I hurried through my shower and opted to stop by the museum before interrogating Burke, to gauge the reaction among the staff to news of Cody’s death. I arrived half an hour before the museum opened and filled Zoe in on my plan.
She staggered at the news. “Didn’t I tell you people were always getting killed in East St. Louis?” She shuddered. “And you really think it was the thief?”
“One too many black pickups causing havoc to be a coincidence, don’t you think?”
She grabbed my arm. “You think it was the same guy who came after you?” She gasped, apparently only now making the connection. “And you think it’s a staff member?”
“Since none of the staff members drive pickups, I suspect he’s someone known to a current or former staff member.”
“Known to someone besides Cody?”
“Yes.”
Zoe immediately called an impromptu staff meeting and shared the sad news. Gasps went up all around the room. She held up her hand, asking for quiet. “Due to the suspicious nature of his tragic death in close proximity to the theft here, Special Agent Jones would like to speak to you about it.”
I stepped to the front of the crowded conference room and scanned the faces of the group. “Have any of you ever seen Cody speaking to someone who drives a black pickup?”
Heads shook around the room.
“If any of you have observed someone driving a black pickup in the vicinity, please talk to me. The smallest detail might be helpful.” I let my gaze travel around the room and rest momentarily on each face as Zoe dismissed them. Malcolm glanced from a frowning Irene to Petra, who was already heading out the door. Curious.
I hung back in the conference room in case any staff wished to talk to me.
None stuck around.
I walked over to the administrative area and cornered Irene. “What were you thinking back there? Do you know someone with a black pickup?”
She pressed her lips together, clearly reluctant to say.
“Irene, I know you wouldn’t want to falsely accuse someone, but if there’s the remotest chance he might be our driver, I need to know.”
“Malcolm has a friend who drives a black pickup. I’ve seen them at the fast-food joint where my daughter works.”
And presumably, Malcolm suspected Petra had seen his friend’s truck too. Perhaps the night she joined them for drinks after work. Maybe he was wondering if she’d say anything.
Malcolm was waiting for me as I exited the administrative area. “Did Irene tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Malcolm glanced over his shoulder and motioned me into an empty conference room. “That a guy in a black pickup picked Linda up a few times after work.”
I tilted my head, wondering if this was a ploy to distract me from his friend.
“Linda Kempler?” I asked skeptically, even as my insides did a wild jig.
“I know what you’re thinking. She was dating the senator, right? But there was this other guy too.”
“Can you describe his truck?”
“Just a basic truck. Nothing fancy. No chrome or anything.”
Okay, that fit the description. “Did you get a look at the guy? The license plate?”
“Nah. Sorry.”
“And what about your friend’s black truck?” I asked, because as eager as I was to get over to the hospital and press Burke on who the “her” was he’d been talking about, I couldn’t ignore the fact that Malcolm had failed to mention his own friend’s truck. “Could you describe it?”
Malcolm did a double take and glanced toward the admin office. “You mean Eric’s? It’s a short-box sidestep on monster wheels.”
Okay, that didn’t fit the description, but I’d run it by Irene to make sure it was the one she’d seen. “Thank you, I appreciate you coming forward.”
I called Tanner, told him about Linda’s purported friend with the black pickup, and asked him to meet me at the hospital to question Burke.
“Do you want to take the lead?” Tanner asked when we met outside Burke’s room.
With a nod, I drew in a deep breath and told myself that no matter Burke’s reasons, he’d brought this on himself.
Like I’d done with Mrs. Burke the night before, I pulled up a chair next to his bed and got straight to the point. “Did you see who hit you, Mr. Burke?”
“No, it happened too fast. He was wearing jeans and a ski mask. That’s all I saw.”
“It was a he? Last night you said you told her you wouldn’t tell.”
Burke’s gaze jerked to mine, deep grooves furrowing his brow. He reached behind his head and massaged what I presumed was the goose egg his assailant had given him. “I . . . I don’t know what I was saying.”
“Do you have a suspicion of who attacked you?”
“No!”
“There was no sign your house was burglarized,” Tanner cut in, “so it would seem your assailant was waiting for you. Why do you think that is?”
His breathing quickened. An alarm went off on the machine next to his bed.
A nurse rushed in and strained to calm him, found a detached wire, and reattached it, silencing the alarm. “Maybe it would be better if you come back later to finish your questions,” she said to Tanner and me.
“This can’t wait.” Tanner crossed his arms over his chest, scrutinizing Burke.
The nurse wavered a moment, then left the room.
“I’m beginning to think you couldn’t bear to see your wife waste away any longer,” Tanner continued, “and decided to check out on your own terms.”
I gasped at his callousness.
Burke fisted his hands, looking as if he wanted to rip him limb from limb, and I had to bite my lip to keep from saying, “Get in line.” After months spent under Tanner’s supervision, I was used to his out-of-left-field remarks. But this was a new low, even for him.
“Then when we foiled your suicide attempt,” Tanner went on as if he hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, “you made up the assailant story to cover up.”
“You’re wrong. I would do anything for my wife,” Burke insisted through clenched teeth. “I’d never leave her to die alone. Never.”
