by BV Lawson
“Long enough. I don’t know which of the two has lied to me more, Maura or Brock.”
“You know what my sweet little college-senior Tara told me? That lies are at the heart of all relationships.”
“They teach her that in Philosophy 101?”
“Money well spent, don’t ya think?”
Drayco frowned, prompted Sarg to add, “I was kidding.”
Drayco replied, “Do you have a cold?”
Sarg gaped at him. “Never felt better. Why?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Your voice just sounded different.” Everyone’s voice had started sounding different to him, their usual colors, shapes, and textures off-center. And it wasn’t just voices, it was all sounds, something that hadn’t happened to him since the stress following the Cadden twins tragedy. Without his normal palette of 3D sound, the world was a less interesting place, more like gruel than a five-course meal.
It was Sarg’s turn to look at his watch. “We better go meet Agent Hanlon, or we’ll be late.”
After presenting their credentials to the gallery receptionist, she pointed them through the long hallway, past ancient statues made of travertine and limestone from Persia, Yemen and Syria, and down the stairs to one of the smaller galleries.
Sarg had met other members of the FBI’s art fraud division, but Hanlon was new. They’d been told to look for a blonde woman in brown leather boots, but it was moot, since she was the only person in the room.
When she turned to greet them, Drayco could feel Sarg’s posture stiffen and guessed he was trying as hard as Drayco not to stare at the woman’s face. Unlike most people following major facial cancer surgery, Agent Holly Hanlon didn’t try to hide her scars behind heavy makeup. From the looks of the slightly sunken cheek and missing right nostril, he guessed more plastic surgery was in her future.
She shook their hands and got down to business right away. “I checked our art theft database after you contacted me. The art broker you mentioned, Giovanni Nardello, did pass away recently as you were told by Faust Marchand.” She shook her head. “We’ve had our eye on Marchand for a while, but Nardello was clean. Near as we could tell.”
Sarg said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could get our hands on Nardello’s ledgers?”
The facial scars made it difficult for Hanlon to smile, but she flashed some teeth as she reached into the large portfolio case slung over her shoulder and pulled out a cloth-bound book. “Nardello was the old-fashioned kind. No computers.”
Drayco exchanged a hopeful glance with Sarg and tried to contain his excitement as Hanlon continued, “The painting you described—that Chinese calligraphy. It was sold on February tenth.”
Two days before Jerold’s murder. “Did Nardello note the buyer’s name?”
“He used a number, not a name.”
At Drayco’s disappointed look, she flashed more teeth again. “But after talking to Nardello’s daughter, we learned he kept a separate unlabeled log in a wall safe, with numbers linked to buyer names. His way of protecting the privacy of rich clients.”
She pulled a second, smaller book out of the portfolio and opened it to a bookmarked page, pointing at one entry. “The painting was bought in the name of an LLC.”
She put the book down and walked them over to a nearby gallery with an exhibit of Chinese calligraphy paintings, nodding at one in particular. “Is this similar to your painting?”
Drayco examined it. “All I know is our missing piece is Song Dynasty.”
“So is this one, from around AD ten eighty-two. They should share characteristics, in case you come across it, yourself.”
She stood next to the painting and pointed out the brush strokes of the thin, elegant script. “Calligraphy is like a mirror for each artist, a silent reflection of the soul. Each artist had his own technique.”
“Enhancing its value,” Drayco said.
She nodded. “I couldn’t find info your piece was sold to a museum yet, but we’ve tagged it in the database in case it is. Whether the buyer knew it was stolen or not, there’s still a crime involved. That is, if your young art owner wants to press charges. His word is the only proof we have it was stolen in the first place.”
Sarg asked, “What’s your recovery rate of stolen artworks?”
“Still only about a third. And we get new reports of missing pieces all the time. The elderly are particularly vulnerable, especially once dementia kicks in.”
They thanked Hanlon for her time and snaked their way through the maze of rooms to the first floor. Drayco paused at a case that was part of the ancestor exhibit to look at the row of small statues, reading the description.
