“Why’d he leave work this morning?”
“He said he didn’t like how his wife sounded when he phoned her during morning break. She has kidney failure and has to go in for dialysis several times a week. He asked if we could spare him for the rest of the day.”
“But he seemed nervous?”
Zoe flashed Irene an annoyed look. “No, upset.”
Yeah, having a hot painting in his basement and an FBI agent closing in would do that.
“Upset about his wife,” Zoe insisted, handing me Linda’s phone number and address. “She slipped into a depression a few weeks ago when the kidney transplant they’d been hoping for didn’t pan out.”
“It’s so sad,” Irene agreed, depositing a new stack of files on Zoe’s desk. “These are the employees who’ve left us in the past nine months.”
As I perused the top file, I tried Linda’s number. When it went to voice mail, I left a message asking her to call me. The top file belonged to Cody Stafford, another name Malcolm had mentioned. According to his paperwork, Cody had been a summer intern from Wash U and then stayed on part-time until the end of December—more than a month before the paintings were discovered missing and conceivably before they went missing.
Had Malcolm pointed a finger at Linda and Cody because their absence made him truly suspicious or because it made them believable suspects to misdirect my investigation?
“Irene, could you get me Henry Burke’s address and phone number? I’d like to interview him next.”
Zoe’s attention jerked up from the employee file she’d been reviewing. “You’re going to his house?”
I tossed her my uh-yeah-I’d-be-an-idiot-not-to stare. “He heard about the investigation this morning when you introduced me at the staff meeting. Realizes he still has the painting stashed that he couldn’t find a buyer for and decides he better get rid of it fast.”
“Not Henry.” Zoe slapped the file in front of her. “Think about it. The real thief would’ve suspected we’d discovered the paintings were missing when we started doing inventories of the vaults two days ago, or at least that the discovery was imminent. If the thief had been stupid enough to hang on to the painting, he’d have gotten rid of it long before now.”
“But Burke didn’t know,” Irene chimed in. She handed me a slip of paper with his contact information, then walked over to the scheduling board and traced a finger along the row for Burke’s name. “He’s been off the past four days. Since before we started inventory.”
That settled it. “I’m heading to Henry Burke’s. I’ll finish the other interviews later.” If I didn’t already have my suspect in custody.
Mr. Burke lived on a quiet street in a largely Italian neighborhood south of Dogtown known as The Hill. It was becoming less unusual for a non-Italian to live in the neighborhood, but it would’ve been unusual at the time Burke bought his home, unless perhaps his wife was Italian. The Hill was the kind of neighborhood where people bought a house and lived in it until death kicked them out. Then the home would often be sold privately to someone else in the neighborhood who was ready to move out of Mom and Pop’s place.
The thirteen-year-old Buick in the driveway and the curling shingles on the bungalow’s roof were testimony to how much money his wife’s medical bills must be consuming. Patrolling the museum’s vaults day in and day out, knowing the staff rarely inventoried the holdings in storage, had to have been unbearably tempting. Tamping down a sudden swell of compassion for the man, I parked behind the Buick and strode to the front door.
A salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman of average height and build answered after the first knock.
“Mr. Burke?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Special Agent Serena Jones. May I come in and ask you a few questions?”
He stepped on the threshold, pulled the door up close behind him, and lowered his voice. “It’s not a good time,” he whispered. “My wife’s not well.”
“Is that the police?” a wobbly female voice called from far behind him. “Let them in.”
Burke gave me a pained look. “She’s a little disoriented. She thought we had an intruder after I left for work this morning. I came straight home, but nothing appears to be missing or disturbed.” He said it smoothly, as if it was fact, not a quickly thought-up lie.
“Did you call the police?”
“I didn’t see the point. She’s on heavy medication. I’m not sure she didn’t imagine it.”
“I want to talk to them,” his wife insisted from somewhere behind him.
He sighed and swung open the door. “Come on in.”
The door opened into a small living room, decorated in the pinks and blues popular over two decades ago. Generations of family photos covered the walls. No art. Mrs. Burke sat in a recliner angled toward a TV of the same vintage. Between her sallow skin tone and sunken eyes and cheeks, she looked ten years older than her husband. I walked to her chair and extended my hand. “Hello, Mrs. Burke. I’m Serena.”
Frowning, she looked me up and down. “You’re not a policeman.”
“No, ma’am, I’m with the FBI.” I pulled aside my jacket to show her the badge I’d clipped to my belt.
Her eyes brightened. “Good, good. Glad to see the old man’s taking me seriously for once.”
I slanted a curious glance toward Mr. Burke.
His mouth flattened into an unreadable line as he clasped her hand. “You know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.” He had thick, hairy fingers, blunt nails, heavy veins rippling the skin, nothing like the hand—
I blinked, startled by the sudden recollection. I hadn’t thought I saw . . . but maybe I was wrong. Staring at Burke’s hand, I tried to recapture the image that had flickered through my mind—a hand returning a book to the shelf. But the wispy childhood memory refused to resurface.
The sound of Mrs. Burke’s voice snapped me back to the present. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I said I didn’t think the FBI investigated prowlers.”
