London
Rachel had been thinking about Coleman’s mugger, and Simon’s ghastly scent. She decided to go to Simon’s flat to pick up a few of his clothes. She wanted to know whether Simon’s scent clung to them after they were removed from Simon’s environment, and if so, for how long.
She’d thought that the odor in his flat might have dissipated, but the scent seemed even stronger. It permeated the place, and radiated from the clothing in his closets and drawers. Perhaps she should remove all his clothes and donate them to Oxfam? That would have to wait for another day. She packed a couple of his sweaters and a jacket in the case she’d brought with her. She took the nurse’s uniform, still on its hanger, out of the closet, and noticed that it had obscured a cupboard door she’d missed on her previous visit.
Inside it, a pile of starched aprons and caps lay on a shelf; next to them, baby powder, baby shampoo, baby oil, and diapers or nappies, as they called them here. Who had a baby? One of his women, she supposed. Surely these diapers were too large? A canvas bag. Inside, a thermometer, a stethoscope, cotton balls, swabs, Vaseline, milk of magnesia, rectal suppositories, enema equipment. She packed the baby things, including a diaper, the canvas bag, the nurse’s uniform, and one of the giant-sized women’s suits she’d noticed on her first visit.
When she was back in her office, she e-mailed Dinah that all of Simon’s clothes had picked up the scent of his aftershave, and that she’d seen a huge bottle of it, labeled “Only Simon” in the bathroom. She listed everything she’d found in his closet, starring the items she was sending to Dinah. Maybe Dinah and her associates could make sense of it. Miss Manning would have the case couriered to New York for next-day delivery.
New York
The detective following Simon phoned Sunday afternoon to urge Rob to add another person to the watch. “This guy stays up half the night and is all over town,” the detective complained. “He left the Carlyle around seven Saturday night and went to an apartment on East Seventy-Sixth Street. The doorman said the apartment belongs to a big sexy redhead, Elizabeth Carroll. The doorman thinks she’s away. Mean anything to you?”
“Ellen Carswell: the description fits, and she’s using her own initials. We know they’re lovers. How long was he there?”
“About an hour. Then he went to the Suffolk House on West Twelfth Street. He called Room 346 on the house phone and took the elevator to the third floor. The room is in the name of D. Swain. The house clerk said she’s a pretty little thing with brown hair and a Southern accent. Know her?”
“Yes, indeed,” Rob said. Coleman’s pink magnolia.
“They had room service, and he left just after midnight. He took a cab to a seedy Soho hotel, the Rudolph, and left around four in the morning for the Carlyle. Oh, yeah, on the way to the Rudolph he stopped to buy food and pick up a bottle of wine.”
“Who’d he visit at the Rudolph?”
“A Judy Nelson. The desk clerk said she’s a stunner, a blonde glamour girl. This guy is something else. Two good-looking women in hotels waiting for him, and you say he’s screwing Carswell, too? What’s he got I haven’t got?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Security guys at the Carlyle say the subject has never had a woman in his suite, and most mornings he sleeps late. Hell, I can’t stay up all night and hang around the Carlyle all day waiting for him to get up. You gotta get somebody else on days, so I can catch some sleep.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“I’ve got a friend who’d do it. I spoke to him yesterday, and he’s free. Want me to call him?”
“Go ahead. Where’s Fanshawe-Davies now?”
The detective yawned. “In his room, probably asleep, the lucky bastard.”
Rob was still thinking about Fanshawe-Davies’s womanizing when the lab, working on overtime at his request, called.
“The poison in the meat the dog ate, and in the candy, is nicotine.”
“Jesus! Where did it come from?” Rob had never worked on a nicotine poisoning case, although he’d read about it. Filthy deadly stuff.
“It’s a home brew: somebody soaked tobacco—probably chewing tobacco—in water, till they had some powerful juice. They injected it in the candy, the dog treats, and the meat. Coffee-flavored candy covered with bitter chocolate was a smart choice to put it in; the flavors would have helped mask the nicotine. Nicotine’s readily available for the killer who’s willing to mess with it, but cooking this stuff up is dangerous. It can kill you just by getting on your skin,” the lab technician said.