In certain Chinese cultures, it was believed offerings for the deceased provided for their welfare in the afterlife, and in turn, the dead influenced the fortunes of the living. What would Jerold Zamorra have to say to him right now? Or to Ashley or Edwin?
Once Sarg and Drayco were back outside the gallery, Drayco felt drawn to those banners and couldn’t stop looking at them. “Did you see the name of that LLC?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Same one Brisbane used to buy his island home.”
Sarg whistled. “I guess it’s possible Jerold had more than one fraud scheme going. Not just a scam lottery but a stolen artwork ring. Maybe he teamed up with Gogo and got cut out of the deal.”
“And Maura was involved, so Brisbane covered up the scheme.”
“Hell, maybe Ashley was part of it, too.”
Drayco added, “Like you said, a circle of theft and fraud. All of our suspects in one, giant theft ring. A family of con artists, like my own.”
Sarg put his hands on his hips. “I gather you don’t think that’s a possibility.”
“Why?”
“Because you have that little twitch thing going on.”
“Twitch?”
“When you don’t buy an idea. You get this little twitch on the right side of your face.”
Drayco stared at him. “Are you making that up?”
“Nope. Never said anything because me knowing and you not knowing came in handy at times. But in the interest of our newfound openness and honesty,” he tilted his head up at Drayco, “I thought I’d share.”
Drayco rubbed a hand through his hair. He’d never thought he was like his father in any way. Before he could dwell on that little tidbit of unwelcome insight, Sarg added, “I contacted the TSA chief. That former friend of Jerold’s you told me about, Barney Schleissman? Found out the address of the home he’s in. You interested?”
Having taken a taxi to the Sackler, Drayco only hesitated briefly before accepting Sarg’s offer of a ride. Their recent case together a few months ago had gone a long way toward bridging the chasm that opened up after Drayco took the fall for Sarg on a case and left the Bureau. But any bridge can develop cracks.
He didn’t doubt Sarg had his best interests at heart. But practically everyone close to him had lied. Drayco was beginning to think that whole not-trusting-thing Maura had going on wasn’t such a bad philosophy to have.
Chapter 43
The assisted-living “home,” with its mangy gray-and-white wallpaper and antiquated alarm system, looked like a cross between a rabid raccoon and an aging guard dog. The staff were about as friendly. Despite Drayco having the okay from Barney Schleissman’s family and Sarg holding out his FBI bona-fides, it took one receptionist, two nurses, and one administrator before Drayco and Sarg were led to Schleissman’s room.
They’d expected to see a man similar to the other shuffling, empty-eyed residents they’d passed in the hallways, but in the middle of the studio-sized space sat a surprise. Schleissman had on a full three-piece suit, was perched in a chair where he could watch a documentary on aircraft carriers, and pinched the nurse’s rump as she turned to leave.
He greeted them as if they were old friends. “My son said you were coming to chat about Jerold, the poor chap. Always thought he’d outlive me and make it to the century mark. Sor
ry I couldn’t make the funeral. They won’t let me drive anymore.” He leaned over with a conspiratorial whisper, “But I took the groundskeeper’s golf cart for a spin last month.”
It was hard not to like this man. Had his family cast him into the facility because he cramped their lifestyle—or, perhaps, to get their hands on his estate? “Mr. Schleissman—”
“Call me Barney.”
Drayco smiled. “Barney, it is. We hoped you could tell us more about Jerold. And his co-workers or any reason he might be a target for murder.”
“Went to one of Jerry’s recitals a while ago, that music group of his. I recall that young Chinese who’s engaged to Ashley. What was his name? Something like hurry-up, hurry-up. And that young woman, that mulatto, she was a chatty one. Asked me about Rena. Reminds me a bit of her, too.”
Drayco winced at the “mulatto” term, maybe a hint of Schleissman’s era or mental slips. “By Rena, you mean Rena Quentin?”
“Who else? That Rena thrived on taking control of any project and whipping it into shape. Kind of a control freak. Real OCD. Liked showing she could play right up there with the Big Boys. Must have made it harder with that sexual harassment thing. Took us all by surprise. Seemed so out of character for both.”