“Not as a rule, no.” I pulled up a chair to Mrs. Burke’s side and flipped to a new page in my notebook. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Oh, I didn’t see anyone. I heard a noise in the garage.”
My gaze snapped to her husband, who’d taken a seat beside her.
He shook his head. “She might’ve heard me leaving, then nodded back to sleep. All the doors were still locked when I got home. Nothing was missing from the garage. She sleeps late, so it could’ve been a car rumbling by or kids playing in the neighbor’s yard or any number of things that startled her awake.”
I nodded. “Where do you keep your valuables, Mrs. Burke?”
Her gaze dropped to her hands, now clenched in her lap. “Here.” She touched the modest diamond ring loosely encircling her left finger, then reached for her husband’s hand again and smiled. “And here.”
“Our valuables went to the pawnshop a long while ago,” he explained, “to help us stay ahead of the medical bills our insurance doesn’t cover.” He brought his wife’s hand to his lips. “But we have each other. That’s all that matters.”
My throat clogged. If Burke stole those paintings, I hoped he got a decent amount for them, and then, because it was my job, I asked, “Who bought the paintings?”
Burke held my gaze without so much as a flinch. “We never owned any. Got to see all the art a soul could want working at the museum.”
“You’re aware some pieces are missing from the museum?” We’d deliberately kept the exact nature of the missing pieces vague during the staff meeting, hoping to trip up the thief—the only person aside from the board, Zoe, and myself who knew exactly what was missing.
His wife gasped. “No!” She turned to her husband. “They aren’t blaming you, are they? You weren’t even working the last few days.”
He patted her hand. “No, dear. Not as far as I know.” His gaze returned to mine with a silent “Am I a suspect?” in his eyes.
Oh, man, as much as my mothe
r wanted grandchildren, she’d disown me if I arrested this poor woman’s husband. “I’m interviewing every staff member.”
“My Henry wouldn’t steal a penny. You’re welcome to search the house,” his wife said, reaching over the side of her recliner. She opened a drawer at the back of the end table and pulled out a stack of papers—hospital bills and bank statements. “And look at these.”
From the look of Mr. Burke’s pinched expression, not being able to pay them was pure torture.
I flashed him an apologetic glance as I accepted the papers from his wife. Even with much of the cost covered by his employee health plan, the amount outstanding was significant, and no lump sum had recently been paid off or deposited to their meager bank balance. Although I didn’t think he was foolish enough to give himself away by such a slip. I nodded at the paperwork as if it proved Mrs. Burke’s defense and handed it back. “Is it all right with you if I search the house as well?”
Burke’s eyes looked puppy-dog sad, like a loyal retriever who’d lost his master’s trust. “Go ahead.”
“I appreciate it.” He followed me around as I searched, which, given the bare state of their cupboards and closets and even their garage, didn’t take long. Not that I’d expected to find the paintings. Burke was too intelligent to still have them. But perhaps another clue—a key to a locker, a name or number scribbled on a piece of paper. “Do you recall seeing anyone near the museum’s vaults who shouldn’t have been there?” I asked him, returning to the chair I’d been sitting in. “Anyone acting nervous? Anyone looking awkward as they walked out, as if trying to conceal something?” This time of year, the small paintings would be easy enough to conceal under a coat, but not in the middle of summer.
“Only a handful of staff have access to the lower level. But last summer, a couple of tradesmen worked in that area, repairing a plumbing leak and damaged drywall. I kept a close eye on them, but . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe not close enough.”
“Did these men ask you about the art? Its value? Anything like that?”
“Not directly. I overheard the younger one, Norman, I think his name was, ask the other one what he thought it was worth.”
“What did he say?”
A grin teased the corners of Burke’s lips. “Five to ten at the federal prison.”
5
Since I had nothing to show for my field trip to Henry Burke’s, I opted to circle around to Linda’s apartment before returning to the museum. The Loop was a vibrant six-block section of Delmar Boulevard famous for its boutique stores, nightlife, walk of fame, and Blueberry Hill restaurant, but Malcolm had been wrong about Linda living in The Loop. She lived on the other side of the tracks, so to speak, closer to the psychiatric hospital than to the trendy shops of The Loop.
When I caught sight of a dilapidated garage hugging the street not far from her building, I started to seriously question Malcolm’s trustworthiness. Linda’s building was an older red-brick three-story, not run-down but certainly not luxury living as Malcolm had suggested. In a few of the windows, faded sheets passed for curtains.
The front door wasn’t locked, so there was no buzzer and accompanying tenant list, but according to Ms. Kempler’s employment file, she lived in apartment 2B. I headed up. I’d attempted to phone several times without success, so I wasn’t optimistic I’d find her home. But with any luck I might find a talkative neighbor.
The stairs creaked under my weight and smelled faintly of stale beer. As I reached the second floor, the smell of fresh paint overpowered the less palatable odor. The moss-green color giving a fresh look to the hall would’ve looked really good too, if the painter had taken the time to patch the walls first.
The walls weren’t exactly soundproof either. As I approached Linda’s door, I could hear the rants of Judge Judy blaring from a TV inside. At least that likely meant she was home. A second after I knocked, the TV went silent. I waited for the door to open.
