"I don't know if this helps, but his daughter and first wife are buried at Holy Cross Cemetery. I'm sure he has a plot there."
"I guess that's something."
"You have some time, Callie. I doubt his body will be released by the medical examiner's office for at least another day."
"They're doing an autopsy?"
"Yes."
"I thought he was pushed over the railing."
"That's still to be determined." He paused. "I also happened to notice a large binder containing information about Arthur's trust while I was looking through his study earlier. I suspect that has at least some of the information you need."
Flynn was being logical and pragmatic, and it actually helped cut through the tidal wave of feelings she'd been experiencing. "Of course. I'm sure all his wishes are outlined in great detail. Arthur never left anything up in the air. It's probably all in his study and very clearly marked. I should have thought about that before."
"Why don't we get out of here?"
She was more than a little happy to follow him out of the stifling, medicinal air of the hospital.
"I'll go with you to Arthur's house," Flynn said.
"So you can continue searching it?"
"Yes. I want to look in every room, every closet, every drawer. I want to sit down with you and go over every single person you can think of who has had any contact or business with Arthur, especially any women who might have had a personal relationship with him."
"That's a lot," she said, feeling the weight on her shoulders getting heavier again.
"The funeral can wait a few days, even a week. But we need to find Arthur's killer as fast as possible."
"All right." She didn't have the energy to fight him.
As they moved toward the parking lot, Flynn added, "Did Arthur ever mention Marcus Vitelli to you?"
"He's a young artist, right? I think Arthur bought one of his paintings. He said he was really good. He had a fresh perspective."
"That's Marcus. He exchanged quite a few calls with Arthur this past week. He said Arthur wanted to buy a painting from him, but it wasn't finished yet, and Arthur kept nagging him about it. He was practically begging him to finish."
She frowned at that comment. "That doesn't sound right. Arthur doesn't beg; he commands. He also knows how to negotiate. He wouldn't let an artist think he was desperate to make a purchase. I know that for sure. He gave me quite a lecture about learning how to negotiate for myself about two weeks ago."
"What were you negotiating?"
"I had an offer for a job as an executive chef at a popular vegan restaurant. I considered the opportunity, but the salary was low, and I don't particularly like cooking only vegan. Nor did I think I would have enough autonomy. The owner is known to be a micromanager. I made the mistake of telling Arthur about it, and he got all over me, telling me I needed to fight for what I wanted, demand more money, more freedom, and not just walk away. I then found out that the offer had only come my way because Arthur had used his connections to get the owner to hire me. I was furious. I had told him several times before not to get involved in my business. But he didn't listen."
She paused by her car, impulsively deciding to tell him the rest. "Last night, Arthur made a snide comment about my decision. That's why I had tears in my eyes. I had run into him in the hallway, and he told me that not only had I let myself down, but I'd also embarrassed him. He'd called in a favor for me, and I'd blown it off. He was really harsh. He said, 'You're a quitter, Callie. All you know how to do is walk away. You need to learn how to fight.'"
"That sounds like Arthur," Flynn admitted, an odd look in his eyes. "I'd forgotten he could be like that."
"Very judgmental? I guess it was part of his being a judge. He believed he knew what was best in every situation. He was used to people doing what he told them to do." She took a breath. "But he wasn't completely wrong. I haven't always fought when it comes to my career. I've never felt like I could give a hundred percent to a job—or two hundred percent, as most restaurant owners demand from their chefs."
"Because of your mother," he said quietly.
She was surprised that he'd realized that so quickly. "Yes. It's funny that you get it, but Arthur never did."
"I don’t know why he didn't think you were a fighter, because when it comes to your mom, you're a warrior."
"Am I? Or did I just walk away from her, too?" As the tears gathered in her eyes again, she said, "Dammit. I'm not usually a crier."
He gave her a smile. "I believe you. And you didn't walk away from your mom. You're getting her help."
"You said your mother went through hard times, too. What happened?"
"That's a long story."
"I could use a story that has nothing to do with me. I could also use a coffee and maybe something to eat. I know you're eager to get back into Arthur's house, but I need a little break. Maybe I can meet you there later."
"Or we could have a late lunch/early dinner. I'm hungry, too. It has been a long time since breakfast. I can tell you my story while we eat."
As much as she wanted to put some distance between herself and Flynn, she was also interested in learning more about him. "All right. Where do you want to go?"
"You're the chef. You pick."
"One of my favorite restaurants is not far from here. Do you like seafood?"
"Love it. Where's the restaurant?"
"It's in Malibu. Is that too far?"
"Not at all. Why don’t I drive? We can pick up your car on our way back to Arthur's house."
"That's fine. And this is my mother's car. She and Arthur picked me up in the limo last night. I haven't been to my apartment since then."
"Where's your place?"
"Manhattan Beach."
"Not too far from me. I'm in Santa Monica."
"I guess we both like being near the water."
"I love it. I surf three times a week."
"You're a surfer and an FBI agent? That's an interesting combination."
