by K. A. Tucker
“Qing Dynasty,” I fill in, seeing his eyes squint as he struggles with the name.
“Thank you. Qing Dynasty vase, worth millions—”
“Potentially. And based on these pictures, he thinks it could be real. And it’s not just any vase. It’s the missing twin, fired with the emperor’s son’s bone ash.”
“Okay. Potentially. You think that someone who knew what this was worth killed Celine and took the vase, and that Jace Everett—who may have been paying Celine for sexual services—is the culprit because his mother and father, the governor of Illinois, have an appreciation for Chinese antiques.”
“And he deleted the original pictures and a draft blog post, don’t forget that.”
“Right.”
“See? I didn’t even have to connect the dots for you.”
“I see what you want me to see, Miss Sparkes.” He sounds tired today. “Tell me, why wouldn’t the person just steal the vase and leave? Why would they add murder to theft?”
“I don’t know.” That’s a good question. One I hadn’t thought to ask. “Maybe because . . . well, she definitely would have noticed it missing right away. Celine was extremely particular.” When we were younger, Rosa was sure her daughter had OCD, always lining up her dolls and stuffed animals in rows. She didn’t have any of the other peculiarities that come along with such a diagnosis, though. It turned out that she just loved order and patterns.
Childs’s attention moves to his computer screen, where he’s opened up screenshots of the blog post that Zac recovered and emailed, entitled “Discovery of a Lifetime?”. The one that was deleted the night that Celine died, describing—in detail—the history of the deceased twins and the creation of the matching vases in their honor. His finger drags along the screen as he reads her words. “ ‘The markings bear a striking resemblance to its twin, and the glaze appears uniform and well aged. But is it even possible? Could I be lucky enough to find such a treasure? I’ll continue to do my research, but I’m excited to think that we may have a winner here.’ ”
“This was in the stack of books on her coffee table.” I hold up another piece of evidence that I discovered when I got home—a Chinese history book, with a bookmark tucked into the section on the Qing Dynasty. “She was reading up on it.”
“And yet she said nothing to anyone? Not even to her friend who was an appraiser?”
I can only shrug in response. Celine would be the type to educate herself more before getting too excited over such a monumental find.
Detective Childs finally smiles. “I’ll get one of the officers to help you file a theft report. But, remember, without an appraisal certificate, you can’t claim that a vase worth millions was stolen. If she has property insurance, I’d recommend contacting them and filing a claim there as well, to leave a complete paper trail.”
“And then what?
“Keep Murphy and his guy on it.”
I feel my cheeks begin to burn. “You can’t tell me that this isn’t compelling enough to warrant further investigation into her murder.”
“I’m sorry, but no. It’s not.” He sighs, rubbing his brow with a hand. “We’re just weeks before Christmas and everyone’s trying to close cases before they take off for the holidays.”
“Yes. Clearly.” I look around at the vast room—phones ringing, feet up on desks, people chattering, people laughing—and feel the urge to scream.
Thankfully Ruby is there to pat me on the knee. “Let’s let the detective go so he can catch those bad guys. Okay?” Easing herself out of the chair, she leaves the cookies on Childs’s desk and begins shuffling away.
“If you ever feel like actually doing something useful . . . ,” I add, not bothering to hide the bitterness from my voice as I fish the manila envelope out of my purse and drop it on his desk. “There’s the name and address of a female lawyer in the city who is running a prostitution ring, along with a dozen names and phone numbers of men who made full use of the service through Celine. Just do me a favor—seeing as I’m handing you a case on a silver platter—keep Celine’s name out of it. At least until after her mother is gone.”
He taps the envelope. “Where’d you get this information?”
“From Celine’s phone.”
“So you found her phone?”
“Nope.” I turn and march out, before he has a chance to tell me that they can’t use any of that evidence to build a case either.
————
“If someone asks for an appraisal on this vase, it’s going to cause one heck of a commotion. I’ll hear about it.” Hans paces back and forth, his long, slender legs weaving around the boxes with surprising skill.
“Unless they go through a private dealer.”
“They would still need it authenticated by several reputable appraisers, which means I’ll hear about it,” Hans argues, his voice turning snippy.
“Now, who would like some tea?” Ruby settles her afternoon tea tray on the old trunk.
I’m watching and listening to all of this from my spot on Celine’s couch. But I’m not really watching or listening because I’m too busy wondering whether it’s better that Rosa dies believing her daughter took her own life or that she was murdered over a valuable antique, by a man who had previously paid to have sex with her.
So far, Hans has confirmed that Eleanor Everett’s collection is highly Asian-inspired and predominantly Ming Dynasty, though he sees a few pieces from other reigns.
Including the Qing Dynasty. It’s too hard for him to discern value from the pictures, though.
Doug’s tech expert, Zac, has been able to shed a little more light, finding records of Chicago, New York, and Hong Kong auction house purchases by the Everetts, dating back twenty-five years. One of those prizes cost them a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Not exactly in the league of “major” art collectors, but Zac was also able to confirm that the Everetts’ entire art collection is insured for 1.2 million dollars.