Tilting his head, Tanner met my gaze across Burke’s bed and mouthed, “He’d do anything.”
I felt as if I might lose my cookies. Tanner had an amazingly accurate intuition, but I didn’t want to believe it was on the mark this time. Or that he was apparently leaving it to me to delve into what Burke meant by anything. Hating myself already, I returned my attention to Burke. “So if Cody had to die to conceal the secret you’re keeping, that’s okay, I suppose?”
Burke’s face turned even whiter. “Cody’s dead?”
Clearly, this was news to him, which made me feel a little better.
“I”—Burke’s mouth bobbed open and shut like a gasping guppy’s—“I didn’t know.”
Not surprising, if he didn’t do it, considering that until two hours ago, the hit-and-run victim had still officially been a John Doe. “Well, my guess is that whoever silenced him got wind that I was close to figuring it out and was worried you’d crack once you heard.”
His Adam’s apple dipped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tanner moseyed to the door of Burke’s hospital room and stuck out his head. “Hey, looks like we can pull the officer off guard duty. He doesn’t think anyone is after him.”
I gritted my teeth, hating how much Tanner was torturing the poor old man.
“No, please,” Burke blurted.
Tanner’s pinched mouth and the impatient glint in his eyes left no doubt he was waiting for an explanation.
“Okay, okay.” Burke’s gaze ricocheted off the walls like a trapped bird desperate to escape, then finally landed on me. “It was like you said.” A muscle in his jaw twitched and his gaze shifted to my shoulder. “Cody stole the painting and bribed me to keep my mouth shut. I don’t know who killed him. Maybe whoever he sold it to, but Cody never paid me.”<
br />
“You better read him his rights,” Tanner said.
Yeah, considering that in my mind, I’d probably already crossed the blurry line from victim to suspect when I brought up Cody’s death.
Before I was halfway through reading the card, Burke started pleading, “Please, I can’t go to jail. My wife needs me. I didn’t take the paintings. I just . . . just . . . kept my mouth shut.”
“Do you understand these rights?” I pressed on.
“Yes, but please, don’t take me away from my wife.” He closed his eyes and splayed his hand over his forehead. “What have I done? All I wanted to do was help her. If you arrest me, I’ll lose my job, my medical benefits.”
Tanner sighed. “It’s too bad you don’t know who Cody’s partner was. We might’ve been able to offer you a proffer agreement.”
Burke pulled his hand from his face, a hopeful light in his eyes. “What’s that?”
A whisper of a smile rippled Tanner’s lips as he and I exchanged glances once more.
Sometimes I wished I could climb into his head and figure out how he knew what a suspect’s reaction would be three or four moves ahead. He must be a master chess player.
“A proffer agreement is when a suspect admits his guilt and agrees to tell us everything he knows or to act as an informant, in exchange for a reduced or suspended sentence,” Tanner explained. “And since we don’t want the bad guys to suspect our informant’s a stool pigeon, his records are sealed.”
“So . . . if I had information for an agreement like that, the museum wouldn’t find out about my arrest? They wouldn’t fire me?”
“That’s right, but it’s all academic, because you don’t know anything that can help us.”
“But I told you who stole the painting.”
“You accused a dead man who can’t defend himself,” I ground out, irritated with myself for believing him two days ago when he’d sworn he didn’t see Cody steal anything. Except I was still pretty sure he’d been telling the truth then . . . not now.
Burke grabbed his chest, and the bedside alarm blared.
The nurse rushed in and yanked me out of her way. “Out. Now!”
I stared at Burke’s tortured expression. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Out!”
Tanner steered me to the door. “He’ll be fine.”
“He’s having a heart attack,” I squeaked, clutching my own chest and trying not to see my granddad’s face in place of Burke’s.
Tanner shook his head. “The nurse would’ve called a code blue. It looked to me like he pulled a wire from his chest again. Probably on purpose.”
On purpose? My hand fisted of its own volition, and I forced it to my side. “Do you think he was lying about Cody stealing the painting?”
“Don’t you? It sounded to me like he was parroting your theory. But this is good. It’ll give him time to worry about what’ll happen next if he doesn’t come clean.”
“Even if he gives me Linda on a silver platter, we can’t offer him a proffer agreement.”
“You don’t think the prosecutor will go for it?”
“No, he probably would. No one wants to see a man go to jail for a desperate act to save his dying wife, but . . . how could we in good conscience allow the museum to unwittingly continue to employ him? Never mind that the head of security is my best friend!”
“Sometimes you got to do what you got to do.”
I strode toward the stairwell. “What I’m going to do is canvass Cody’s former classmates and professors. One of them must’ve seen him talking with the driver of a black pickup.”
“Or with Linda?” Tanner arched an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “No matter what Burke’s saying this morning, last night he seemed convinced that a woman was behind the attack. So he either doesn’t think we can protect him if he spills, or—”
“He’s in so deep, he’s afraid we’ll throw him in jail and his wife will be left alone.”
I blew out a breath. “Yeah, or that.”
