The Bloody Canvas

by KJ Kalis

  Sitting in her office that night, she realized that if she could find things the people collected but couldn’t get anywhere else, she could command whatever price she wanted. It might no longer be cigars, but there had to be other things that were hard to get. With her father’s business contacts, she had at her fingertips plenty of people willing and able to pay whatever she asked.

  The next weekend, Stella visited a friend back in Romania. The friend was an art student, someone that Stella had met while she was at university in London. There was a new exhibit of Dutch Masters being shown near her family’s home. The two of them decided to go see it, stopping for lunch along the way. Pointing to a portrait of a young man and a woman standing together by Vermeer, she asked her friend, “What’s a piece of artwork like this worth?”

  The friend shook her head. “It’s priceless, Stella. There’s no way anyone would ever have enough money to pay for something like this.”

  Though it was a nice piece of art, Stella wasn’t attracted to the design. She was, however, attracted to the value.

  Stella sat down and crossed her legs in the chair where she was sitting, feeling the muscles in her legs start to cramp. She needed to get some sleep before her meetings in the morning. The fire crackled in the background. Artwork had become the basis of her import-export business. It had evolved over time, of course. First, she moved small shipments of real art. Now, she moved hundreds of millions of dollars in forgeries. No one knew. Not even Marcus.

  Stella shook her head. Now the drug portion of the business had gotten her in trouble. She’d never been that interested in taking drugs herself. She wanted to be in command of her senses. She knew that her brother Stefan had experimented with cocaine when it was fashionable a decade ago but quit when some of his father’s men took him out back and taught him a lesson. It was the harsh reality of being Marcus Rusu’s son. Fun was allowed, but it had to be under control. In a way, Stella was glad that her father had put a stop to Stefan’s drug habit. Stefan could have easily gotten addicted. He could’ve taken the whole family down with him.

  Stella stared off out through the window. It was dark. The only thing she could see were lights glowing in the distance from the city. She knew the real reason that Marcus had stopped her brother's drug addiction wasn’t out of love. It was a business decision. Drug addicts tended to get themselves into trouble and take the people down around them. Marcus couldn’t afford that.

  Stella took a deep breath and held it in her chest, the way that she used to do when she would swim in the lake near their chalet in Switzerland. The water had always been ice cold, no matter what time of the year they were outside. She let her mind wander for a moment, knowing that it was working on its own to solve the problem of the drug dog. She swallowed, let the breath out and realized that even if they lost the drugs and the art, it could be replaced. It would be a serious loss to the business, but she would survive. She always did.

  30

  By the time Carson got back to his house, it was late. Knowing that the artwork Kat tracked to London included a drug shipment changed everything. No matter how hard he tried to sleep, it wouldn’t come. After tossing and turning, he got up, leaving the bed wrinkled. He was restless.

  He went downstairs, opened the refrigerator and got out a bottle of water. This case was keeping him up nights, something that he wasn’t used to. It felt like someone had dumped two separate jigsaw puzzles out on the same table. There was no telling which piece belonged to which puzzle and no telling what the final picture was supposed to look like. Carson didn’t like being confused, and yet he was.

  He picked up his phone and stared at it. It was the middle of the night. He was due at the police station in just over four hours to start his morning shift. His gut told him that going into the office wasn’t going to solve any of the problems he was having. He quickly scrolled through his contacts and tapped the phone number for Chief Jackson. He stood stock-still waiting for the call to connect.

  “Yes?”

  “Chief, I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of the night. This is Carson.”

  “Yes, Carson. I know it’s you. You’re in my phone.”

  “Sorry about that, Chief. Listen, I have a problem. There’s been a development in the Hailey Park murder case.” Carson could hear the sound of the chief getting out of bed, a little grunting coming from him.

  “Something happened in the middle of the night?”

  “Not here, sir. Beckman, the journalist, called. She’s in London with Scotland Yard. They found the art that had been stolen from Hailey Park’s apartment.”

  “Son, that sounds like news you could have told me at the beginning of the shift.”

  Carson flushed, “Sir, that’s not all.”

  “Yes?”

  “It turns out there was a shipment of carfentanil included in the shipment.”

  Carson could hear rustling in the background. It sounded like the chief was making himself some coffee. “Hold on for a second, Carson. I need some coffee if this is going to get serious.”

  Carson could hear water running in the background. “Okay, I’m back. Now, what were you saying?”

  “It seems like this case has taken a turn, sir. I think that we are talking about more than just an art student getting murdered.”

  “All right. I’ll bite. Run me through it.”

  Carson started to pace again, giving his boss all the details that he had yet to pass over in his completed report. He started to piece the puzzle together, from the initial stabbing to the expensive attorney hired to protect the boy that had been accused, to the stolen artwork, to the fact that Kat and Eli had found the art in London, Kat’s escape and now the drug stash and Oskar Kellum’s death. “Sir, I think we're dealing with a much larger issue. I think that Hailey’s death was just the cleaning up of loose ends.”

  “What are you suggesting, Carson?”