“Well, thanks for your help, and for the fast turnaround. Would you fax me a written report? I’ll send a copy to the police.”
Did the type of poison have significance? Or was it used because it was easily available? You didn’t have to know Coleman well to know that she loved caffeine and chocolate, and hated tobacco. But so what? Information was pouring in, but as far as he could tell, it didn’t lead anywhere. All he could do was try to get more facts, and hope something would fall in place.
He’d better get on to the NYPD and figure out how to make sure someone interviewed the Swain woman. He’d see that Maxwell Arnold was questioned, too. He didn’t think Maxwell was involved in stealing the missing Rembrandt plates, but he’d like to see him shaken up.
His phone rang again. “Mr. Mondelli, this is Tammy Isaacs.”
“I’m surprised to hear from you, Ms. Isaacs.” Why was that revolting woman calling him? Only four days had passed since he’d evicted her from the ArtSmart office, and he’d made it clear what he thought of her.
“Something awful has happened, something you’ll want to know about.”
Any information was welcome, no matter how unattractive the source. “Do you want to come here? I can see you now, if you’d like,” Rob said.
Less than half an hour later, Tammy faced him from the chair opposite his desk. Her hair was dirty and unkempt, and she had dark circles under her eyes.
“I made a terrible mistake betraying Coleman,” she said. “As soon as Ellen found out I’d been caught, she told me I couldn’t write for the Artful Californian. She said the job she’d offered me was no longer available—my reputation was ruined.”
Rob started to speak, but Tammy hadn’t finished. “Yes, I know, it serves me right. But last night Ellen offered me another job. She thinks I’m so desperate, I’ll do anything. She got the desperate part right. I’ve messed up my career, and I hadn’t planned to stop working—I have debts I need to clear up before my wedding—but I’m not doing what she told me to do. You said I should be careful, and reminded me two people have been killed, so I got scared. I took a chance you’d be in your office, and called you.”
Ellen wanted Tammy to consign to auction houses prints Simon obtained, using a fake name, and when the prints came up at auction, to bid against Simon on the phone using still another name, making sure that the prices rose to an agreed level. “She’s set up two false identities for me. She said she’d have the documents delivered to my apartment Monday.”
“Ms. Isaacs, I’m taping you. You must have known I would. Will you testify, if all this goes to court?”
“Will Coleman give me back my job?”
Was the woman insane? After everything she’d said to Coleman? “I doubt it. You made it clear you hated her. Anyway, she’s hired two writers. I don’t think she has any more openings.”
Tammy looked surprised. “I heard she’d hired somebody from North Carolina who’s coming in a few months. Who’s the other writer?”
Rob made a mental note to identify her source at ArtSmart. “Zeke Tolmach,” he said.
Tammy scowled. “I might have known. Well, he’s got what he always wanted. I guess he’s earned it. He did everything in the world to get it,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s always been wild about Coleman, and always trying to get closer to her. Now he’s managed to get rid of two of her best writers. She’s making him the
senior person at the magazine, right?”
Maybe she was crazy. “What do you mean ‘managed to get rid of’ two senior writers? You and Chick? What had Zeke to do with your departure or Chick’s death?”
“If Coleman had treated me better, paid me more, I wouldn’t have gone to work for Ellen. I deserved better, but Zeke poisoned Coleman against me. And this ridiculous bug story: do you really believe there was a bug at ArtSmart? I don’t. If there was a bug, it wasn’t the Artful Californian’s—if they’d put a bug there, I’d know it. If there was a bug, Zeke put it there himself to make him look like a hero when he found it. As for Chick, didn’t Zeke try to persuade Coleman that Chick was untrustworthy? Coleman probably would have fired Chick if he hadn’t been killed. It seems like Zeke’s always around, advising her, interfering, being a busybody. Now he’s rid of both of us, and he has the job that should have been mine.”
Rob stared at her. He’d seen the bug at ArtSmart, but he had no proof that it had been installed by the Artful Californian. Could Tammy be right? Could Zeke be a part of a plan to take over ArtSmart? Had they all been duped? If Zeke turned out to be a bad guy, Coleman would be terribly hurt.