He flashed her a smile that warmed her like a blast of sunlight. "I like being a contradiction. Predictability can be boring."
"Then you're going to have a boring dinner, because I'm pretty much the poster child for predictability."
"Somehow I doubt that," he said, opening the car door for her. "I have a feeling you have hidden depths, Callie Harper."
As she slid into the passenger seat, she thought he might be right, but she'd buried parts of herself so deep, she didn't think they were ever coming back to light.
Chapter Seven
They didn't talk much on the way to Malibu. Despite asking him to share his story, Callie seemed more interested in looking out the window. Clearly, she needed time to decompress after leaving her mother at the hospital. Even though she was torn up inside about lying to her mom, he believed she'd done exactly the right thing.
He'd witnessed firsthand Juliette's attempt to throw herself off the balcony. While her efforts had been clumsy and confused, she might have succeeded if Callie hadn't pulled her to the ground. And worse than leaving her mom at the hospital would be having to deal with her killing herself. Hopefully, Juliette would get the help she needed. But he had a feeling he would have to solve this case without Juliette's input, because he had no doubt that she was having a breakdown. She wasn't faking anything to get out of questions. She was truly out of her mind at the moment.
Not that that meant she was innocent. Her breakdown could be because she felt guilty for having Arthur killed. There was no way she could have done it herself. But she could have paid someone else to do it. She had a history of instability. Who knew to what lengths she would have gone if she thought Arthur was cheating on her?
But that was all speculation. And he dealt in facts. He just needed to find some.
When they arrived at the restaurant, he turned his car over to the valet and ushered Callie into the restaurant. It was a little before five and there were only three couples in the room, all over t
he age of seventy.
"Are you feeling old?" Callie asked with a light smile as they sat at a beautiful table overlooking the water.
"We're definitely in the early-bird-special crowd tonight," he said, smiling back at her, thinking once again how pretty she was, even exhausted and overwhelmed. There was still a beauty to her features, to her big, dark eyes, to her unblemished skin and sweet pink lips. He cleared his throat, directing his attention to his menu before his thoughts got the better of him.
"Callie, oh my God, I was just thinking about you," a woman said, as she approached the table. She wore a white chef's coat, her brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail. "Veronica told me you were here. I couldn't believe it. I heard about what happened to your stepfather on the news this morning. I was going to text you, but I didn't want to bother you."
"Thanks. It's been a rough day." As the chef's gaze darted to his, Callie added, "This is Flynn MacKenzie. My good friend Melissa Haven. She's the chef here."
"Nice to meet you," he said, noting that Callie had omitted the fact that he was an FBI agent.
"You, too." Melissa turned back to Callie. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, but thanks."
"How is your mother?"
"She's having a hard time, but she'll be all right."
"Do they know who killed Judge Corbyn?"
"Not yet."
"It's unbelievable."
"It feels surreal to me, too," Callie admitted.
"Well, the least I can do is cook you a good meal. Do you both like salmon?"
"You know I do," Callie replied.
"I love salmon," he said, at Melissa's enquiring gaze.
"Then if you'll leave it to me, I'd love to make you both something special, and it will be on the house."
"We'd love to leave our meal in your hands," Flynn said. "But we'll definitely pay."
"Absolutely not," Melissa said. "Callie helped me move last month, so I owe her a meal anyway, and if you're helping her get through this terrible situation, I'm grateful to you. No arguing."
"Thanks, Melissa," Callie said, handing over their menus.
Melissa headed back to the kitchen, and a moment later, a waiter came over with a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. As he moved away, Callie took a sip and then sat back in her seat, her gaze moving toward the crashing waves below. Then she looked back at him.
"Would you surf these waves?" she asked.
"Probably not, since they're very close to the rocks. I'm not as young and reckless as I used to be."
"I've never surfed, even though I've spent my entire life in Southern California. I'm more of a sunbather."
He wouldn't mind seeing her in a bikini, soaking up the sun, but that kind of moment felt very far away.
"So, it's story time," she continued, a gleam in her eyes. "The Flynn MacKenzie story. Start talking."
"Where do you want me to begin?"
"At the beginning. Did you grow up in California? Because it seems like you have a faint British accent at times."
"My mother is British. I was born here in the US, but we lived in England from the time I was about one to six. Then we moved back to the States, settling in Laguna Beach, home to many art galleries. My father was an art dealer and he eventually took over a gallery there."
"What did your mom do?"
"She taught English literature at the community college a few nights a week. The rest of the time, she was home with me."
"Sounds like a nice life. Laguna is beautiful."
"It is. We had a big house on a cliff, ocean views from every window, but it turns out my father's money was not all gained by legal means."
Her expression changed at his words, surprise entering her eyes. "What did he do?"
"He bought and sold stolen art, and some of that art he actually stole himself. He was what you might have called a cat burglar."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. He stole from rich people while he was a guest at their parties, or he'd come back to the house in the middle of the night after casing the place. He was a very good thief. Eventually, he expanded his skills, breaking into museums and galleries. After stealing the art, he'd sell it for big bucks. I'm sure he thought he was invincible, but the law caught up to him."
