and abroad.

  Kate picked up on the first ring. “Tommy, my man. Long time. What’s up?”

  “Art theft and murder.”

  “This about the O’Keeffe? I got a call from Maureen Littleton a few days ago.”

  “Yeah. Stolen from her home near Taos. Kokopelli Insurance just paid off the claim.”

  “I heard. Tough luck. The payout was only about five percent of what it would go for at auction. What about it?”

  “What can you tell me about Kokopelli? Anything about their finances?”

  “Mmm. Seems to me their name came up a few times this past year. Let me run a quick search and call you back.”

  K
ate was back on the line in twenty minutes. “Interesting company. It’s a small family business, but they’ve paid out on three major claims in the past year. The big one was a burglary up in Aspen. Someone lifted a collection of Warhols—a portrait of Marilyn Monroe being the main attraction. That cost them twenty million. If you’re asking, I wouldn’t buy stock in them.”

  “They’re not a public company, but thanks for the advice. They’ve gotta be hurting big-time.”

  “I’d say so. What’s your interest in the O’Keeffe?”

  “I’ve got a client who claims to be the thief, and someone’s trying to kill him. Thinks it’s related. You know I can’t tell you more.”

  “You’re always such a tease. When you coming to see me?”

  “Soon, toots. See ya.”

  * * *

  —

  The book signing was scheduled for two-thirty on Saturday. At one, Tom watched from the window of his Staab Street office as Willie and Marty climbed out of Willie’s truck. Moments later Marty burst through the door looking like a jackrabbit in a coyote den. Willie suppressed a grin as he brought up the rear. Tom waved the newcomers toward chairs and leaned back in his own. “Welcome, comrades. It’s almost curtain time.”

  Marty clenched his fists and jaw as he summoned an admirable amount of courage. “I’m not going through with this charade unless you tell me everything you know. I feel like I’m being set up for target practice, and we’re supposed to be partners. You must know more than you’re letting on.”

  Tom frowned. “You’re right. That’s only fair. Have a seat.”

  Marty hesitated, then plopped down on a battered oak side chair, crossed his arms, and glared. Willie eased himself onto the sofa a few feet behind Marty.

  Tom stood up and began to pace around the room while staring at Marty. “Parts of this case were evident as soon as you finished your story of the theft. First, the person bankrolling the heist didn’t want the painting stolen while it was in transit. He insisted it be taken from Maureen Littleton’s home.”