by N. C. Lewis
Dr. Stubbs' private office was an oak-paneled room with potted palms by the windows and vivid oil paintings of famous Texas battles on the walls. With the door closed, one forgot this was a medical facility. Behind a large executive desk sat Dr. Stubbs writing something on a notepad.
"It's unusual for me to accept visitors on Saturday morning," the doctor said, adjusting a pair of reading glasses and blinking with dark, staring eyes at Nick.
"Thank you for seeing me," Nick said, glancing at the doctor's handwriting on the file. " I suppose they reserve your mornings for patients."
"I never see patients in the mornings, that's for junior clinicians," he huffed. "Now, Detective King, what is it you want?"
This wasn't going as Nick had planned. He'd barely opened his mouth and already the doctor was riled up. Nick backpedaled. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting you should see patients in the morning; that would be a waste of your expertise and experience. But this morning, your administrative officer said you'd be in the office and available for a consultation."
The doctor's eyebrows shot up. "Consultation, did you say?"
Nick leaned forward; he was back on track. "On a rather delicate matter."
Dr. Stubbs leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. "Ah, I see. Please go on."
"I'd like to begin," said Nick in a deferential voice, "by apologizing."
Dr. Stubbs shifted in his seat, the edge of his lips turned up, almost imperceptibly, into a smile. "Go on, Detective King, I'm all ears."
Nick's stomach churned. He disliked Dr. Stubbs, disliked groveling, but had to play a cautious game so as not to raise any suspicions. He knew he was walking a fine line; one slip and the good doctor would be on the phone to the chief, and that wouldn't end well for Nick's stalled career.
Nick cleared his throat, glancing down at his hands as he spoke. "I made an unforgivable mistake at the museum the other day. Although it is police procedure to hold witnesses until they have given their statements. In a case of a person of your importance…" Nick gulped hard. "I should have… waived that rule. It was a most regrettable error." He looked up into the oversized face of the doctor.
The doctor's lips curved upward into a full, wolf-like grin but with pearly-white teeth in place of fangs. Nick saw in his eyes that it wasn't over yet, and he must grovel more. "It is refreshing to see a public servant raise their hand and take responsibility for, as you said, an unforgivable mistake." He drummed his thick fingers on the desk as if trying to decide his next move. "One wonders," he said at last, "if I hadn't complained to my good friend the chief whether such a forthright apology would be so forthcoming."
Nick thought fast. If he didn't stay on track his plan would fail. "Neither the chief of police nor my direct superior, Lieutenant Kostopoulos, know I'm here today. I visited you out of my own initiative… to apologize."
"Is that a fact?" the doctor said, blinking slowly behind his reading glasses. "Well… that sheds an entirely different light on things."
Nick knew then he had broken through the barrier of hostility. His plan was on track. Now he drew a deep breath, gathered his resolve. "As I mentioned earlier I have a problem, Dr. Stubbs. And you're the only one I can turn to."
Dr. Stubbs rubbed his chin and waited for Nick to continue.
Nick's heart was beating like a tin drum, but he didn't let his voice shake. "I mean, you're the only one who can resolve the issue."
"Go on," the doctor said with interest. "Please continue."
"It's about the evening Floyd Adams was shot."
The doctor's eyes narrowed.
It's now or never Nick thought as he began to speak, spacing out the words as if spelling. "In a murder investigation a detective follows all possible leads. Next week, one of our detectives will take your witness statement. For most detectives that is the last the witness hears. But there are other detectives, who, as part of normal procedure you understand, will ask said witness to state exactly where they were at the time the victim, let's say hypothetically Floyd Adams, was shot."
Dr. Stubbs opened his mouth to speak, but Nick raised his hand and continued. "Oftentimes witnesses say they were with their girlfriend, not realizing the girlfriend's whereabouts may become part of the formal investigation. If the girlfriend happens to be somewhere else, like working at a hotel reception desk, when the witness claimed her to be with him, the accuracy of the said witness's statement will be questioned, and the witness may find themselves at the center of a rather public investigation. Such a negative spotlight is never good for the ambitious… ruins careers—innocent or not. So... what do you think, again speaking hypothetically, the museum board will do when that happens?"