  “I’m thinking I need to go to London.” The words hung in the air for a moment. Carson swallowed hard, not knowing how Chief Jackson would react. Joe had been a longtime supporter of his but asking to go to Europe to follow up on what could easily be viewed as just a local case might be a bit of a stretch.

  “If I sent you to London, and I am saying if,” Joe responded, “What would you hope to find?”

  Carson sucked in a breath. He hadn’t gotten a no yet from the chief. That, at least, was good news. “Well, I could go and help Scotland Yard and Kat and Eli try to figure out what happened, and how it’s connected to Hailey. They might need our local perspective in order to finalize the case.” Carson knew this was a bit of a sales job. A little weak, even. He was hoping the chief would buy it.

  “I don’t know, Carson. That’s a big expense for a small department like ours. Don’t you think that Scotland Yard can handle it?”

  Carson needed to think quickly if he had any hopes of getting the approval to go to London. “I can see your point, sir. What I’m concerned about is that Scotland Yard will solve the larger case of the art and the drugs, but we won’t get a resolution about Hailey’s murder. If we don’t, then it may become a cold case and still be on our books for years to come.” Carson hoped that the idea of having a cold case hanging around Joe’s neck would be enough to motivate him to let Carson go.

  Carson heard what sounded like a chair being pulled away from the table. The chief didn’t respond. “Let me think about this. I’ll call you back in a little bit.”

  “Okay. Thank you, sir. Again, sorry to wake you.” Carson ended the call not sure if he should feel hopeful or defeated. He couldn’t tell from the tone of Joe’s voice if it sounded like he was leaning towards letting Carson go or keeping him at the department. Carson stood and stared, not sure what to do. It was really too late to go back to bed. Even if he did, he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

  Carson had left his laptop on the counter charging for the night. He flipped the lid open and pressed the button to wake it up. Within a few seconds, it came to life. Carson
typed in the word carfentanil. He had learned about it at training they had attended as a department about eight months before. Scrolling through the information he realized that this powerful drug was incredibly valuable. Smugglers would move it throughout the world, cut it with items like cleanser, and then sell it on the streets. No matter where it went, it left bodies in its wake. Whoever was moving the drugs, was clearly someone without remorse. They would have a lot of blood on their hands.

  Carson leaned back on the stool he was sitting on, feeling the wooden back cup his shoulders. He let his mind wander, hoping that he could somehow see a path forward that would explain all the different parts of the crime. The drugs added a very different twist to what had been going on. He squinted, hoping that his thoughts would come into focus. The fact that valuable drugs were tied in this case explained a lot. The life of an art student wasn’t worth much in the face of a smuggling ring. Where the artwork fit in though, he wasn’t sure. Was it just a front to ship the drugs?

  He didn’t have time to fully complete his thought. His phone rang. “All right, Carson.” Chief Jackson started talking without even saying hello. “Take a trip to London. Let’s see if we can figure out how Hailey Park ties into all the other pieces. Go make Savannah proud.”

  “Thanks, Chief. I’ll let you know when I land.”

  Carson quickly looked up the next available flights to London. He found a connection through New York that left Savannah in five hours. It was more time than he would have liked, but it would do. He looked at the clock on his cell phone, realizing that with the time change, it was well into the decent hours of the morning in London already. He called Kat.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Packing. I’m on my way. I’ll be in later on today, or tonight.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  By the time Carson landed in London, it was dark out again. His body told him it was dinner time, but the clock said otherwise. He took a cab to Henry’s house. The door opened before he even got out of the car. “Welcome!” Henry said, grabbing for Carson’s bag, “How was the flight?”

  “It was a lot of hours of sitting still. That’s for sure.”

  Carson followed Henry into the house. Kat and Eli were sitting at a small kitchen table, Kat at her computer, Eli with both hands wrapped around a cup of tea. “Hey, Carson,” Kat said.

  Eli nodded, “Hello, Detective Martino.”

  Henry looked at Carson, “Make yourself at home. Would you like some tea?”

  Even though Carson had literally done nothing except walk from plane to plane and sit, he was exhausted. “Yes, please.” He sat down at the table next to Eli, “How are you two?”

  Kat chewed her lip. “I’d be better if we could figure this case out.”

  Carson blinked, “Me, too. That’s why I’m here.”

  For the next two hours, the group sat at the round, white dinette. Kat brought Carson up to date on what they had learned, and Henry provided some background on customs practices in England. Eli updated Carson on the status of the artwork, and they discussed how the drugs had been found inside the peanuts. “One of the investigators will let us know as soon they have more definitive information,” Henry said. “But I think we have the general gist from what William said.” Henry lifted his hands above his head, stretching, “I don’t know about you all, but I am spent. How about if we call it a night and regroup in the morning?”

  Everyone nodded, each one of them standing up and finding a place to sleep. Carson followed Eli upstairs, lying down on the other twin bed that was in the room Eli had slept in the night before. Carson didn’t even bother to change his clothes. He just curled up on top of the bedspread, hoping that when he woke up, they would be able to find the answers they needed.