“He never discussed it?”
“Jerry kept his cards so close to his vest, they kinda merged with his DNA.”
“That’s why he left the TSA, wasn’t it, the harassment charge?”
“If you listen to the rumor vine. But he seemed kinda happy about it, almost giddy. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse to leave.”
“And he never talked about threats or stalkers?”
“Au contraire, mon frère.” Schleissman winked. “That’s French. Means no, bro.”
Drayco and Sarg had both stayed standing due to the lack of chairs, but now chose to sit on the bed. Sarg spoke up from the corner where he’d wedged himself. “What about his wife Ophelia, Mr. Schleissman? She was murdered a year after they got divorced. Must have been hard on Jerold.”
“Sad, very sad. Didn’t see it coming. The murder, that is. The divorce, well, that was a long time in the making. That Ophelia, she was a gold digger. His daughter, too. That’s women for you. Always wanting equal rights while holding their hands out for money.”
“Ashley believes Jerold killed her mother, Mr. Schleissman. Do you agree?”
“Seems unlikely. Guess I was a little too hard on Ashley just now. Don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but living with those two hot-tempered parents of hers couldn’t have been easy. They were like that. Passionate about life, just not each other. Jerry was the weaker of the two, mind you, which is why I can’t see him killing her. Ophelia walked all over him. But she was sexy and beautiful. He always did say he liked his women pretty and domineering.”
Schleissman winked at them. “Always wondered if he was into that M&M stuff, you know, the leather and whips.”
“Mr. Schleissman, did Jerold mention the name Maura McCune?”
“Can’t say I recall it.”
“Or possibly Iago Pryce or Alistair Brisbane?”
“Sorry. They friends of Jerry’s, too?”
“Possibly. Did you see signs of a gambling habit? Or a side business?”
“Gambling? We had office pools and bet on golf games. He lost most of ’em. Maybe he played the ponies, I suppose. I didn’t go with him if he did.”
Schleissman frowned. “Now that you mention it, right before he left, he was making a lot of phone calls. More than usual. He hadn’t stepped outside the office for one second before he was glued to the phone. Sometimes, he’d excuse himself for a private chat.”
He rubbed his chin. “Maybe he was just setting up his retirement portfolio. Maybe it was that side business you mentioned. We kinda lost touch after he left. I called him a few times. He was always busy, he said.”
The elderly man had gradually slumped lower in his chair and was looking a lot less energetic than when they’d arrived. “Now where is that nurse? She was here a second ago.”
Drayco looked at Sarg and nodded toward the door. Drayco smiled at Schleissman. “Thanks for speaking with us, Barney. Don’t go stealing any more golf carts.”
Schleissman smiled up at him. “Golf carts? I haven’t been on one of those in years. Do tell Jerold and his lovely wife Ophelia I said ‘hi’ when you see them.”
Sarg looked as grateful as Drayco to escape the life-sucking claustrophobic air of the facility. They sat on a bench outside, and Sarg said, “Guess you don’t want to think about your mother and all that ‘M&M’ business. But you can’t discount it.”
Drayco drummed his fingers on the arm rest of the bench, half-listening to Sarg.
“Okay, junior, what’s eating you?”
“Hmm?” Drayco focused on Sarg’s searching eyes.
“I know that look. You’ve got one of your crazy theories percolating in the puzzle-cortex part of your brain.”
“Do I?” Drayco gave Sarg his best cryptic smile. “It might have to do with a few phone calls I made to some coroners’ offices this morning. Or, as you say, I’m just trying to push Maura ‘M&M’ images out of my head.”
Sarg didn’t smile back. “Goddamn you, junior. You’re not withholding on me again, are you? Payback for me telling Brock about Iago and Brisbane?”
Drayco hopped up and held out his hand to Sarg. “Withholding? You make it sound like I’m the IRS.”
Sarg hesitated before taking Drayco’s outstretched hand and allowing himself to be hoisted to his feet. “You know what they say—the only two certainties are death and taxes. This case has given us the death part, but I doubt Jerold paid taxes on his fraud income. Nor his partner if you still think he had one.”