Again, Dr. Stubbs opened his mouth to speak but closed it quickly as his eyes grew wide in understanding.
Nick placed his cell phone on the desk, leaned forward, and spoke in soft tones. "Everything today is off the record."
Dr. Stubbs nodded but didn't speak.
Nick's voice dropped to a hushed whisper. "Dr. Stubbs, where were you the evening Floyd Adams was murdered?"
The doctor swiveled in his chair. He made some quick calculations, then swiveled back. "This is off the record, right?"
Nick nodded.
Staring ahead without blinking, he said, "I had a phone call about three in the afternoon with one of my rare art suppliers, Loren Harrington, and an early dinner with Dr. Hale, Hilary Hale… at her apartment. I left around ten p.m. and spent the rest of the night with Jillian… Dr. Jillian Livingston."
Chapter 27
Nick sat in his car staring absentmindedly out of the windshield at a hospital worker picking up trash. His mind reran the conversation with Dr. Stubbs like a movie projector, pausing at critical moments to zoom in on the doctor's facial expressions and slowing down his words to extract the full meaning.
It began to sprinkle light rain. Nick drew on his experience as a detective, years observing people in difficult circumstances, and he knew deep down that Dr. Stubbs wasn't their man. "Unless," he muttered, reaching for his jacket pocket and pulling out his cell phone. He had taken a photograph of the notepad when the doctor swiveled in his chair with his back to Nick.
He pulled up the image on his phone, excited. It was a good feeling. It didn't last long. The spidery scroll of Dr. Stubbs hand wasn't even a distant cousin of the hand that had penned I SAW WHAT YOU DID, AND I KNOW WHO YOU ARE on a torn fragment of a Moonies Burger Bar takeout bag.
The sprinkle escalated to heavy rain as a worker hurried inside the main building. Nick wound down the car window, letting in the warm, damp air, leaned backward in his seat, and for a while stared at the ceiling.
The sky darkened, lightning flashed, and a rumble of thunder made him sit up. It was a little after noon on Saturday, and there was nothing to do but go back home. There was a game on this evening. He wanted to have a beer, watch the action, and relax. How long could he work on one impossible case he wasn't even assigned to?
He started the engine, then killed it. What about Loren Harrington? Dr. Stubbs had said she was an art dealer. Could she have killed Floyd Adams and stolen the figurines?
Nick knew crooked dealers sold the vast majority of artifacts stolen from museums and art galleries to private buyers. Such items traded for huge values on the black market.
"Yes," he said realizing he'd made a breakthrough, "that is a highly plausible scenario."
He picked up his cell phone, dialed a request into police headquarters for details on Loren Harrington, closed his eyes, and waited.
Ten minutes later Nick sat in the afternoon traffic headed toward The Harrington Galleria.
◆◆◆
A bright-orange sun shone high in a blue sky with light, fluffy clouds as Nick stepped out of his car on East Tenth Street. The storm had passed.
Nick dodged the outstretched hand of a figure dressed in rags—man or woman? He couldn't tell. He hurried past parked cars to the Galleria's entrance. The store stood in darkness, and it
s dingy entranceway uninviting. But Nick leaned against the glass door, cupping his hands to peer inside. Then he knocked.
There was movement inside, a light flipped on bathing the Galleria in bright-white light. An attractive, young woman in a miniskirt, dark blue business blazer, white-silk blouse, and stilettos clicked over to the door. She had an expensive-looking handbag hanging loosely from her left shoulder.
"I'm Loren, the owner. Come inside," she said with a friendly smile. "I’m just opening. I split up my Saturday between here and the Bullock Texas State History Museum where I'm a volunteer docent."
As Nick strolled through the doorway, she half turned. "I have a large range of items, although not everything is on display. What are you looking for?"
"The person who shot Floyd Adams to death." He flashed his ID.
Loren stood very still looking from the badge to Nick.
