A Fool and His Monet

by Sandra Orchard

  He batted his lashes. “I hadn’t thought you noticed.”

  Muffling a laugh, I shook my head. The man was incorrigible. He sure didn’t need to know how much fun it was listening to him try to guess which movie star he reminded me of.

  Not that I was sure he actually thought he looked like them or just enjoyed teasing me.

  “So you’re telling me a guy’s eyes are the first thing you notice about him?” he needled.

  Yanking open the car door, I tossed him a cheeky grin. “I’ll plead the fifth.”

  Back at headquarters, I marched into Maxwell Benton’s office. “We need to talk about Linda Kempler, aka Johnson, aka a known associate of Asher Cook.” I slapped a picture of Asher on Benton’s desk. “The man who sold the stolen Rijckaert to Olsen’s Antiques. And the prime suspect in the attempted murder of Henry Burke and the murder of Cody Stafford, not to mention an assault on my aunt Martha and the bang-up job he did on my car.”

  Benton motioned to a chair. “Take a seat, Jones.”

  “I prefer to stand, sir.” Only my legs started quaking, so I lowered myself into the chair.

  Benton steepled his fingers on his desk, looking simultaneously contemplative and ticked. “Who is your source for this known association?”

  “Cook’s neighbor saw Miss Kempler leaving Cook’s apartment.”

  “And how did this neighbor know Kempler’s name?”

  I caught myself squirming and lifted my chin. “She didn’t, sir. I presented her with a photo lineup of blonde staff members of the art museum, and she picked out Linda’s picture.”

  “I see.”

  “I have an informant who also saw a blonde attempt to sell the Monet to a pawn broker shortly before Christmas.”

  “And did this informant ID Miss Kempler too?”

  “I haven’t shown him the lineup yet, sir.”

  Benton leaned back in his chair, grilling me with his gaze.

  “I’m not saying she stole the paintings, sir. But she knows this man and in all likelihood has information that could assist me in the investigation.” I personally thought she was guilty as sin, but Benton clearly didn’t appreciate his opinion of her being called into question.

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  I stared at him, not computing what he meant.

  “You’re dismissed,” he growled.

  My heart slammed my ribs at how much his “dismissed” sounded like dismissed, as in fired.

  20

  Less than twenty minutes after I’d left his office, I sucked in a breath as Maxwell Benton strode past Tanner’s cubicle.

  Spotting me there, he veered back around. “Jones, conference room four, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” With fresh empathy for how Petra must’ve felt when Zoe escorted her in to be interviewed, I flashed Tanner a pray-for-me plea, then trailed Benton to the conference room at the far end of the hall. I missed a step when I reached the door and saw Linda watching me from the TV screen.

  “Close the door,” Benton ordered, and taking a seat, motioned me to do likewise.

  In the video image, Linda was seated at an identical-looking table, a file folder open in front of her, and she was irritably flicking a pencil over it, tip to end, tip to end.

  I lowered myself to the chair, almost missing it for staring at Linda. “What’s going on?”

  “This is Special Agent Linda Johnson with our Kansas office. She’s been working here undercover.”

  “Undercover? Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?”

  “We couldn’t risk jeopardizing my cover,” Linda said. “Although thanks to my brother finding me, I couldn’t openly play Linda Kempler anymore, which was why you found my apartment vacated. However, I hadn’t counted on your tenacity, and at the time, it seemed unlikely there was any connection between our cases.”

  “And now?”

  “We’re not sure. Two months ago the senator received an ultimatum—vote against his bill to limit foreign adoptions or watch his daughter die.”

  I gasped.

  “The next week, the senator requested a postponement of the vote until after the Christmas holidays. Two days later, the senator’s daughter came into contact with peanuts while on a school trip to the art museum and went into anaphylactic shock.”

  “Is that so surprising? Lots of children eat peanut butter and jam on toast for breakfast or in their sandwiches for lunch. Anyone could have caused the exposure.”

