Skip sighed and looked off into space. When he turned back to Baldorf, he said, “That’s what she said?”
“Totally.”
Again? How true. His life hadn’t been the same since their first encounter. “I love her, Baldorf. Somehow, I can’t call what she’s done to my life ruining it. I have to find her and convince her I want to help.”
“She won’t listen, dude. Girl’s got her mind set on doing this thing on her own.”
Skip sighed and closed his eyes. Baldorf was right. Had he ever been able to change Roxy’s mind once she’d made it up? He stared at the map again. This was hopeless unless his friend could somehow track Roxy’s location.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me where she’s at right now, can you?”
Baldorf shook his head and held up a phone.
“Oh, crap,” Skip muttered. “That’s hers.”
“Yeah.” Baldorf laid the phone back on the desk and shrugged. “The only other thing she said was this had to be somebody who really hated her.”
“So she thinks this might not be so much about the money as someone getting revenge?”
“Sounded super sure on that one.”
Skip pursed his lips and looked around the room. He wanted to pace, to do something physical so he could think more clearly, but there was no room in this little bungalow for anything like that.
“The big problem is Roxy’s left a trail of victims over the years. I don’t know who they were, but I’m sure most of them never knew her real name. Plus, she hasn’t pulled a job in a long time. The only one I can think of who might have her real identity is Sonny Panaman. And since Bruno Panaman spent everything he had for Sonny’s defense, maybe he’s behind this. Can you look him up? Find an address?”
“Sure, dude.”
Baldorf switched to a different keyboard and monitor and about thirty seconds later a map appeared on which there was a pulsing red dot.
“That’s his place. Right there. You could be right. If this isn’t about the money—if it’s a hate thing—that’s probably your guy.”
“So it could be Bruno’s out to get her for sending his son to prison.”
“Or for the major cash drain. But why now? Dude’s had a couple of years to get revenge. Human’s don’t take drastic action without significant external stimulus.”
Skip snickered as he watched Baldorf’s face. “You’ve got a funny way of asking what pissed off Bruno Panaman.”
“It’s actually broader,” Baldorf said with a shrug. “You’re referring to an emotional state. What if there was a different stimulus? This thing with the kid might not be driven by emotion—it could be a calculated response to outside factors or influences.”
“Is that Baldorf-speak for ‘it’s complicated?’”
Baldorf gazed at Skip for a moment, then nodded. “That’s why I put up with you two, bro. You boil down the complex to its most basic elements. Yeah, it’s complicated. What do you think?”
“There are times when it’s frustrating having a certified genius for a friend, but I love you anyway, Baldorf. And, for once, I actually understood what you said. Alright, what would be the external factors? Let’s assume we rule out the money angle.”
“Totally. Kidnapping is like a high-risk methodology to resolve a financial crisis.”
“Right. So, what? This is a personal vendetta? That seems farfetched.”
“Possible, bro. Sending the dude’s kid to prison would be good reason for that kind of motive. But it still doesn’t answer the question, why now?”
“What if something happened to Sonny in prison?”
“Awesome. I’ll check.”
Baldorf spun around on his chair and began typing. He brought up a screen on which there were fifty pages of results.
“That’s all for Sonny Panaman?” Skip let his eyes flick down the page. “Wow. That’s a lot of stuff.”
“Let’s filter,” Baldorf said.
When the screen refreshed, there were five pages of results. Baldorf nodded.
“Better,” he said. “Let’s try one more.”
This time the list was narrowed down to a single page. Skip skimmed through the entries until he hit on the fourth line. “Holy cow.” He jabbed his finger at the entry and said, “That one.”
Baldorf nodded, positioned his mouse over the blue text, and clicked. The screen filled with a report about the release of Sonny Panaman.
“He’s out,” Skip croaked.
“Dude got early parole for good behavior.” Baldorf turned to Skip and frowned. “The California prison system is in a major upheaval with…”
“Baldorf! Focus. We don’t need to redesign the prison system. When did Sonny get out?”
