by M. M. Silva
I took a quick glance back at the security area and saw my three friends. Doob’s mouth was agape, Kayla looked concerned, and Jeff was speaking to one of the guards and pointing at me. The guard shook his head at Jeff and motioned for him to move along.
I turned back around to face the music. My guide-slash-captor ushered me down a hallway that would rival any grand hotel at any locale in the world. Like the staircase, the floor was white marble with brushes of a muted feathery silver color throughout. Hanging every ten feet from the high ceilings were crystal chandeliers with multiple layers, and above the wainscoted lower half of the walls was artwork undoubtedly worth beaucoup bucks. Between the priceless paintings, sparkling mirrors brightened the long hallway. The entire area gleamed and glittered, so it would have been easy to miss the tiny cameras mounted throughout, but thankfully I’m a crack detective. The child in me wanted to wave at one of them, just to say, “Hi, I see you watching me,” but I restrained myself.
We arrived at another massive double doorway, this one made of some type of white material that looked less like wood and more like ivory. I studied the doors as my escort knocked softly. They’d probably been hand-carved out of elephant tusks from Borneo over the period of twelve years by some poor skeleton-like-figure making two cents an hour.
The whole grandiose place reeked of wealth and omnipotence and was so ostentatious I found myself irritated. I guess going from Eileen’s modest home and her sad story to this over-the-top castle with directions to a ballroom burned my ass. Or maybe I was grouchy because I arrived at the gala on offense, and now I was being put in the position of playing defense. I didn’t even know how they knew my name. What I did know was that I was ticked off instead of afraid, and that was probably a good thing.
Mr. Fancy Suit opened one of the ivory doors and made a sweep of his hand to guide me into yet another gargantuan room. This one was clearly a library, complete with the dark mahogany wood shelving—undoubtedly stocked with only signed first editions—rising three stories high. Rolling ladders were located throughout the room, and I wished I could zip around on them and snoop to my heart’s content.
“Miss Maloney, you’ve entered Edinburgh,” came a booming voice with a southern accent. I spun a quarter-turn and saw a tall man standing behind a large desk holding a lit cigar. I stifled a tremor as I recalled Eileen’s story about Malcolm holding a cigar to Patricia’s eye.
“Edinburgh is the name of the house?” I asked.
He chuckled and shook his head as if I were an ignorant child. “Edinburgh is the name of this library,” he said as he spread his arms out and looked up. “It’s named after a prestigious library in Scotland, where some of my ancestors lived.”
His face was weather-beaten tan, his full head of white hair pomaded back to perfection. The tuxedo he wore probably cost more than what I made in a year, and fit him to perfection. He looked to be in his late sixties, clearly comfortable in his own skin. The smirk on his face indicated he was going to bat me around like a cat with a ball of yarn, and it increased my irritation.
“Do you name all your rooms?” I asked flatly. Were extremely rich people that bored?
He dialed back his fake hospitality a notch. “Whether you realize it or not, Miss Maloney, you are amongst treasures in this library. You should take a moment to savor it. Look around and take it all in.” He again spread his arms wide as if he’d just delivered bushels of food to a village full of starving people.
This guy was something else.
“Oh, I’m taking it all in, I assure you, Mr. Johnson. How many elephants died for those two doors out there?”
I held his gaze, and something unfriendly flickered in his eyes. He sat in the chair behind his desk as the guard smoothly moved to stand just off to his side. There was an antique mahogany credenza behind him with all sorts of pictures and mementos of a life clearly well lived.
After tilting his head back and taking a long puff of the cigar, he reached for a large manila envelope resting on his desk. “Your dossier indicated you have a bit of a fresh mouth, Miss Maloney. It’s quite unbecoming in a young lady. It’s no wonder you’re still single.”
Really? If he thought my single status was my Achilles heel, he had a lot to learn.
It was then I noticed something inside the massive credenza I couldn’t believe. Was that possible? And if so, that could explain a lot…
I forced myself to regain my composure so he wouldn’t notice me noticing. “My dossier? I’m so flattered you went to the trouble, Mr. Johnson. As for my marital status and my mouth, I wasn’t raised in the south, so I didn’t receive an etiquette handbook for my tenth birthday. I spent my time reading about the War of Northern Aggression,” I said with a wink.
His face reddened under his tan, and his little smirk disappeared for good as he pulled out what looked to be some black and white pictures from the envelope. Eileen again came to mind, along with the story about Malcolm having pictures of her family. He seemed to be a one-trick pony with his photos and his implied threats. I willed myself not to show any interest in the pictures.
“So very classy, Miss Maloney. Since we’re clearly not going to waste time on pleasantries, you need to explain to me why you’re at this event.” He held up his free hand. “And don’t waste my time by lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“In my experience, people like you—in your profession, I suppose I’ll call it—tend to make up stories.”
“Do you have a lot of experience with people in my profession?”