Since she was undoubtedly on the other side, scrutinizing me through the peephole, I held up my badge. “Special Agent Serena Jones, St. Louis FBI,” I said, loud enough to be heard through the door and probably through the walls of the neighboring apartments. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I cocked my ear toward the door.
A wily old woman poked her head out of the neighboring door, clasping the front of her faded red chenille housecoat under her chin. “He just hightailed it out the back window.”
“He? A roommate of Linda’s?”
“No, she lives alone, but I haven’t seen her in a couple days.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks!” I bolted down the stairwell, two steps at a time. If Linda wasn’t there, who jumped out the window, and what was he doing in Linda’s apartment? I charged out the front door and around the side of the building.
The guy hadn’t even made it down yet. I checked my adrenaline at the curb and scrutinized the shirtless white male clinging to the brick wall like a rock climber. Only he was so scrawny he looked as if a good wind would blow him off. He shot me a panicked glance, hopefully taking serious stock of the wisdom of fleeing a federal agent.
I snapped a picture of him with my smartphone, figuring he had to have committed a crime somewhere. “What’s your name?” I demanded, maintaining enough distance to draw my weapon if needed. “Why’d you run?”
His gaze shifted to the cracked pavement, decorated with smashed beer bottle fragments. “No law against running.”
“True.” But like the proverb said: the wicked flee though no one pursues.
His fingers whitened, clenched around the edge of the bricks, his socked foot frantically seeking a new toehold.
Okay, a guy who kicked off his shoes in a house he was burglarizing would be a new one. I ignored the fleeting thought that my “reasonable suspicion” for detaining him might not appear all that reasonable to a judge.
It’d been a long day and I was losing my patience. I touched my gun, still holstered on my hip. “On the ground. Now. Hands where I can see them.”
He skidded down the bricks, then took off at a run.
“Seriously? In sock feet?” I loped after him. Wow, did he think that was a pace? “Hey, why you runnin’? You know I’m going to catch you, right?”
He veered across the empty lot behind the building, but from the sound of his huffing, he was too busy breathing to answer.
Reaching his side before he hit the back alley, I contemplated tackling him, but figured, why risk hurting myself? “You don’t have good runner’s form, you know. You should lengthen your stride and pump your arms forward and back, not in front of your stomach.”
His pace picked up a fraction.
I matched it without breaking a sweat. “You know, to qualify as an FBI agent, I clocked a mile and a half in under twelve minutes. And you have sock feet. Getting tired?”
He flattened his hands as if it would help him cut through the air faster.
“C’mon, let’s stop and talk.”
He slanted me a scowl that almost looked fierce, thanks to his reddening face, then ducked into the back of the next apartment building’s lot.
“Try not to fall in that broken glass,” I called after him. “Do you know what a Taser is?”
He ground to a stop and bent over, holding his chest.
I stepped in front of him, hands on my hips, barely breathing. “You’re really out of shape, you know. Now tell me what you were—”
He suddenly straightened and jerked back his fist as if he might throw a punch.
“Okay, fun’s over.” I “guided” him into the side of a dumpster. “On your knees. Hands on your head.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he gasped.
“Ever heard of resist, obstruct, delay?” Yeah, it was bogus, at least the implication I could charge him with it, but it convinced him to comply. I cuffed his hands behind his back and hauled him to his feet. “What’s your name?”
“Stan
Johnson.”
I patted him down, figuring I’d find a weapon, dope, or something, since he’d been too busy breathing to toss anything as he ran. All I scored was his wallet. No money, but his driver’s license said Stan Johnson, and the picture looked like a paler version of the guy still gulping air in front of me. “Your license says you’re from Tulsa. You’re a long way from home.”
He didn’t respond.
I flipped through the other items in his wallet, pausing on a photograph of him with a woman that could be Linda, based on the photo I’d seen in her employee file. “Where’s your gun, Stan?”
“I don’t have a gun.”
The flinch in his cheek said otherwise. Back in the apartment, maybe. I was going to need backup to do that search.
“Who’s your probation officer?”
“What?” He sounded indignant. “I’m not a criminal.”
I pulled out my smartphone and called dispatch, asking them to send backup and to see if Stan had any warrants on him. Coming up empty, I irritably sucked air through my teeth. He was guilty of something.
“You’re arresting me?”
“That depends on what you were doing in Linda’s apartment.” I caught him by the elbow and prodded him up the side alley. “Let’s go have a look, shall we? And finish this discussion inside.”
He resisted.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “There a problem?”
“Don’t you need a search warrant?”
Great, I was dealing with a detective-show junkie. Time to throw out the big words. “Not in an exigency.”
“A what?”
“An emergency.” I tightened my grip on his elbow and “helped” him move forward.
“How do you figure?” He was limping. Probably had a cut on his foot, too.
I steered him toward the building’s front door and yanked it open. “The way I see it is, no one has seen or heard from Linda Kempler in days. I show up to check on her and you flee her apartment. Naturally I think you’ve hurt her. That gives me the authority to check on her welfare.” Sure, the neighbor said she wasn’t in there, but that was hearsay.
A Fool and His Monet Page 6