“July 12.”
“Two weeks ago. That is not a coincidence. So, it’s not Bruno who’s behind this, but his son. I need to tell Roxy. I wonder if she’s put this together already. Whether she knows about Sonny or not, I’ll bet that’s where she went, to Bruno Panaman’s.”
Baldorf shook his head. “Got no way to track her, dude.”
“Even if you could, it wouldn’t do any good to try and play catch up. It doesn’t surprise me she left her cell.”
“What do you want to do next?”
“She won’t call from a burner because she knows we could track her. That means we need to provide support, but have no contact.”
Baldorf stared at Skip. “For real, bro? What are you going to do? Perform like a Spock mind-meld thing or something?”
“Nothing so bizarre. I want to go back to basics. Baldorf, I want to get inside that house and see if there’s anything to link either Sonny or Bruno to Lily’s disappearance.”
A wide smile spread over his friend’s face. “Awesome.”
“What’s so awesome about that? This is old-fashioned breaking-and-entering. I’m operating outside the law for her—again. I just hope Bruno doesn’t have an alarm system.”
“Not to worry. We’re going to do a drive-and-fly.”
“A what?”
“You don’t need to enter the house, our little mosquito drone will do the work for you. Get packed, bro. And you’ll be taking my car. You and the MD-1 are doing some field testing.”
CHAPTER NINE
Roxy
I PURCHASED THREE prepaid cell phones at the Rite-Aid drug store on Tamarack, unpacked one, and activated it. The other two, I stored for later. With the activated phone, I first dialed the number to check my regular voicemail remotely.
There were no messages, so I called the number for P.T. Richards, introduced myself, and learned that Bud had already given him a heads-up about me being in touch. We agreed to meet in Oceanside outside the theater. When I asked what he looked like, Richards said he’d find me—but only if he felt I wasn’t being followed.
Parking near the theater was always a bear, but I was fortunate and found a space only a few blocks away. As I sat on a planter in front of the theater watching families come and go, I swore that when I got Lily back we’d come to see whatever that stupid movie was she’d been dying to see.
A frail man with thinning hair approached me, smiled, then sat on the planter bench next to me. He held out a trembling hand. “P.T. Richards, Miss Tanner.”
“Roxy.” I shook his hand gingerly, which felt much like a dried twig after a long winter. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“I wouldn’t normally do this, but this is a favor to Bud. I’m retired.”
“What did you do, Mr. Richards?”
“I was an artist.” He held up a palsied hand and shrugged. “As you can see, I can barely hold a brush or a pencil these days. Forget drawing a straight line.”
“I’m sorry.” For some reason, I truly was. He seemed like a nice man, and being robbed of doing what he loved seemed a cruel twist of fate.
“It’s life, my dear. Enjoy what you can while you can. That’s my motto. I enjoyed. Now I exist.” He shivered and looked around.
“Are you cold? Maybe
we could find someplace warmer to talk.”
He nodded, stood, and cocked his head to one side. “Walk with me.” He shuffled away without waiting for me to rise. Keeping up was not going to be difficult, but how far were we going? From the looks of him, it wouldn’t be far. As we walked, Richards pulled his jacket closer and spoke without looking at me.
“Bud said you had questions about the sale of an Andy Warhol painting. What did you want to know?”
“I was recently in Bruno Panaman’s home and saw the space where he’d had the piece hanging on the wall. It was bare. Bud said you knew about the sale. Is that what happened? Bruno sold the painting?”
Richards shuffled up to a light standard and pushed the pedestrian walk button. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, and he seldom blinked. When the light turned green, he stepped into the crosswalk. “Yes,” he said about halfway across the street. “Bruno did sell the painting. But that’s not what you really want to know. Is it? Bud’s already told you the deal took place. I think you want to know why Bruno sold his most prized possession.”