"I want my lawyer," she said, the friendly smile gone, reaching into her handbag for her cell phone.
Nick knew in that instant the woman had something to hide. "Go ahead," he said. "What are you going to tell your lawyer? You haven't been charged with anything yet."
She placed the cell phone back in her handbag and gave him a challenging look. "What do you want?"
Nick sensed he didn't have long and got down to business. "Did you know Floyd Adams?"
"I'm in the historical artifacts business; everyone knew Floyd. I was so sorry to hear that—"
"Where were you the evening he was killed?"
Loren stared at him cold and hard, her eyes transformed into daggers. "This is absurd," she said at last. "I don't have to answer your questions."
Nick was hesitant to admit it, but she was right. He changed tactics. "Mind if I look around?"
"You got a search warrant?"
Nick shook his head slowly.
"Then get out!"
◆◆◆
On the sidewalk the sky had grayed over. Nick ambled back to his car, head bent down, thinking. He'd mention Loren Harrington to Detective Wilson as a hot lead. Then a wave of bitterness washed over him. If he were still heading the executive protection unit, or even working homicide, he'd have run Loren in for further questioning. As it was, he had to work off the radar. He wished he could leave the case alone, enjoy his weekend. But he couldn't, he was a detective.
"Detective King!"
Nick twirled around to an empty street.
"Detective King, look down."
Nick glanced down at a face staring out of a half-open car window.
"Quick! Get in."
He climbed into the passenger side of the dark-colored sedan.
"Paul, what's going on?" asked Nick staring at the man in the driver's seat.
"It's Agent Roman today; I'm on duty." Paul Roman was a federal agent whom Nick had worked with on several occasions. In moments of relaxation, when neither were on duty, they also shared a beer.
"I would have let you keep walking," Paul said in a flat voice. "But you had to go into the Galleria—that changed things. Our unit is working—"
"Surveillance," Nick said, finishing his sentence.
Paul nodded. "We've had Loren Harrington under surveillance for two weeks. Until the moment you entered her store, she had no idea she was under suspicion for anything."
"Oh," Nick replied, a sinking feeling filling his stomach. "Are you close to hauling her in?"
"Very close."
"For what?"
Paul didn’t answer.
Nick took a guess. "Trafficking stolen artifacts?"
Paul blinked rapidly. "Good guess. What's your interest?"
"The murder of Floyd Adams."
Paul slowly shook his head. "You're barking up the wrong tree."
"How so?"
"Loren was at home when Floyd Adams was shot. I know because I drew the short straw. I worked the evening shift that night."
Chapter 28
Nick hunched over the kitchen table reviewing the Floyd Adams file as Amy flitted around putting things away and tidying up. He'd hit a brick wall. There was nothing new in the file, and he had run out of leads. He shuffled the papers back into their docket, pausing momentarily to stare at the photograph of the handwritten note. If only he knew who CB was, he thought; at least that would give him something new to nibble on.
"Where is everyone?" he asked looking up. "The house is too quiet."
Amy sat down beside him. "Noel and Ruby, Zach, and Victoria drove down in the van to San Antonio."
"To shop in the indoor market?" Nick asked. He couldn't imagine that Noel and Zach would have much appetite for spending money right now.
"No, to ride the attractions at Six Flags."
Nick sat up straight. "Should Victoria be doing that in her condition?"
"You know Victoria." Amy stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter. "Are you going to come with me to Edwina Lutz's studio this evening? It would take your mind off the case and give us a rare opportunity to see a real artist at work."
Nick stared off into space, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, shaking his head, he said, "There's a game on tonight." Sometimes, when he was upset or working a difficult case, he'd watch a game and have a beer, his eyes on the screen but his mind exploring possibilities, working out details.
Another thunderstorm rolled across the capital city, darkening the skies and sending torrential pellets of rain. Amy walked to the kitchen sink, peered out of the window as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, and continued tidying up.
"Okay, honey," she said, placing a bowl into the dishwasher. "If you change your mind, the address is on the fridge. Anything new in the case?" They had talked earlier about Nick's encounter with Dr. Jeffery Stubbs and his brief meeting with Loren Harrington.