  “That’s true. And she always carries an EpiPen, which all her teachers know how to administer, so tragedy was averted.”

  “But you still think the exposure was deliberate.”

  “We know so. Or at least, the blackmailer took credit for it. He or she told the senator that if he played any more games the next time the vote came around, his daughter wouldn’t be so lucky.”

  “You don’t know if it was a man or woman.”

  “The voice was electronically altered.”

  “Maybe the blackmailer merely heard about the incident and decided to use it to his or her advantage to scare the senator.”

  “It’s possible. However, the senator received the blackmailer’s call within minutes of the call from his daughter’s teacher.”

  “But what made you think the blackmailer is on the museum staff? I’m assuming that’s why you took a job there.”

  “Yes.”

  “But anyone could’ve walked in and deliberately exposed the senator’s daughter to peanut butter.”

  “There were no other visitors inside the museum, aside from parents helping with the field trip, at the time of the incident.”

  “But what would a staff member, or anyone for that matter, have to gain from blackmailing the senator?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “It is if your blackmailer is my art thief. Why did you pose as the senator’s new girlfriend?”

  “To bait the blackmailer. We hoped he or she might ply me for inside information to use against the senator.”

  “That’s why you were so talkative with all the employees, flaunting your relationships, asking about politics?”

  “Yes, but the fact of the matter is, we never figured out who threatened him. He chose to vote against the bill rather than risk his daughter’s life, and that was the end of the threats.”

  Or Cody’s death was. “But the senator’s vote didn’t change the outcome of the bill one iota. What was the blackmailer’s motive?”

  “Apparently to prove that everyone has a price.”

  “One of the callers on a radio show after the vote said that same thing.”

  “Yes, that’s where our two cases seem to intersect. The caller quoted almost verbatim what the blackmailer had said to the senator in a call after his vote, in addition to asking how it felt to be no better than any other sellout.”

  “A political opponent, do you think?”

  Linda shrugged. “Not that we can prove. We traced the radio call to Asher Cook’s cell phone. That’s why his neighbor saw me leaving his apartment. I went there to question him.”

  “But you don’t think he’s the blackmailer?”

  “We didn’t think so. He was at work the day of the peanut butter scare. He claims that on the night in question, he was listening to the radio call-in show while filling up at a gas station, and a woman asked to borrow his phone.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Until Agent Benton informed me of Cook’s connection to the stolen painting, we had nothing to link him to the museum. Now I’m wondering if he has a partner on staff.”

  “One employee mentioned seeing a male in a black pickup with you outside the museum. Is that true?”

  She sighed heavily. “I hadn’t realized I was being watched so closely. Yes, that was my handler.”

  Okay, so Malcolm hadn’t been lying to deflect attention from his own friend with a pickup. “I thought the inside connection might’ve been my hit-and-run victim, Cody Stafford, and tha
t Cook cut him out to have more for himself.”

  “Could be, although Cook doesn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the house to take that kind of initiative. Which I guess was why I’d dismissed him as a suspect.”

  “He was bright enough to come into possession of a painting worth a quarter of a million dollars,” I countered.

  “But how much did he sell it for?”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  “See, not too bright.”

  Okay, this wasn’t getting me anywhere. “Have you had him under surveillance?”

  She nodded. “For the first twenty-four hours after I talked to him, but he didn’t go out, except to work.”

  “Wait.” The black pickup rammed my car the morning after the radio show. That would mean . . . “When did you talk to Cook?”

  “Wednesday evening.”

  Okay, that explained why the surveillance team didn’t see him ram my car or attempt to murder Burke. “But the radio show was Tuesday night. Why so long after?”

  “We heard about it after the fact, and the radio station received hundreds of calls that night. Now that we’ve connected him to the museum, we’ll go back through their surveillance footage to see if we can spot him on the premises and reinstate surveillance, unless you’re prepared to make an arrest immediately.”