He turned and fixed me with a stare that was surprisingly sharp. His eyes appeared clear and bright. Perhaps this was a man whose mind was still in excellent condition, but whose body had given up.
“Yes,” I said. “I would like to know.”
“First, you must understand the importance of this particular piece.” He stopped in front of a saloon and gestured for me to enter. “We can talk in here. It will be much warmer.”
I followed him inside. He walked the length of the bar, exchanging greetings with several of the customers as we passed through. I had no patience for the stares of the old lechers, but if I wanted this man’s story, I had little choice. We continued on past the bar and several open tables, then he led me down an open hallway, where he knocked on an old wooden door that needed a fresh coat of varnish.
A man I’d put in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair opened the door and greeted us. “Hey, P.T. Need the office?”
“Do you mind, Rudy? It will only be a few minutes. If that’s okay.”
“No worries.”
The man slipped past us and went straight to the bar. He sat next to one of the men P.T. had exchanged greetings with. The man was heavyset with a shiny pate and hugged the bartender as though they’d known each other for ages.
Richards gestured for me to enter. When we were both seated and the door was closed, he said, “We can talk freely now.” Without waiting for me to say anything else, he continued. “The painting you are asking about is The Last Warhol.”
I held up a hand with my finger extended. “That’s it’s name? The Last Warhol?”
“Yes. It was discovered by a Los Angeles art dealer in June 1987, just a few months after Andy Warhol died. The dealer had the piece authenticated, then offered it for sale a few months later. Bruno Panaman purchased it at a private auction on October 22, 1987 for four-point-eight million dollars.”
I sighed. Unless there was something incredibly special about this painting, Bud had sent me on a wild goose chase—but that wasn’t like Bud. He was not a man prone to miscalculation. “From what I know of art, a public auction would have generated higher bidding.”
“You are correct, Miss Tanner. And, to be truthful, Bruno was not an astute buyer, but was instead very determined to own that particular piece.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“A woman.” Richards smiled and winked. “Isn’t that what always makes men do stupid things?”
How well I knew. I’d made my living on that very premise. “Yes. Men can be convinced to make mistakes by a woman.”
“Oh, Miss Tanner. Please. You are far too beautiful to be so modest. I think you have broken your fair share of hearts—and perhaps wallets.”
My cheeks warmed as he smiled at me. Even Bud didn’t know everything about what I’d done, though I was sure he’d always suspected. Richards seemed to have his own special insight. “The Warhol, Mr. Richards?”
“Ah. You are very determined. Before I tell you more, you must reveal your motives. Why are you so interested in this piece?”
“First tell me why the auction was private.”
“Because that is what the seller wanted.”
If I didn’t trust Bud so much I’d walk out right now. Not only was this man being evasive, but if I was reading him correctly, he was withholding more than he would ever reveal. I glanced toward the door. It was time to walk. Right now. Damn Bud and his reliability.
“My motives are simple, Mr. Richards.” I explained about Lily, how I’d taken her in, how I’d come to love her so much, and how she’d been kidnapped. It occurred to me partway through the story that I might be falling for one of my own devices—get the mark to talk while playing on their emotions. But that assumed Bud was wrong—and that just didn’t happen.
“That’s it, Mr. Richards. You now know my reason for being here. Bruno Panaman is behind the kidnapping of Lily. This isn’t a crime driven by money; it’s very, very personal.”
Richards craned his neck to one side, pulled out his phone, and showed me a photo. “Is this the painting you saw on the wall?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“Very well. You may be aware that Andy Warhol liked dealing with pop culture, and this piece is no different.”
“Mr. Richards, I’m going to be completely honest with you. The only reason I’m still here is because I trust Bud Stranton. The little bits you’ve given me so far seem very scattered and inconsistent with what I know about Bruno Panaman.”
“My dear, under normal circumstances, you would be correct. Bruno would never have purchased that piece.”