“Oh, I’m convinced he had a partner, all right.”
“Really?” Sarg raised both eyebrows practically to his hairline. “Based on what? The word of Maura and Iago? Not exactly solid sources.”
“You said it. The puzzle-cortex.”
Sarg snorted. “Is that where the synesthesia comes from?”
“That would be the freak-cortex.”
“Ah, that one. Think I remember it from psych class.”
They both turned at the sound of giggling behind them. An elderly man who’d managed to slip through the front doors was being herded inside by two linebacker-sized orderlies. Sarg shook his head. “You know everything Schleissman said is suspect, don’t you?”
“Even on cloudy days, a few rays of sunlight can shine through.”
Sarg put his hand lightly on Drayco’s arm. “Look, junior. You gonna be fine on your own tomorrow? Onweller is pushing me to wrap up my work on that kidnapping case.”
“Kidnapping? I didn’t know that was your current project.”
“The Iowa PD found the guy, but we’re trying to tie him to a couple of other older abductions.” Sarg added, “I hate kidnapping cases.”
He didn’t have to say why. Sarg’s physical wounds had healed from that three-year-old disastrous kidnapping case of theirs, but the bleeding from the emotional cuts hadn’t stopped. With him or with Drayco.
“I meant what I said. About that Pryce guy. And if Brisbane is worse, watch your back. Or wait until day after next, and we’ll work on this together, ’kay?”
“You’re in more danger driving home through the mixing bowl and down I-95.”
Sarg slapped his forehead. “That reminds me. Elaine wants Crêpes Suzettes for dinner. I gotta pick up some brandy. What you havin’? Something on a bun just for a change?”
“I’m meeting someone. Although there may be buns involved.”
Sarg gave him a sharp look. “Anyone I know?”
“Yes.”
Sarg took the hint and headed to his car. If Drayco hurried, he’d just make it in time.
Chapter 44
Drayco wasn’t used to seeing Nelia Tyler the law student as opposed to Nelia Tyler the deputy, but he liked it. Even though she had the day off from law school du
e to the holiday, she couldn’t quite put her conservative-professional attire out to pasture. Above her black slacks she wore a soft gray V-necked sweater and sported dangly earrings shaped like mini-Derringers.
He pointed to the earrings. “Gift from Sheriff Sailor?”
“Mail order. Couldn’t resist. Gary thinks I need a knitted gun cozy to complete the ensemble.”
“That whole roommate thing working out for you?”
“Gary helps keep me sane. And he makes a great study partner.”
“Good, that’s good.” Drayco didn’t tell her he’d done a little background check on Gary, just to make sure he didn’t have a record. “How was your weekend? The usual murder, menace, and mayhem in lovely Cape Unity?”
“It was pretty quiet, actually. Even got in some study time at my desk.” She looked around the Columbia Island marina set on the Pentagon Lagoon. “It’s lovely here.”
Since it was out of season, only a third of the slips were occupied by boats. The marina cafe was just shy of closing time, but the staff packed a takeout order for them, and Drayco guided Nelia to the picnic tables.
He pointed out a reddish stone monolith a short distance across a footbridge. “Lady Bird Johnson liked this view of D.C. so much, she hand-picked the Grove for the President’s memorial. It’s one of the most relaxing spots around. Off-peak it’s practically empty.” He’d forgotten how well you see Hains Point from here, the place he’d met Rena after her tennis lesson.
Nelia took in the pink and crimson reflections on the water from the approaching sunset as a slight breeze ruffled the bangs on her forehead. “You always take me to the nicest places.”
“You aren’t disappointed it’s not a fancy restaurant?”
“Can’t beat the view. Besides, it’s the company that matters.” She finished the last of her fried catfish sandwich and licked her fingers. “This must be gourmet fare for you.”
“Why?”
“Benny filled me in on your unorthodox food combinations and inability to cook.”
“Ah. Are you a gourmet cook like Sarg?”
“No, but I make a pretty mean beer omelet. I’d love to cook for you sometime.” Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked away.
