by KJ Kalis
“Come on in,” the woman shut the gate behind them, the metal clanging together as the lock reengaged. “Who are your friends?” the woman said, walking back behind her desk. The guard didn’t have much of a workstation, Kat realized. An old reclaimed office desk, a set of file drawers, and a chair whose wheels rattled on the floor. It wasn’t even a proper office, just some furniture shoved up against the cyclone fence. It seemed kind of strange for a warehouse that kept so many valuables.
“Guests of Scotland Yard,” Henry answered, not being terribly specific about who Kat and Eli actually were.
The woman sat down in her chair with a harrumph, “Well, your guests will need to sign in here.” She pushed a three-ring binder towards them, the pages open with other signatures listed. She tapped on the page with a ballpoint pen pointing where they needed to sign.
After Henry and Eli signed, Kat took a moment and filled out the line where her information was required. She scanned the lines above to see who else had signed in recently, but it seemed the dates were few and far between. There had been a few visitors the month before, but not many. Kat realized that the guard must sit at her desk day after day with little to do other than to wait for the next person to show up to sign in.
“Do you know what you’re looking for?” the woman asked, not getting up.
Henry nodded, “We’re looking for a shipment they got here just a few hours ago. Pieces of art.”
The woman tapped on the keys of the computer that sat on the corner of her desk. Unlike most offices that had flat screen monitors, her monitor was old and bulky, part of the entirely reclaimed set of furniture and accessories she had for her little makeshift office. “An art shipment?”
Henry nodded again, “Yes, it came in from New York.”
The woman squinted and then frowned, “Yes, we did just get a shipment in from New York. Not sure if it’s what you are looking for, but it will be back by the receiving dock until we have a chance to process it.” She pointed a short, thick finger past them and to the left, “Walk down this aisle to the back of the building until you see the loading dock. What you are looking for should be there.” She squinted again, “The manifest reads the last four digits are eight, nine, two, three. Look for those numbers painted on the side of the crates.”
The three of them walked off, Kat and Eli following Henry. His work boots didn’t make any noise at all on the dusty concrete floors. Kat took a deep breath then, glad for the fresh air after getting off the airplane, even if it was filled with mold and the smell of new wood from the warehouse.
On either side of her enormous metal racks rose like giants out of the floor. They seem to be made of structural steel, the kind industrial spaces would use. From floor to ceiling there were wooden crates and containers stacked, some of them covered in plastic, some of them just raw wood. Kat wondered what was in each one of the crates as they passed by. “Henry, what kind of things come through customs?”
“Well, all sorts of things have to be checked through customs. Everything from items that are purchased overseas to shipments of personal items, furniture and even food — something like olive oil,” Henry said, not breaking stride.
While the building from the outside didn’t seem to be that large, walking to the loading dock convinced Kat that it was much bigger than she thought it was, probably at least five hundred thousand square feet. Off in the distance, she could hear beeping, the kind that a forklift would make when backing up. Accessing stored items that were nearly three floors up from the ground would require something that large.
Kat drifted back and walked next to Eli for a moment, “You okay?” Eli hadn’t said a word since they got out of the car in front of the customs building.
“Yes, quite,” Eli shuffled along as quickly as he could behind Henry. “I don’t like to get too involved with government types, if you know what I mean,” he said motioning his head towards Henry. “Haven’t had good luck with them in the past.”
“Henry’s a good guy,” Kat said. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Before Kat could ask Eli what he meant, light glowing from up ahead told her they were getting close to the loading dock doors. Instead of crates and boxes being organized neatly on the Industrial sized shelves they had passed, the items that had just been received were simply stacked at the entrance, awaiting search and processing.
To the right of the loading dock doors, there was a work area. Incandescent lights hung from the ceiling, making a quiet buzzing sound and bathing the area in a harsh light. Long worktables were set up end-to-end, with a few customs agents looking inside smaller boxes. Along the back wall, it looked like someone’s garage. Tools were hung against the wall in a precise order. Kat guessed those were for opening the crates and accessing their contents. Sitting against the wall between the loading dock doors where the tools were hung was a stack of crates. Eli walked straight over to them, running his finger across the numbers, “Here.”
His voice caught Kat’s attention, “Eli, did you find something?” Kat was standing, suspended between the work area and the pile of crates. She walked over to him, wondering what he had found.
“I think these are the crates.” He pointed to numbers that had been spray-painted on the side in light blue paint. “See? They match the numbers the agent at the front gate gave us.”
Henry had come up behind them without Kat realizing, “Indeed. Those are the numbers the person at the gate gave us.” Henry strode towards the two agents that were working at the tables. Kat couldn’t hear what he said, but she saw him flash his ID and then one of the agents, a blonde woman wearing rubber gloves and inspecting a box filled with small items, walked over to the wall and handed him a crowbar.
“They’re going to let us open it,” Henry said with a smirk. “I always wanted to open one of these customs crates. It’s like treasure hunting. Never know what you might find.”
Henry wedged the edge of the crowbar in between the box and the wooden top giving it a little push, the wood creaking as he did. Before he could pull the crowbar out, the woman that had handed him the crowbar walked over. “Excuse me, I didn’t ask, but what are you looking for?”