"Well, that's not a story I was expecting to hear. What happened to him? Did he go to jail?"
"He would have gone to jail, if he hadn't run. He disappeared in the dark of the night. He left my mother and me to fend for ourselves, which turned out to be more difficult than we imagined. The government froze all of my dad's assets. We lost the house. We lost everything."
"That's what you meant when you said your mom had gone through a dark time."
"She didn't fall apart, but she was struggling. We moved in with friends of hers in Pacific Palisades. I started a new high school in my senior year, but I was actually happy about that, because I was away from all the rumors, all the chatter about my dad. I met Olivia at the new school, and she brought some real light into my life. I was in a bad place, but she made it so much better. She took me home and introduced me to her family. Francine and Arthur were stable people, and Arthur had just become a judge. He knew what was right and what was wrong. There was no moral ambiguity with him. I felt like I'd found my compass."
"Maybe there was moral ambiguity, but you just didn't see it."
"I'm beginning to think you're right, but I need to know the truth, whatever it is."
"The truth can hurt, Flynn. I don't think it's all it's cracked up to be."
He could see why she would feel that way, but for him truth was all that mattered now. "Having grown up with someone who turned out to be a complete liar, who was not even close to who he appeared to be, I value honesty more than anything else."
She gazed at him, dark shadows in her eyes. "Do you still think I'm holding something back?"
"I think," he said, choosing his words carefully, "that you're afraid your mother had something to do with Arthur's death. You don't want to believe that, but you're just not one-hundred percent positive, so your go-to move is to defend her, to protect her."
"She doesn't have anyone else to do that for her but me."
He noticed she hadn't denied his point.
"Let's get back to you," Callie said. "What happened after Olivia died?"
"I went off the rails. I was drinking. I was surfing dangerous waves. I was almost daring the world to take me, too. But Judge Corbyn pulled me out of it. He physically dragged me out of a bar one night. He gave me a harsh lecture. It was a few months after Olivia died. He told me I was wasting my life and that was the last thing Olivia would want to see me doing. His words woke me up, because he was right. About that time, my mother had decided to move back to England to be near her parents, who were aging and in ill health. I went with her. I went to university there and when I graduated, I decided I would use my knowledge of the art world in a more positive way. I'd grown up in the gallery. I knew a lot about art and even more about the players, my dad's old buddies. But I knew I wouldn't get far using my dad's name, so I changed my name to mother's maiden name."
"So MacKenzie is not your dad's name?"
"No. His last name was Beringer—Sam Beringer. He was half French, half Russian. His father was a well-known artist in Moscow. He died of cancer before I was born. I'm sure he would have hated the direction my father took." He cleared his throat and took a sip of his wine, then continued. "I took a job in a gallery in London and I decided to look for my father. I wanted to make him pay for what he'd done. I made a lot of trips around Europe, hoping to find him. Along the way, I stumbled upon a counterfeit art network. It wasn't tied to my dad, but I wound up going to the FBI, to the person who had actually arrested my father. I told him I wanted to even out the scales. He used me to make a case, and after that, he suggested I come and work for the bureau."
"It's so strange that you would work for the people who nailed your dad. But I guess there's a kind of dark poet
ic justice to that. You're more complicated than you appear, aren't you?"
"Maybe, but then most people are."
"That's true. Do you mostly work on art crimes then?"
"I did for the first two and a half years after I went through Quantico. I managed to bring down a terror network that was using art to fund their terrorism efforts. It was a big coup for the bureau. At that point, I was done with art and thought I might be done with the bureau. I couldn't spend the rest of my life chasing my father's ghost."
"That makes sense."
"But the higher-ups wanted to keep me on board, so they offered me my own task force to work on whatever needs to be done."
"You run a task force? That sounds impressive. You're not that old, are you?"
"No, but I'm that good," he said with a cocky smile. "And I'm better when I can move outside the layers of bureaucracy. I was able to prove that to my bosses and they rewarded me."
"But now you're investigating a murder that could be tied to the art world. You're back where you started."
"And it's my knowledge of that world that will hopefully help me solve the crime."
"Not if you keep looking at me and my mother as suspects," Callie said somewhat tartly, giving him a pointed look.
"I look at everyone as a suspect. But just so you know, you're off the list. I don't think you killed Arthur or that you know who did."
"I'm happy to hear that. But you still haven't cleared my mother."
"No, but I'm not trying to railroad her. I would love some other leads."
"I would, too, but I really don't know anything, Flynn."
"You might know more than you think. You said your mom mentioned being jealous. Did she give you a name?"
"Yes. Gretchen Vale. She was apparently at the event last night. My mom was annoyed by that and the fact that Gretchen and Arthur were constantly on the phone to each other. Apparently, Gretchen was getting a painting for him or something like that, so it could have been completely innocent."
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