  “He’s not home at the—” I sprang to my feet. “Oh, no.”

  “What’s wrong?” Benton and Linda asked as one.

  “He could be going after Burke right now.” I yanked open the conference room door and almost slammed into Tanner, who’d been about to knock.

  He lowered his arm. “I just got a call from the lab. They pulled Burke’s prints off the stolen painting.”

  “Burke’s?” That didn’t make sense.

  “Yeah, he must’ve been Cook’s inside guy.”

  Not Cody? “I must’ve had it backwards.” I raced to my cubicle and grabbed my jacket. “Cody must’ve been the one who threatened to go to the police, and Cook took him out before he could. Only Burke didn’t know.”

  “So you think Asher Cook went after Burke, afraid he’d get all righteous once word of Cody’s death got out?”

  “Yeah, c’mon, we’ve got to get to the hospital.”

  Tanner drove as I filled him in on the senator connection and why Linda was off my suspect list.

  “I remember that caller on the radio show. ‘Everyone has a price,’” Tanner enunciated in a thick Eastern European accent. “She said it just like that too, as if she knew it for a fact.”

  A memory clicked in my brain. “Petra.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the receptionists at the museum. I heard her say something like that.”

  “Does she have an accent?”

  “No, but her parents were from Croatia, so I’m sure she’d have no trouble faking it.”

  Tanner swerved into the hospital parking lot and grabbed a parking ticket. “But what does she have to gain from the senator voting against the bill?”

  “I don’t know.” Scanning the lot for motorcycles and remembering Irene’s comment about Petra’s old boyfriend riding a motorbike, I quickly texted Zoe to ask if Petra was working. Seeing no motorcycles and receiving a yes back from Zoe, I breathed a little easier. “Maybe Petra is allied with some lobby group, or maybe she just wanted to prove that everyone has a price.”

  “Or . . .” Tanner interjected, “maybe the incident with the daughter was a decoy to distract staff from the theft.”

  “Oh, that’s brilliant. It would’ve been a perfect opportunity to sneak the painting out of the vault while everyone was distracted by the senator’s daughter going into anaphylactic shock.”

  “But if Burke and Petra planned the robbery, why’d they let Cook sell the second painting for a hundred bucks?”

  “I don’t know.” I rushed inside with Tanner. “Hopefully, now that we have fingerprint evidence tying Burke to the theft, we can convince him to talk.”

  “Whoa.” A man in a gray suit halted our headlong rush into Burke’s room with raised palms. “No one’s talking to my client until his doctor says he’s well enough.”

  I stretched to my full height. “Unless he starts talking, he might not live that long.”

  Apparently the senator wasn’t the only person who’d sell out, given the right incentive, because an hour later, I’d left Tanner back at headquarters and was sitting in the prosecutor’s office at the federal court building discussing terms for a proffer agreement with Burke. The truth was, I didn’t want to see Burke do time. We didn’t yet know the full details, but according to his lawyer, the mastermind behind the theft had preyed on Burke’s desperation to find a kidney donor and had made the devoted husband an irresistible promise.

  Zoe called as I was preparing to leave with the agreement in hand. “Petra went home sick.”

  “How long ago?” I hurried out to my car.

  “About forty minutes ago. Irene said she’d complained of a migraine, but since you asked earlier if she was working, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yes, thank you.” I turned my car toward Lindenwood Park, the neighborhood in the southwest end where Petra lived, and put a call in to Tanner.

  “You ready to head back to the hospital?” he asked without preamble.

  “First we need to go to Petra’s. She left work early. I think Cook might’ve tipped her off that we’re on to him. Can you meet me at her house?” I relayed the address.

  “I can be there in twenty minutes. Wait outside until I get there.”

  I got to Petra’s in eleven minutes. She lived in a small, two-bedroom bungalow, circa 1940s, on a deep, narrow lot, sporting a detached garage at the back. Her car sat in the driveway, the hatchback up, the cargo area crammed with boxes. There was no sign of a motorcycle in the vicinity. I parked close enough to head her off if she tried to leave but far enough back that she wouldn’t notice me.