The woman that had approached them was far more pleasant than the guard at the gate, Kat realized. She was white pale, with yellow blonde hair and green eyes. She wore the same uniform as a guard at the gate, but she looked better in it for some reason. Kat wasn’t sure why. Henry glanced back at her, setting the crowbar down. “Sorry. I assumed the guard at the gate let you know. We need to check on this shipment that came in from New York. Apparently, there is some art in it that may have been misplaced.”
The customs agent, her last name Davis, emblazoned on her vest, nodded, “I see. Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll stand here while you do this. It’ll save me some time anyway.”
Henry nodded. “Of course.” He picked up the crowbar again and reinserted it in the top of the crate. Overall, the crate was more than eight feet wide, Kat guessed. It was taller and wider than it was deep, probably only being about four feet in depth. Kat wondered how they could have gotten all of the art in one crate. Thirty pieces wouldn’t fit. Before she could ask the question, the customs agent said, “There are two more crates just like this one over there.” She pointed to the other side of the loading dock, “We just haven’t had time to take a look at them yet. They just got here.”
“That’s understandable,” Henry gave the crate top another push with the crowbar. Cracking and squeaking ensued, the top of the crate pulling away from the wood. Kat could see nails sticking out through the lid. Henry worked his way around the top, loosening it in places. Within a minute or so, the top was free from the base. Kat, Eli, Henry and the customs agent each took a side and lifted the heavy wooden top away from the base, setting it over to the side, leaning it up against the wall.
Kat peered inside. On the top, there was a layer of packing peanuts, the kind that
you would see in nearly any type of shipping box. Eli, like a kid in a candy store, started digging through the box for the canvases, shipping peanuts spilling out the corners of the crate and onto the floor. “Here,” Eli said, his hands buried below the surface of the shipping peanuts. “I feel something.” He looked up at Henry, “Can you give me a hand getting this out?”
The two men lifted a wrapped package out of the crate. From where Kat was standing it was impossible to see what was inside, the plastic wrapped around it in so many layers. “Let’s take that over to one of the worktables,” the customs agent said. “You’ll be able to get a better look at that over there.”
The men didn’t say anything, simply carrying the rectangular object over to the table. From the way they were moving, it didn’t look like it was that heavy, though it was definitely bulky, Kat thought. From a tool chest on the wall, the customs agent, Davis, went and retrieved a box cutter. “You’d better let me do the cutting. If you damage the interior, I’ll get into trouble. If I damage it no harm done…” Davis shrugged her shoulders. “It’s part of the job.”
Kat stood back for a moment watching as Davis cut away the layers of plastic exposing a wooden frame. Even when the plastic was removed, Kat still couldn’t see what was inside the crate. It was almost as if there was a crate within a crate. There was a solid sheet of Styrofoam four feet by four feet and maybe an inch in depth that covered whatever laid beneath. Kat held her breath. She hoped that they hadn’t traveled the entire way to London only to realize that the shipment Henry had found out about was nothing more than a common customs exchange between an art gallery and a customer. That would be disappointing, not to mention it would leave them with no motivation for Hailey’s murder. Kat had to keep reminding herself that that was the reason they had traveled so far to look at what was in the crates. It was all about Hailey. The memory of her parents and the stricken look on their faces passed through Kat’s memory. She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. She needed to focus on what was in front of her. That was the crate.
Henry lifted the thin piece of Styrofoam off the surface of whatever was below. Kat expected to see a painting, but all she saw was brown craft paper, carefully wrapped around an object. She sighed. Davis looked at her, “Always amazing how much packing they put in these crates.” She shook her head. “I’ve worked here for ten years and it seems like each year they come up with new and more bloody difficult ways to pack things.”
Kat smiled and immediately turned her attention back to the crate. She watched Henry and Eli wedge their fingers up underneath the covered object and lift it up, carrying it over to the worktable, the harsh light growing dull as it hit the kraft paper.
By the way that Eli moved, Kat could tell he was excited. His small fingers lifted the object, flipped it over and found the seams where the paper had been folded and taped. He carefully started to unfold it. From where Kat was standing, she could see the back supports of the canvas emerge, the wood peeking out from around the edges. Eli pressed his fingers on the edge of each side of the canvas without touching the paint. He quickly, with one movement, flipped the canvas over and laid it down on the table. He stepped back and stared. “Ah, yes,” he said, leaning over to look at the painting, his fingers interlaced behind his back.
Kat moved closer to the table, trying not to trip over the packing materials they had left on the ground. The painting that lay before them looked like it was in the spirit of the paintings that Kat had seen at the exhibition hall of the art college. The mood of the painting was dark, with a bright spot of light in the middle of it where a woman, the left side of her face illuminated almost to white, stared back from the canvas. She was leaning slightly forward, a blue coat draped around her shoulders, a red hat perched at a tilt on her head. Eli sucked in his breath, “Oh, my word,” he said, stepping back from the painting.