When she arrived at the office at noon, Coleman found several more faxed articles and a note from Clancy summarizing all he could find on Delia. There it was: she had worked for both the Artful Californian and Computer Art Research Services. She called Rob, and told him the news.
“We now have Delia linked to Ellen, but still nothing on the bearded guy. Could it be Maxwell Arnold? He’s evil enough to do anything. Theft wouldn’t bother him, he’d enjoy mugging me, and he’s tall. Has anyone checked his alibis for the Dürer theft?”
Rob promised to get right on it. He wouldn’t tell Coleman about Tammy’s accusation of Zeke; he’d wait till he had more information one way or the other. Why would Tammy say it wasn’t the Artful Californian’s bug if it was, given that she’d broken with Ellen? And why this attack on Zeke, unless what she said was true? Zeke would have to wait. Delia Swain had priority.
Rob mulled the problem of the well-connected Ms. Swain, and called a few of his NYPD friends. He needed a good Virginia cop, one with the juice as well as the guts to make sure Delia was questioned, despite her family’s pull. The consensus: a retired Richmond cop who worked behind the scenes to make sure the good guys won. His identity was a closely-held secret. Plenty of people, law and criminals, would like to put a stop to his activities. He was known as The Voice, and he could be contacted on a special cell phone. Sunday was a good time to call him.
A few minutes later, Rob was explaining the problem of Delia Swain. “We think there’s a good chance she stole the Rembrandt plates from the Harnett Museum, or set up the theft. She rented the car used by the person who robbed the Baldorean in England of four Dürer prints, although we don’t know who that person was. Another suspect, Maxwell Arnold, is also in your area. He’s stalking two women here,” Rob said.
“I know him. He’s a nasty piece of work,” The Voice said.
“You may know Ms. Swain, too. We have some petty stuff on her, but I’d guess there’s more that never made the police records or the press. She’s having an affair with a New York man who’s linked to art fraud, and maybe murder, although we haven’t been able to prove it.”
“You’re sure no one has interviewed Delia Swain about the Harnett Museum thefts?”
“Positive. Not even superficial questions. No one has talked to Maxwell Arnold, either. I don’t know if he’s involved in any of this, but I’d like to find out for sure. I need to know if he has alibis for two killings and an attempted mugging.”
“We’ll have to surprise Ms. Swain. She’ll be in the wind if she hears we’re coming. But don’t worry. We’ll talk to her, and him, too. I’ll enjoy arranging to have his cage rattled,” The Voice said. “Give me the times you want checked out.”
Rob hung up, satisfied that the Virginia end of the case was in good hands.
Around six, when Coleman was thinking of heading home, Clancy called. “You’re a fast worker. My friend at the Times-Dispatch just told me that an exposé program on local TV announced that the Virginia police had failed to interview some prominent Harnett Museum people about the theft of the Rembrandt plates—Delia Swain was at the top of the list. Apparently she showed the plates to various press people, and the commentator questioned whether the plates have been seen since.”
Coleman laughed. “Great news!”
“That’s not all. The family that donated the plates heard the program and called the governor. They’re a First Family of Virginia, and my pal says they have more clout in Virginia than the Arnolds and the Swains put together. The governor called the editor of the Times-Dispatch to ask if anyone at the paper knew anything, and somebody noticed my pal’s name listed as having been in the files yesterday researching Delia, and asked him why. He told his coworkers that a New York Times reporter tipped him that Delia was connected to art fraud and theft. How are we doing?”
Coleman stood up, and raised a fist in the air. “Yes!” she yelled. Dolly startled, woke up, and pushed against her legs. Coleman leaned down to pick her up.
“I’m sure it’s good, but will you tell me what’s going on?” Clancy said, his voice plaintive. “I need to be on top of this story, and I have to let my buddy in Richmond know what’s happening.”
Coleman brought him up to date, concluding, “. . . so we think Delia’s an accomplice in the theft of the Rembrandt plates. If she’s stolen those plates and let others take the blame, she deserves jail time.”
“Do you have anything I can use immediately?” Clancy said.