  Two minutes later, Petra stepped out of the house, wearing an unzipped winter jacket, carrying a purple suitcase and a grocery bag, but no purse—a good sign that she wasn’t quite ready to take off. Except after she stuffed the suitcase and bag in the cargo area, she shut the hatchback. I waited until she slipped back inside and then, inching my car closer, gave Tanner another call. “Looks like she’s getting ready to run. How far out are you?”

  Sirens blared to life on Tanner’s end of the phone. “ETA six minutes.”

  Petra appeared at the side door, carrying her purse this time.

  “I need to move in. Hurry.” I pulled my car in the driveway behind Petra’s just as she stepped out of her house, keys in her hand. I turned off my engine and jumped out. “Hey, where are you off to?”

  “Oh, hi, Miss Jones. I’m going to visit friends for the weekend.”

  “The museum said you came home sick.”

  She ducked her head. “You won’t tell them, will you? I was going to finish my shift and drive up tonight, but they’re calling for freezing rain later.”

  I squinted at the clear sky. “Really?”

  “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

  “Yes, I have a few questions.”

  “Come inside then.” She opened the door and waved me in.

  The door opened to a landing. To the right, stairs went down to a second landing, then turned into the basement. Straight ahead, four steps led up to the kitchen. I glanced downstairs and listened but didn’t sense anyone was lurking down there. I climbed up the stairs into the kitchen, rounded the square wooden table that dominated the center of the room, and peeked into the adjoining living area. A sofa, two chairs, a lamp and table, and a small TV were the extent of the furnishings. A hallway extended the opposite direction with four doors, all closed. “You live alone?”

  “Yes. Can I get you a glass of water? Make you a cup of tea?”

  In the face of her unexpected cooperation, doubts crept in. “No, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I finish putting away groceries
while we talk?” She scooped a bag from the floor. “I didn’t realize that I missed this bag.”

  “Go ahead.” I pulled out my notebook and pen and decided to go for broke. “What can you tell me about Asher Cook?”

  “Asher?” Petra had been clunking cans of peas and corn onto her cupboard shelf and paused mid clunk. “He’s a sweet guy.”

  So she didn’t deny knowing him as he’d denied knowing the woman who’d borrowed his phone. “We’ve recovered one of the museum’s missing paintings from Olsen’s antiques. The owner ID’d Cook as the man who sold him the painting.”

  “No way,” Petra exclaimed, betraying no hint of anxiety. Except her pallor didn’t match her conviction. “He’s got to be mistaken. You know how people are. They think every long-haired, thirty-something-year-old looks the same.”

  “Then comparing his fingerprints to those found on the painting should clear up the confusion.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” she said, with only the scarcest wobble in her voice.

  “Do you know where I might find him?” I asked, hearing the crunch of Tanner’s footfalls approaching the door.

  Petra glanced at the clock above her stove. “I think he said something about seeing a hockey game tonight.”

  Her gaze shifted past my shoulder, and an unfamiliar men’s cologne slammed my senses. I pivoted on my heel a nanosecond before Asher lunged for my neck with both hands.

  Ducking, I sprang past him and caught him in the lower back with my elbow.

  “Asher, what are you doing?” Petra cried out as I drew my gun and yelled “Freeze!”

  “Saving you.” Asher snatched up a kitchen chair and swung, knocking the gun from my hand and sending me reeling into the counter.

  “No!” Petra screamed as he roared toward me like a rampaging bull.

  I grabbed a can of peas from the counter behind me and smashed it over his head.

  Asher dropped to his knees, and I scrambled for my gun.

  Petra backed away, her arms raised in surrender. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I’ve never seen him like this.”

  Was she feigning innocence because she knew I was onto her? Or was she the victim of his misguided compulsion to protect her?