“I’m the one asking questions here, Miss Maloney.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” I retorted, my temper barely in check. “I understand you’re used to getting your way because you’re incredibly wealthy, Mr. Johnson. But in my experience with people like you, no one really respects you. They may fear you, and they probably kowtow and defer to you, but they definitely don’t like you. You wave your inherited money, your cigar, your self-important reputation in people’s faces, and you think they should bow down to you because you’re rich, which makes you feel powerful. So I’ll be happy to have a discussion about why I’m here, which will involve you answering some of my questions, and then you can have your pretty-boy rent-a-cop here take me back to my friends.” I glanced at the guard. “He probably hates you, too.”
The guard’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent, standing with his feet apart and his hands crossed over his private parts.
Malcolm’s face tightened, and his already dark eyes turned black. “You are very out of your league here, young lady. Or should I say, young woman. A lady you are not. Regardless of how I obtained my wealth, I’ve retained and built upon it, and part of the way I’ve done that is by doing my homework. I see things, namely I see threats, before they happen so I can stop them from harming me or the people and things I care about.
“That said…I pay attention when there’s a last-minute purchase to one of my charity events. I pay attention when four young people whom I’ve never heard of pay eight thousand dollars to come to my home. I further pay attention when one of those people is a private investigator who’s been poking around town, investigating the death of a man I despised.”
“So you admit you hated Charlie?”
He waved his cigar in the air. “Oh come now, Miss Maloney, do you think that’s some type of confession? Everyone in town knows Charlie and I loathed each other.”
“Some people might think that’s a motive for murder.”
He barked out a laugh. “Murder? Well, that’s rich. Even richer than me,” he said with a grin intended to piss me off. It succeeded. “From what I’ve heard, Charlie’s fall was ruled an accident. Yet, you’ve turned it into a murder. I’ve got to wonder why. So you can bilk your lottery-winning boyfriend for some money?”
“I haven’t turned it into anything, Mr. Johnson. My friend asked me to look into the situation, and that’s what I’m doing. Your name came up in the course of the investigat
ion, so I’m doing my due diligence as a professional.”
“I couldn’t care less about your due diligence, Miss Maloney. What I care about is the fact you’re prying into my life. So, to level the playing field, I decided to pry into yours.” He balanced his cigar on an ashtray and flicked photos all around the desk, as if he were dealing a deck of cards at a blackjack table in Vegas.
Then he started pointing to different snapshots. “Lovely sister and an impressive resume, that Moira. Brains and a real beauty, too. She doesn’t look a thing like you. Your blue collar parents seem like very hard working folks. Salt of the earth you could say. And your Uncle Larry, we’ll he’s a man I could probably use on staff,” he said conspiratorially. “And then there’s—”
“Enough,” I said in a commanding voice I didn’t even know I had. Handsome-Guard stiffened a bit but didn’t go for the gun undoubtedly hidden under his impeccable suit. “Your point is taken. You’ve investigated me; I’m supposed to be scared. I’m supposed to cower and apologize and beg you to not hurt me or my family. I’m not going to do that, but if you want to continue to review my family tree, I’ve got all night.”
“Miss Maloney, you are right about one thing and one thing only. You should be scared. You do not want me as an enemy, I promise you that.”
“I’m not looking for an enemy. I’m looking for answers. I came to you directly rather than bringing your name up to the authorities.”
“The authorities can certainly manage without you,” he sneered, looking at me as if I was a bug he’d just squashed. “You’ve got thirty more seconds to explain why you’ve invaded my home. I have many more important guests to attend to.”
“Did you, or did anyone in your employ, have anything to do with Charlie O’Neill’s death?” I asked, looking him straight in the eye.
“No,” he responded levelly.
“Where were you the night he died?”
“My wife and I were with my daughter and her family at their home on Cape Cod,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Lots of witnesses, Miss Maloney. If there’s nothing further—”
“Did you blame Charlie for your sister’s suicide?”
His face turned crimson and he stood up. “This meeting is over.”
“I’ll need a way to get in touch with you if we need to speak again.”
“That is out of the question.” He twisted the cigar over and over into his fancy ashtray, turning it into cinders. I got the message loud and clear.
He could do the same to me.
“Gerard, please escort Miss Maloney back to her friends. And Miss Maloney, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you and yours.”
“Is this the part where I shudder in fear?”
“It would be prudent of you to have a healthy dose of fear in your everyday life, young woman. It keeps you on your toes, keeps you safe. Keeps your family safe.”
With that, Gerard swept around the desk and led me out of the library and back to the gleaming hallway. As we walked back through the expensive paintings and sparkling walls, my knees started to shake, and I was overcome with a sense of vulnerability. My family had been threatened by a steroid freak involved in Melanie’s case earlier in the year, and my reaction had been the same. First anger, and then, scared shitless. I was glad I hadn’t let Malcolm see my scared shitless state, but it was here, and it was real. Situations like this were really the only times I second-guessed my job.
If I’d only known.
CHAPTER 18
TRUE TO FORM, DOOB STOOD IN THE ENTRYWAY WHEN the guard and I returned, waiting for me like a loyal dog. He rushed over, gave me a hug, and then held me by the shoulders and studied my face.