  31

  Outside of Henry’s house, a shiny black cab pulled up across the street wedging itself between the work van and a small sedan that had been left there by their owners. David lifted the cap off his head and pushed his hair back, resettling the hat. He had been told to watch the house. For what, he wasn’t sure. He saw the lights go off, one by one, as though whoever was in the house was settling in for the night. A cold front had moved through London, dropping the temperature. He was glad for the thin jacket before he left earlier in the day. Pulling the collar up tight around his neck, he slid down in the seat, so that anyone passing at a glance would think the cab was empty.

  It was going to be a long night…

  32

  Christopher had slept well on the flight to London. One of his most powerful clients had requested to see him and had sent their private jet to collect him. It was his favorite way to fly.

  Flying privately was a much simpler process than commercial. With commercial flights, there were all the security checks and long walks to the gate, the horrible cups of coffee, and the cramped seating for hours at a time.

  Flying on a private jet, however, was actually quite pleasant. There were usually few people on the flight, and the pilot and the crew were generally ready to leave as soon as their guests arrived. When he had gotten a call to go to London, he had been given the name of a private airstrip and the tail number of the correct plane. It didn’t take him long to pack. Christopher never stayed for an extended period and any place. He checked out of his penthouse and asked for a driver to take him to the airport. As soon as he got there, he saw a bright white jet gleaming in the sunshine. The tail number matched the one that he had been given. He gave the driver a generous tip and carried his own bags to the plane.

  On the plane, he was met by a tall flight attendant, wearing a red dress. Some of the flight attendants provided additional services for their guests. Looking at her, he wondered how many men had gotten tangled up in her long black hair on a transatlantic flight. He wasn’t interested though.

  As Christopher settled in his seat, the stewardess, who he’d found out was named Michelle, brought him a scotch on the rocks. He reclined in his seat trying to relax. His mind raced ahead. He didn’t know why the Rusu family Had called him to come to London. He had done work for Marcus, the father, for decades, nearly since he started working as a broker. In the last five years, he had done work for Stella, Marcus’s youngest daughter. She had proven to be a challenge. Moody, temperamental — all the things that made high-powered clients difficult. She would say one thing one day and the next completely change her mind.

  Christopher laid back in his seat as he watched Michelle prepare a bed across the aisle with sheets and a blanket. Unlike flying commercial, the seats converted on a private plane to a proper bed.

  Michelle looked at him as he jiggled the ice in his glass. “Would you care for another, sir?”

  “Yes, please. And I’m ready for my dinner if you have anything available.”

  “Of course. We have a choice of salmon or beef tenderloin tonight. Which would you prefer?”

  Another side benefit of traveling on a private plane is that the food was much better, generally prepared by either their own chef or a restaurant chef and brought on board just before departure. The stewardess did the final cooking for the guest. The portions were larger, and the food wasn’t as salty as on a commercial plane. “I’ll have the tenderloin, please.”

  Michelle took his glass from him. “Certainly. How would you like that prepared?”

  “Rare.” He watched her as she walked away, toward the cockpit of the plane. Christopher hadn’t seen the pilots other than to give them a quick wave when he boarded the plane. After 9/11, all planes, even the private ones, had cockpit doors that were secured during the flight. They had a small peephole and a small opening where a flight attendant could push food through. The pilots even had their own private restroom. Christopher nodded to himself, making a note to investigate a new flight service for his own use. Flying private was the best option for travel. He didn’t believe anyone could argue that point.

  While he was waiting for dinner, Christopher’s mind wandered to Stella R
usu. He didn’t know why she had called him to London. It was possible that she was unhappy with the shipment of art that Hailey had provided, or the solution he had come up with in order to tie up loose ends.

  A few months back, while he was traveling through France, Stella had asked him to come to the Rusu’s chalet in Switzerland. The meeting had been brief. Stella sat to the right of her father at a long table, her small, athletic body, curled up on the chair next to him, like a child. But she was no child, Christopher knew that.

  Marcus’s gravelly voice was still etched in Christopher’s memory. “Christopher, you’ve done good work for the family for a long time. We need to switch gears and find another option for Stella’s art import business. I hope you understand.”

  Christopher could feel sets of eyes boring into him, ones that belong to Marcus, Stella and Bobby, a lieutenant that had been with the family for decades. “Certainly.” He hesitated for a moment, not sure if he should ask, “May I ask a question?”

  Marcus didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

  “So that I can serve you better in the future, if you’d consider letting me continue on, that is,” Christopher phrased the question carefully, “Was there an issue with the quality or the delivery of the product?”

  Marcus looked at Stella as if he were encouraging her to answer. She cleared her throat, “No. It’s simply time to change directions.”

  Christopher nodded, knowing that they wouldn’t tell them anything more than they already had. It was up to him to get the job done. His job wasn’t to know why they wanted something done. His job was to do it. That was how he got paid. Even more, that was how he stayed alive.

  In the end, Marcus called a week later and told him that they did want to continue on. Christopher was relieved… sort of.