“You have everything I have on the Print Museum, and on the two deaths. The only thing you don’t have is the story about the thefts of the Dürers from the Baldorean.” She filled him in and added, “Apparently some of the big deals in England don’t want the story published. I say to hell with them. They’ll let a murderer escape so they won’t be embarrassed about their bad security. If you want on-the-record confirmation, call Rachel Ransome at the Ransome Gallery in London, and use my name.”
“My piece will be in Tuesday’s paper,” Clancy said. “I’ll get the story about the Dürers in for sure. I’m with you about the Baldorean: it’s CYA time, and I’ll fix that. Thanks, Coleman.”
Forty-Four
Monday
New York
Jane Parker called Coleman early Monday morning. “Some Richmond detectives are on the way here to interview me and Delia. And reporters are calling. They want a list of every journalist who saw the plates since that Dutch scholar was here. There’s only one I don’t know: a reporter from the Artful Californian, Jennifer Norris.”
“Blonde, brunette, or redhead? They’ve got at least one of each at Artful,” Coleman said.
“A gorgeous blonde, I’m told,” Jane said.
“Judy Nelson. That’s two of the Artful crowd who’ve kept their own initials when they use fake names. What dopes. I’ll see if I can find a picture of her, make a JPEG, and e-mail it to you, so we can be sure. Okay?”
“Yes, but who is she?” Jane said.
“She used to be married to Jonathan Hathaway, who’s now my cousin Dinah’s husband.”
“Why would she do this?”
“For the money. She’s a big spender,” Coleman said.
As soon as she hung up, Coleman called Debbi Diamondstein. “Debbi? Do you have any pictures of Bain’s date from the Print Museum opening?”
“Jennifer Norris? The blonde with the exposed breasts? Yes, indeed, but it wasn’t a date. I set it up as an interview. She said she was a freelance writer specializing in the arts.”
“She’s really Judy Nelson, who is (a) Jonathan’s former wife, (b) one of Simon’s girlfriends, (c) a serf for Ellen Carswell, and (d) probably a thief.”
“God, Coleman, how do you know all this stuff? Sounds like I threw Heyward to a lioness.” Her friend was joking, but Coleman could tell that Debbi was w
orried.
“Yeah, afraid so. Jonathan hired a detective to follow Simon, and he had girls stashed in two hotels over the weekend, one of whom was the gorgeous Judy. We know she’s Jonathan’s former wife because Jonathan says so, and we think she works for Ellen because we’re pretty sure she visited the Harnett Museum for the Artful Californian as Jennifer Norris. I want the pictures to send to the museum. If it’s Judy, she’s almost certainly a thief,” Coleman said.
“Oh, rats. I’ll messenger the pictures.”
“No, I’ll come to you. I’d like to get out of here for a while.”
“Your news has left me faint. I’m going to have some cool clear Evian, and maybe dampen a cloth to put on my forehead. See you soon,” Debbi said.
Half an hour later, Coleman sat on the white sofa in Debbi’s bright red office going through photographs. Debbi lounged in the chair behind her white lacquered desk, watching Coleman.
“She is fabulous-looking,” Coleman said.
“Oh, yes, she certainly is. Coleman, what the hell is going on? Is it true someone tried to kill you? After I spoke to you, a friend called, said someone sent you poisoned candy.”
“It’s true. Poisoned goodies for Dolly, too. It was nicotine, I’m told. Ironic, given how I hate the stuff.”
“Good grief! Are the police looking into it?”
“Yes, but they’re on the wrong track. They think the poisoner’s a crank, trying to get at me because of something we’ve printed in the magazine. They can’t come up with any other possible motive—no rejected lover, no jealous wife, whatever. But I know someone tried to kill me before—you remember my mugging? I was sure it was Simon, because whoever it was wore his ghastly aftershave, but he has an alibi.”
“I’ve always thought Simon was a creep, and I hate his aftershave, but I don’t think he’d hurt you physically. He’s a wimp,” Debbi said.
“I still can’t believe he’s making love to three women simultaneously—the two in the hotels and Ellen Carswell. What in the world do they see in him?”
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