That’s considerable.
It also means that the rest of their collection—or at least a good portion of it—had to have been purchased through private dealers, and neither Hans nor Zac has any visibility on that.
It also means that Jace Everett was raised by a woman who would know the story of the twin vases. Who would appreciate the missing one for its monumental value.
But would that appreciation translate to murder?
I don’t trust Jace. That’s all I know at this point.
“We need to figure out why Celine had an IP camera shoved in her desk and wasn’t using it,” Doug says, holding up the small white rectangular device, studying it closely.
“I wonder if the police reviewed the footage from the lobby camera,” Ruby offers, her small silver spoon clanging against her china cup as she stirs three cubes of sugar into her tea. The woman seems to survive on nothing but sugar and shortbread. How she’s not diabetic, I can’t understand.
“You mean that giant dinosaur that was put up in the seventies and never turned on? There is no footage. That’s just a decoy to scare intruders and give tenants a false sense of safety,” Doug mutters, a hint of irritation in his tone, as if he’s annoyed that he’s even being questioned. “And besides, the police investigation wouldn’t have even gotten that far. Everything in this apartment pointed to suicide.”
“Oh, not the one by the door. The other one.”
Doug pauses, looks at her. “What other one?”
“The little black one that’s tucked into the corner as you step through the door. It’s kind of hard to see. I’m not surprised that you missed it.”
Doug takes off out the door, leaving it wide open, the sound of his heavy footfalls echoing.
“Where did you say you found this private investigator?” Ruby asks through a small sip, a triumphant smile on her face.
Moments later, Doug returns. “How long has that been there?” His jaw is tight. I wonder what bothers him more—that he missed it, or that the old lady didn’t. To be fa
ir, I never noticed it either.
“I can’t say for sure, but ask Grady. He knows everything that goes on in this building.”
The mention of Grady’s name makes my heart skip a beat. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday night, in our usual spot up on the roof. Another welcomed night of intimate distraction for me.
“And which apartment is Grady’s?” Doug demands.
“Four ten.” She smiles and points that spoon to the ceiling. “Right above us.”
“Thank you, Ruby,” I say with a wink, following Doug out the door. “What am I paying you for again?”
————
“He’s in there. I hear him,” Doug insists as we wait outside Grady’s door. I’ve never been in his apartment. I’m curious to see what it looks like, and if it’s anything like the rooftop paradise he’s created.
Finally, someone begins fumbling with a chain on the inside. The door opens a crack and a sleepy-eyed Grady pokes his head out.
“You know Maggie Sparkes. I’m investigating Celine Gonzalez’s death. What do you know about that camera down in the lobby? Not the fake one. The real one,” Doug demands.
“Uh . . .” Grady runs a hand through his hair, sending it further into disarray. The bewildered look as his eyes pan between Doug and me makes me want to apologize for my PI’s lack of finesse. The fact that he’s wearing nothing but a pair of checkered pajama pants that hang provocatively low on his waist makes me want to shove Doug out of the way and lock myself in Grady’s apartment with him.
But now is not the time for that.
“I convinced Dean that he should—”
“Who’s Dean?”
“The building owner,” Grady answers coolly. “I convinced him that he should get a proper security system and he agreed.”
“And who oversees it?”
Grady shrugs. “Some security company.”
“Which one?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I can ask Dean the next time I’m in touch with him. He’s in the Caymans for the next three months so his response time is a bit slow.”
He’s acting differently today, as if we don’t know each other. It could be just a reaction to Doug, who might not bring out the best in people. But no, there’s something else there. I feel him closing off to me.
As if he doesn’t really want to help with my investigation.
Or . . .
Grady glances over his shoulder quickly. He’s blocking the door from the inside with his knee, keeping it from opening too wide. “If there’s nothing else . . .”
Why is he being so secretive? Unless . . .
Oh my God. Does Grady have a woman in there?
Jealousy burns deep inside me as I eye his state of dress—or lack thereof—again.
“Yeah, you do that please,” Doug answers gruffly. Grady’s eyes meet mine for a split second before he shuts and locks his door. I’m left with no other choice but to trail Doug down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, passing the third-floor exit and continuing on. He has his phone pressed to his ear.
“Hey Zac? I need you to tap into this building’s surveillance system.” I follow him to the lobby. Sure enough, there’s a small camera tucked into the overhang, hidden from casual notice. “Yup, standard.”
“Do you think Zac can get in?” I ask when he finally hangs up.
“Any good hacker can get into this if it feeds into a network. Too bad there aren’t any on the fire escape or the back of the building.” He freezes, then snaps his fingers at me, a smile on his face. He has his phone out again in seconds. “Also, look for any deleted video feed files on Miss Gonzalez’s computer.”
CHAPTER 23
Maggie
December 11, 2015
“You sure you saw him come in here?” I hiss, navigating my way around the shop.
“He didn’t just come in here,” Doug mutters, sucking back an extra-large coffee from the greasy diner down the street, exceedingly grouchy after spending the last fourteen hours in his car, monitoring Jace. “He walked in with a cardboard box in his hands and spent half an hour in that office back there, with the store owner, Ling Zhang.”