“Are you okay?” he asked with concern.
I didn’t want to tell him how I was really feeling, so I looked at him quizzically and asked, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
He gently shoved me away and said, “You’re a jerk. I was worried they were torturing you back there.”
“It wasn’t anything I’d care to revisit, but no physical torture was involved.”
“Mental torture then?” Doob knows I carefully select my words at times.
“You could say that,” I conceded.
“Sometimes I hate your job,” Doob said.
“Get in line,” I said with an eye-roll.
“Did you find out anything helpful?”
I shook my head. “Yes and no. But I don’t think he had anything to do with Charlie’s death.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Just a hunch, I guess. He was more than comfortable telling me about his dislike for Charlie. And he didn’t have the least bit of remorse that Charlie died. If he was somehow involved, he might not have been so forthcoming.”
“So that’s it?”
“Not exactly. I won’t completely give up on him if we somehow figure out Charlie was murdered, but it just doesn’t feel right. But on a totally different note…I do think he has some stolen art back there.”
Doob scrunched up his face. “Hunh? You’re an art connoisseur now?”
“I know some stuff,” I said a little defensively. “You didn’t live here then, but do you remember hearing about the art heist at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum back in 1990?”
Doob scratched his head. “Vaguely. It was the largest art theft in the world. Thirteen or fourteen pieces taken, something like that?”
“Thirteen. There’s still a five million dollar reward out there for information leading to their recovery.”
“Nice,” Doob said. “Could be a big night for you, Meg. You haven’t gotten yourself killed yet, and you might get rich by becoming a stolen art snitch.”
“I’d do it for free if it would get that asshole in some hot water.”
“What do you think he has? And do you really think he’d have it out in broad daylight?”
“One of the items stolen from the museum theft was a finial shaped like an eagle that was on top of a flag in Napoleon’s army.”
“And you could pick this particular finial out with no hesitation?” Doob asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
“I did a pretty in-depth paper on that theft back in school, and I can still name all of the thirteen missing pieces; I could probably pick out eight or nine of them if I saw them. The theft was fascinating to me; it was so well planned, but it was so basic. The thieves dressed up as cops and went to the side entrance of the museum around 1:30 the morning after St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Smart move by them,” Doob commented. “The whole city would have been swimming in green beer.”
“Erin go Bragh. Anyway, the robbers subdued the guards without hurting them and eventually ended up with about three hundred million dollars in stolen art, which probably resulted in a pretty penny out on the black market. The simplicity of the whole thing, coupled with the fact that nothing has ever been recovered, is amazing to me.”
“Until now.”
“Possibly until now, yes. Can you imagine if I found one of the pieces?” I got tingly all over just saying it.
“Which again begs the question, would this rich dude just have it out in the open? Did he have it on a flag, or what? Where was it?”
“It was kind of propped up in his credenza. I could see it as clear as I can see you in front of me. Maybe he puts it away if he has someone important or prestigious back in the library. If it’s someone he deems educated or sophisticated enough, he might hide it because they might be smart enough to know the origins of that finial.”
Doob nodded. “But you? The lowly, female, private investigator, with no money and seemingly no clue—”
I held up a hand. “That’s quite enough, Mr. I-Don’t-Even-Have-A-Job, but yes, you get my point. He probably didn’t even think about removing the piece in my presence. And he made a point of telling me I was amongst treasures. He had all kinds of stuff in there, it was like—”
And then I was struck with a thought.
I whipped out my cell phone and p
ushed a number I’d loaded just a couple of days prior.
“This is Officer Hurley,” he said on the first ring. Silent-Cop was very prompt with the phone.
“Uh hi, Officer, this is Meagan Maloney. Again.”
“Meagan! It’s great to hear from you! How is Doob’s truck? Everything okay?” His voice was full of far too much enthusiasm, and I winced with discomfort.
“Yes, thanks so much for making sure that went smoothly. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m kind of pressed for time. I’m sure you were pretty young, but do you remember the big art theft in Boston back in 1990?”
There was a beat of silence. “I think so. Wasn’t it on St. Patrick’s Day or something like that?”
“You got it. Technically, it was a few hours after St. Patrick’s Day. Anyway, this is going to sound crazy, but what would it take for you to get a warrant if I thought I had a lead on one of the pieces?”
He paused again before answering. “Well, it would have to be a really solid lead. Do you have a picture or anything? Any corroborating witnesses?”
“No and no,” I said with disappointment.
“Well, I’d be glad to do whatever I can, but it sounds pretty weak right now, no offense. If you were an art collector or dealer or something, I could probably—”
“That’s okay, Troy, I was just kind of wondering. I’ll figure something out.”
“It’d be a big feather in my cap if your hunch pans out, so please don’t forget about me if you get any more information. Or we could get together—”
“Gotta go, thanks!” I screeched and hung up. Good grief. I couldn’t get involved with a cop, simply couldn’t.
Doob had watched the entire exchange with his eyebrows knitted together. “Just what are you up to, super sleuth?”
“I need to nail this prick for something,” I replied.