Kat furrowed her brow. Although she recognized that the style was the same as the painting she had seen in the exhibition hall, she didn’t understand why Eli was reacting the way he was. She glanced at Henry, who shrugged his shoulders. “What is it, Eli?” Kat tilted her head and looked at him, wondering what made him react so strongly.
“I’ve never seen anything like this up close before,” Eli said. “It’s breathtaking.” Eli started to move around the three sides of the table that he could access, his body bent over, peering at the painting. “The work is detailed, yet fluid,” he whispered.
Kat felt like she had lost him into a different world. She stared at Henry.
Henry took a step back from the table. “I’m sorry, mate. You are going to have to fill us in...”
Eli stopped and stared at both of them. “If what I’m seeing is right, we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands than I suspected.”
18
Carson had just stepped out of the interview room, finished with the setup, when Alberto Sosa, the attorney for Miles Nobesky, arrived. Alberto stuck out his hand, his long fingers looking like they had just received a fresh manicure. “Good to see you, Detective.”
Carson took his hand, resentfully, “Thanks very much for making this happen.”
“I know how the game works. I realize you are just trying to do your job.”
“That’s exactly the case,” Carson nodded. “As you can imagine, the president of the art college, the mayor, and my chief really want to get this case closed as soon as possible.” Carson had no idea how the president of the art college or the mayor felt about the case. It didn’t matter to him. It would matter to someone like Alberto. “I’ve got a room set up over here for us. Where’s Miles?”
Alberto shifted his gaze back towards the front door, “He should be here any moment with his foster mom.”
“Barb?”
“That’s correct. She’s had custody of him for about two years. From what I understand, he had a rough start to life.”
Carson couldn’t tell if Alberto was trying to build some sympathy for Miles or not. Knowing what kind of attorney he was, Carson wouldn’t have been surprised if Alberto was already playing the sad case game. Unfortunately for Alberto, Carson had been on the job long enough to know that everyone had some sort of tragedy in their life. It didn’t matter how happy their life was overall or not. Bad breaks were a fact.
Before Carson could respond to Alberto’s comment, he saw a woman and a young boy walking back through the cubicles of the police department. It was Miles and his foster mom. Barb was a short woman, with uncolored hair that desperately needed a touchup, caught in a ponytail behind her back. She had a broad face and small eyes. “Alberto?” she said, “How long is this going to take? I have other kids to take care of.” She didn’t bother to say hello to Carson.
When Carson had started working as a police officer, the fact that Barb had ignored him would’ve gotten under his skin. Now he knew better. Over fifteen years he’d seen most of the games, and the new ones that he hadn’t seen he could usually sniff out within a few minutes. Playing ignore the detective was an old one, one that wouldn’t work with him. “Barb? I’m Detective Carson Martino. Thanks for bringing Miles in.”
She nodded without saying anything. She just kept staring at Alberto. Alberto quickly took up the slack in the conversation, “Detective Martino has a room set up for us over here. Would you like to come in with us? Would you prefer if I handled the interview with Miles?”
Barb shook her head and eyed up a chair that was positioned just outside the door. “I’ll stay out here. You can handle it,” she said brusquely.
Carson wasn’t surprised by her reaction. When people were interviewed, they seemed to fall into one of two tracks. Either they clung onto their attorney and glanced at him or her before answering any question at all, or they completely disengaged with their attorney and went off the rails. It looked to Carson like Barb was one that would cling. Was Barb a foster mom for the right reasons? He pushed the thought away. At this point, it didn’t matter. That was some
thing for Social Services to figure out. “Let’s have a seat in here,” he said to Alberto and Miles. “This won’t take too long.”
Carson followed Alberto and Miles into the room. Miles took the chair that was farthest back on the same side of the table as Alberto. Alberto set his briefcase down on the floor. Carson took the chair on the other side of the table, sitting across from Miles. “Miles, how are you doing today?”
Miles shifted in his seat, looking down at the table. He didn’t make eye contact, but he did speak. “Okay, I guess.”
Carson stared at him. So much for not speaking, he thought, looking at Alberto and then back at Miles. Alberto shrugged as if he didn’t know what to say. Carson turned back to Miles. “So, this is going to be really easy today. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you just answer them the best you can.” Carson shifted in his seat, “Now if your attorney has another question or he doesn’t want you to answer, he will let me know that. Okay?”
Miles nodded.
“Great. So, what can you tell me about the day you went to go play basketball in Calhoun Square?”
“A couple of my friends texted and wanted to know if I wanted to go.”
“Yes,” Carson looked down at his file. “They said they were playing basketball at the other end of the square and you disappeared for a few minutes. Is that true?” Carson watched Miles carefully, looking for any signal to let him know whether Miles was telling him the truth or not.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, that’s okay.” Carson opened his file and pushed a picture of Hailey Park toward Miles. “Do you know this girl?” Carson had been careful to choose a picture of Hailey when she was alive, not one of her bloodied body. He was sure that Alberto would have an objection to that. Carson didn’t need any reason for Alberto to pull Miles away from the interview. This might be the only chance that he got.
Miles shook his head, his eyes riveted on his lap.