Hans sniffs his displeasure as he touches the vintage white ceramic cuff links resting on the shelf next to him. The handwritten price tag claims one hundred and twenty-nine dollars. “Only an idiot would take a priceless vase like that to this place. I’ll bet he googled ‘Chinatown appraisers’ and walked into the first place that Yelp listed.”
Hans and I were busy wrapping Celine’s collection of handblown glass when Doug called, only a few blocks away. Hans offered to come with me. Maybe I should have declined. The last thing I need is him making a memorable stink in here. “It doesn’t seem that bad.” Crisp white walls give the Mott Street shop a clean, modern feeling, especially as compared to the retailers in the area—a ragtag mix of gift and dress shops, as well as several businesses I can’t even identify thanks to the anti-theft metal screens and lack of English signage.
Plenty of shiny metals and sparkly crystals vie for my attention as I scope out the wares. Everything is neatly arranged and beautifully displayed on thin dark-wood shelves.
“And she’s a certified appraiser,” I add.
Hans shakes his head. “Anyone can open a shop like this and call themselves an appraiser. This Bone Lady probably registered for a two-day course, and voilà, she’s now part of a certified appraiser’s guild.” His eyes narrow on a petite middle-aged Asian woman with a bob cut and thick-rimmed glasses, talking to an older couple near the back. “I’ll guarantee you she undervalued every last item in here so she could buy them and sell for an inflated profit. That’s how these private dealers work.”
I frown. “Bone Lady?”
“That’s what the sign out front says.” He pauses. “I do speak Mandarin, you know. I’m guessing she specializes in porcelain art. What’s ridiculous is that calling herself ‘the Bone Lady’ makes it sounds like her expertise lies in bone china.” He leans in to hiss, “Bone china wasn’t created by the Chinese. Thomas Frye invented it in 1748 in East London. He used animal bone ash from slaughterhouses and cattle farms in his formulation.”
Every conversation with Hans is beginning to feel like a history lesson. “But I guess you could argue that, if this emperor used his children’s bone ash in his vases, then the Chinese did invent it.” The more I think about it, the more morbid the legend of these vases seems.
“No. You absolutely cannot argue that. Not bone ash in such trace quantities.”
I shrug. He takes this stuff very seriously. “Either way, she’d be a good person to bring a porcelain vase to.”
I get an exasperated stare in return. “Have you not listened to a word I’ve been saying about her so-called expertise?”
“You two finished?” Doug mutters under his breath as “the Bone Lady” closes the distance with a smile.
“Can I help you find something?” Her voice is a faint whisper, her accent worn from years of life in America, I’m guessing.
“Yes, my wife and I are looking for a unique piece for our foyer,” Doug says, looping his arm through mine, a lively lilt in his voice. I can’t help but glance down at him. He’s a good five inches shorter than me. Thank God I’m not wearing heels because I’d never be able to pull this off with a straight face.
A sharp elbow to my ribs gets me talking. “Yes, I was thinking that a pretty vase would look good on our foyer table.” Oddly enough, that’s exactly what we had in the entranceway of our La Jolla home, though it was a vibrant terra-cotta piece from Mexico.
“Ah, yes. Maybe something like this?” She leads us over to a glass cabinet, where several colorful vases of different sizes sit.
“These are nice.” I lean in, pretending to be studying the patterns. “Do you have any in a lighter color? Maybe something with gold tones?”
“With a red dragon on it,” Doug pipes in.
I shoot him a sideways warning glance, because that wasn’t subtle at all.
“Yeah. My husband is really on this dragon kick lately.” I watch her closely to see if there’s any reaction, if she may have just sat in a room for half an hour with a man trying to sell a valuable vase by that very description.
I see nothing.
“This one is lovely.” She reaches in and pulls out a burgundy one with birds. “Nice, yes?”
“Yes.” I nod in agreement, fighting my disappointment.
“Not birds. Dragons,” Doug reiterates, losing patience. “Do you know of anywhere we could find what my wife has described to you?”
The Bone Lady is already shaking her head and smiling, her inky black eyes seeking out other customers in the shop. Closing off, now that she realizes she’s not getting a sale. “No. Just birds.”
We leave the store and head down Mott Street, weaving through throngs of pedestrians and around the endless trash bags and piled-up cardboard boxes. “It doesn’t make sense that he’d bring a vase like that here,” Doug says, biting into a peanut shell that he just mysteriously produced, and tossing the empty shell to the ground. Noticing our stares, he pats his coat pocket and shrugs. “What? I do a lot of long hours. I need to keep snacks handy.”
“You think he’d take it to an auction house if he stole it?” I ask, dismissing Doug’s rather unseemly habit.
“I guess not.” He pauses. “Unless he thinks he has covered his tracks. He may wait awhile, though, just to be sure he’s going to get away with it. He doesn’t know that you hired me to root through her computer, right?”
“Right.” The only people who know about Doug are Hans, Ruby, and Grady. “So we need to connect with anyone his parents might use.”