"Nope. It seems every trail is a dead-end." He picked up the photograph and peered at it.
"What's that?" Amy said, glancing over her shoulder.
"The medical examiner found it in Floyd's jacket pocket," he replied, holding it higher, so she could see.
Amy walked back to the kitchen table. Nick handed her the image. She squinted at it. "That's very unusual handwriting," she said at last. "It has an almost art-like quality. But I don't care for the message. Any idea of the identity of CB?"
Nick shook his head. "The whole case might revolve around this single scrap of paper. The only thing I know for sure is that the message was written on a Moonies Burger Bar takeout bag."
Amy placed her hands on her hips. "That's not much to go on. Everyone eats at Moonies."
Chapter 29
The storm had passed, leaving a keen wind that whipped litter around the sprawling parking lot at the front of Edwina Lutz's studio. It was part of a complex of low-rise, concrete-and-steel industrial units and filled with artisan businesses of every description.
Amy pulled her car into a space outside Harry's Bespoke Garden Sculptures, stepped out into the lingering humidity, mopped the back of her neck with a handkerchief, and looked around. "Not what I imagined," she said staring at the piles of twisted metal, wood, and paint cans piled up against two rusted dumpsters. For an instant, she thought about Nick, wondered how the game was going, and half wished she'd stayed at home with him to enjoy a beer.
A horn beeped. Amy looked in that direction. Dr. Stubbs climbed out of a low-slung sports car, glanced around, then smiled showing his pearly-white teeth as a peacock displays its plumes. "One likes to think of artist studios as neat and tidy, like the exhibits in a museum. But the truth is creativity is a messy process. Come on, let's go into Edwina's factory and see how she makes sausage."
Before Amy had time to object, Dr. Stubbs' clammy hand was on her elbow, guiding her gently to the entrance of Edwina's studio." I've had to let my fiancée go. Georgina and I weren't compatible," he whispered into her ear.
Inside, the low-wattage bulbs that flickered from the ceiling barely dented the gloom. It took several moments for Amy's eyes to adjust, and when they did, sh
e was surprised to find herself in a large room decked out with furniture from the eighteen century. Instead of smelling like paint, oils, and clay, the air was filled with the soothing aroma of lavender.
A tall grandfather clock stood in the corner near the door, its ancient pendulum swinging back and forth. An ornate Oriental rug covered the floor, and the paintings that hung on the wall were prints of Edwina's earlier works.
Toward the center of the room, there was a large wooden dining table, around which a handful of museum board members sat. Amy recognized Dr. Hilary Hale and Dr. Jillian Livingston. Miles Block turned and nodded.
To Amy's critical eye the studio looked more like a clairvoyant's parlor than the space where an artist plies their work. She wondered with amusement whether Edwina's creative abilities came from séances with long-departed artists. Perhaps, she thought, toying with the idea, Edwina's expressive paintings were really the channeled creations of others.
"Welcome to my studio," Edwina beamed. She sat at the far end of the room behind a tall counter that reminded Amy of a bar. In one hand she held a remote-control device that looked like a clicker used to change channels on a television. In the other hand she held an unlit cigar. "We were waiting for you. Everyone is here now, so I'll begin in a few moments."
Edwina paused while Amy and Dr. Stubbs seated themselves around the table.
"Oh, Dr. Stubbs would you mind checking that the outside door is locked and secured," she said suddenly. "I've had threats made against my life since the Floyd Adams shooting."
"Have you informed the police?" Dr. Stubbs asked, standing and hurrying to the door.
"A fat lot of good that will do."
"Got to agree with you there," Dr. Stubbs replied. "After my recent experience, I can't say I've much confidence in the Austin Police Department." He checked the door. "It's locked."
"Ladies and gentlemen," Edwina began in a cheery voice. "This evening I will walk you through my creative process, from idea origination to the finished product." She paused, glanced around at the eager faces. "Have any of you ever visited an artist's studio?"
There was a general murmur, and several people nodded.