Strolling the paths connecting the historic buildings on Wash U’s Danforth Campus, west of Forest Park, felt like a stroll back in time. Well, if you ignored the latest fashion statements of passing students. I went to the registrar’s office and hit Doreen up for a list of Cody’s former professors and a class schedule of the classmates in the core classes he’d have been registered in if he were here.
I started with the professors, but not a single one recognized his name. A few recognized his picture. His art history professor studied the photograph for a full minute. “Yeah, he sat in the front row. Third seat from the left. Never said much. Took lots of notes.”
“Do you recall who sat beside him?”
The professor squinted as if visualizing the room. “No one, most of the time. I had a lot of empty seats in that classroom. You might try talking to students at Etta’s Café. That’s where most of the art students eat.”
Since it wasn’t mealtime, I bypassed Etta’s in favor of catching up to students outside of an international relations class that would soon be letting out. I figured hovering around outside the class seemed as good a plan as any for locating his friends. Unfortunately, friends seemed to be in short supply. By 4:30, I’d talked to more than two dozen classmates and professors and learned, one, that Cody was a loner, and two, that people don’t pay much attention to what others are doing.
My phone chimed the Murder, She Wrote ringtone. It was too bad Cody hadn’t had someone like Aunt Martha in his classes. I might have a lead on the pickup driver by now. I clicked on my phone.
“I found your missing painting,” Aunt Martha squealed.
“My pai—what painting?”
“The Rijckaert.”
“How did you know that was the second missing painting?”
She giggled. “I have better hearing than you think.”
I closed my eyes, remembering our visit to the mall. Aunt Martha must’ve eavesdropped on my conversation with my informant after all. “Where are you?”
“Home. I bought it for a steal. Isn’t it wonderful? You can come for dinner. Your mum is making toad in the hole.”
“I’ll be right there. Don’t touch it . . . any more.” Before I disconnected I could hear Aunt Martha call out to Mom, “I told you she loved toad in the hole.” Toad in the hole is sausages cooked in Yorkshire pudding. Not one of my favorite meals since Mom had a tendency to overcook the sausages before adding them to the dough. But these days any meal I didn’t have to cook suited me fine. I hurried across campus to where I’d parked my car and drove to my parents’ place in record time.
Mom scurried into the front hall, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I don’t know what Aunt Martha was thinking buying a hot painting.”
“Where is it?” I dropped my coat on the hook by the door and followed Mom into the dining room where Aunt Martha was peering at the painting on the table through a magnifying glass like Sherlock Holmes himself.
“Is it the real thing?” Mom asked.
I pulled on latex gloves and turned the painting over to examine the markings on the back. They matched the stolen painting’s perfectly. I turned it back over and held a hand toward my aunt’s magnifying glass. “May I?”
“Well?” Mom and Aunt Martha prodded in unison.
“It looks like the missing Rijckaert. Good work, Aunt Martha.” I pulled my notepad from my pocket and took a seat at the table. “Where did you find it?”
“Olsen’s Antique Store in St. Charles.”
“That Malgucci man took her,” Mom hissed as if it was scandalous.
Aunt Martha blushed and self-consciously fiddled with the beads at her neck. “When Carmen heard that we were trying to find a stolen painting—”
We? I clearly had to be more careful about humoring Aunt Martha’s interest in my cases.
“—he offered to take me around to all the places a thief, or their fence, might offload something like it. We visited art dealers, pawnshops, and antique s
tores all over the place. And thanks to his negotiating skills, the painting only cost me $2,000,” she added proudly.
Mom shook her head. “The thief must’ve only got half of that for it. Makes no sense at all.”
“The more valuable a painting, the harder it is to sell under the table,” I explained. “Oftentimes a thief’s happy to take what he can get to get it off his hands.”
“But the feds will give me back my money when they take the painting, won’t they?” Aunt Martha asked, suddenly sounding worried. “I borrowed the cash from Carmen. I have to pay him back.”
Mom lifted her gaze to the ceiling and mumbled, “Lord, help us,” then focused on Aunt Martha. “You knowingly bought a stolen painting. You should be glad Serena’s not arresting you.”
Aunt Martha’s eyes rounded. “I could be arrested for that?”
“In theory,” I said. “But since you clearly did it to restore it to its rightful owner, no, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Except that you’re in debt to a loan shark!” Mom added hysterically.
“It’s not like that,” Aunt Martha protested. “He’s a friend.”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Martha. After I talk to the owners of Olsen’s Antiques, they may be willing to return the money.” I called Tanner and asked him if he wanted to accompany me for the interview. Since I had no idea what I’d be walking into, I was more than willing to wait until he was available. It wasn’t as if the store owner was going anywhere, except laughing all the way to the bank over the easy money he’d made today. He probably had no idea what the painting was really worth.
“What happens to the painting now?” Aunt Martha asked as I disconnected.
“I’ll send it to the lab for processing. We’ll need to get your fingerprints, Malgucci’s, if he handled the painting, and the store staff’s for elimination purposes.”
Aunt Martha picked up the magnifying glass I’d set on the table. “There are some fibers caught on the edge of the frame too. They look like they might be from a trunk carpet.”
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