Richards gazed at me with green eyes that sparkled with youthful vigor. Behind them were the signs of an insidious disease taking control of his body—his head moved involuntarily and he seldom blinked. I suspected Parkinsons, but hoped I was wrong for his sake. I also suspected Bud had made a mistake in sending me here. I started to rise.
“Wait,” Richards said. “I told you there was a woman behind this story. Bruno Panaman bought that piece not because he loved it so much, but because she tricked him into buying it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Skip
SKIP PARKED A block away from the Panaman residence on the main street leading to the cul-de-sac. He plugged in the earpiece Baldorf had given him and spoke tentatively. “Hey, buddy…you there?”
“Dude, right in your ear.”
“Are you sure this contraption is going to work?”
“Oh ye of little faith. No problemo, dude. Just turn it on, and I’ll guide you through what to do. If anything super bad happens, I can take control. But this is like a field test for you, the mothership, and the MD-1.”
“Mothership. Sounds like an alien spacecraft coming to visit.”
“Awesome, bro. Now get busy, we need to find a way into that house before it gets closed down for the night.”
Skip opened the trunk of Baldorf’s old Toyota and pulled out the drone. It was just over a foot wide, had four propellers, and was painted a matte grey. He set it on top of the car, closed the trunk, and climbed back into the drivers seat. A surge of anticipation rushed through him as he flipped the power switch.
“Roxy said Bruno loves his back patio. Maybe I’ll find him there,” Skip said.
The roof of the car vibrated as the propellers picked up speed. He pushed the altitude control forward and the noise stopped. He saw the roof of the car getting smaller on the screen of his laptop.
“Good job, dude.”
Skip jumped at the voice in his ear. “You scared the crap out of me, Baldorf. This is so weird. I’m watching myself on this thing’s camera.”
“Sorry. Just wanted you to have a little positive reinforcement. Your current altitude is fifty feet. Take it up to a hundred, it’ll be totally silent and invisible from the ground.”
As Skip inched the lever forward, the numbers on the screen’s digital readout i
ncreased. When the altitude reached 100, he pulled back on the lever and pushed a larger joystick forward. He chuckled, “I think I’m getting the hang of this. It’s kind of fun.”
“Awesome. While you’re doing that, I’ve been doing a little background on Bruno’s finances. It totally looks like he got a big cash influx about a year ago.”
“Can you follow the money? Find out where it went? I’m about a block from the Panaman residence. How much cash did Bruno get?”
“Three mil. Most of that went back out.”
“He probably had to pay off the attorneys. So if he got that much money all at once, the question is what did he do? Sell something?” Rooftops passed below on the screen. “How do I know which house I want?”
“Go to the AR menu on the laptop and activate address mode.”
Skip looked at the laptop screen, found the menu item, and activated it. House numbers appeared on top of each roof. “Okay, that’s impressive.”
“I thought you might like it. Very handy for surveillance—when there are addresses.”
“There it is, right at the end of the block. The backyard is empty. We’re screwed.”
“Not at all, dude. Look at the image. You see the chimney?”
“What about it?”
“Hello? You’re going to take the MD-1 down there.”
“Are you out of your mind? There’s no way I can pilot down a chimney.”
“You’re like in total Skeptic Skip mode today. Aren’t you, bro?”
Skip took a slow breath to steady himself. “Alright. It’s your fifty-million-dollar toy I could crash. Who am I to argue with a genius?”
“That’s what I like. A positive attitude. Oh, yeah, and while you were busy carping, I found the money trail. Papa Panaman did use the money to pay his kid’s attorneys. No wonder the dude’s torqued.”
“How do you…no, never mind. You’re a genius. Multitasking comes naturally to you. We mere mortals have to focus on one thing at a time. So what do I do now?”
“We’re cool. Take the mother ship down to about twenty feet above the house. Then push the red button to release the MD-1. When you get a green light, switch to the bottom set of controls. I’ll fly the mothership while you handle the mosquito.”
Shadows from the Past Page 4
