Ruthless Cross

by Barbara Freethy

  "I'm really glad about that."

  "But I want to go home. I want to be near Arthur's things. I can't feel him here. It's so sterile."

  "You'll be home soon, but it's important for you to be ready to face everything."

  "I'll be ready. I'll make sure Arthur has a good memorial service. That's on me."

  "I don't just mean you have to be ready to deal with that." She drew in a breath. "You have to be ready to talk to the FBI about where you were when Arthur was killed."

  "I just told you where I was."

  "Yes, and the answer concerns me."

  "Why? Callie, spit it out. Please, just say it."

  "You're a suspect, Mom. You were seen on a security camera at the museum having a fight with Arthur fifteen minutes before he was killed, and you were not in the hall when he fell over the railing."

  Her mother's eyes widened with each word. "And you think I killed him?"

  "I don't, but others are suspicious. The FBI wants to talk to you so they can eliminate you as a suspect."

  "Why would I kill the man I love?" she asked in bewilderment.

  "They don't know how much you loved him. All they saw was a fight."

  "I was just annoyed that he wanted to go back to Palm Springs again. I had this terrible feeling he was using that place to have an affair, because he always wanted to go when I couldn't. I accused him of that, and he said I was crazy. I hate that word. So I left and went to the restroom. I needed a minute."

  "I understand. You should say that. I'm just telling you what's coming your way so that you can be prepared."

  "I didn't do it, Callie."

  She really wanted to believe her mom.

  "Do you believe me?" her mother asked. "Please tell me you do."

  "I do," she said, desperately hoping she wasn't wrong. "But we still need to prove it."

  "How are we going to do that?"

  "I'll find a way."

  Relief filled her mom's eyes. "You always make me feel better, Callie. I guess it's just the two of us now. Like the old days."

  She really hoped it wouldn't be like the old days, but she just smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Do you want me to do your hair and makeup?"

  A smile spread across her mom's face. "You know me so well."

  She opened her purse and pulled out her makeup bag. "Then let's get started."

  Flynn stood at the end of the conference table, a large board behind him displaying the photos of potential suspects. He'd just finished a long briefing at his office with Detectives Gage and Palmer from the LAPD, Damon and two other agents from the LA Field Office, and his team: Savannah, Lucas, Wyatt, and Bree. They'd compared notes, gone over witness statements, and discussed every possible angle and connection currently being explored.

  They'd ended just after one, everyone going off to tackle their particular assignment.

  The LAPD would continue to focus on Judge Corbyn's work circle: attorneys, clerks, court cases, convictions—anything that would provide a motive for murder. They were also now investigating the homicide at the Wickham hotel. Damon's team was conducting additional, more in-depth interviews with Arthur's neighbors, associates, people who worked at his house, the staff members at his foundation, anyone who had any kind of relationship with the judge. Wyatt and Bree were working with agents from Art Crime to trace the stolen paintings found in Arthur's home, and Lucas was focused on finding the cyber trail. Which left the key art players to Savannah and himself.

  As the group dispersed, he glanced back at the board, at the faces on the top of their suspect list: Layana Vazquez, Arthur's alleged mistress and someone he'd left money to in his trust. Gretchen Vale, who had possibly brokered the stolen art purchase, and her husband Stephen. He didn't have Gerard Bissette on the list, although he was still curious about what had transpired between Gerard and Stephen and why they'd had an intense discussion in a car down the street from the gallery. He'd put Marcus Vitelli on the list, because he'd exchanged numerous calls with Arthur and had been under pressure from Arthur to finish a painting or lose a purchase. Because Marcus was on the list, he'd also added Imogene Rocca, the other young artist Arthur had been interested in.

  Juliette was next. He hadn't wanted to put her there, but he'd had no choice. They'd gone over the video of her fight with Arthur in the museum again and had also caught her on a security camera heading toward a stairwell moments before the cameras went out. Hopefully, Callie would get some better information from her mother today.

  There was one suspect not on the board, someone he'd left off while the LAPD was in the room.

  Now, he reached into a file folder on the table and pulled out his father's photo from fifteen years ago, the one the FBI had had on file ever since he disappeared. He tacked it to the board and stared long and hard at his dad's face, at the blue eyes so similar to his own. A range of extreme emotions ran through him. He honestly didn't know what to think.

  "I was wondering if you were going to put him on the list," Damon said, joining him by the board. "That's your father, isn't it? He looks like you, especially in the eyes. You don't really think he's involved, do you?"

  "His name has come up several times, but I didn't want to distract the police detectives with his name."

  "Understood. Maybe his name has come up because people are talking to you—his son. They might want to rattle you, get you thinking about someone else other than themselves."

  "That might be true, but I can't deny that there's a possibility he's involved. He's an art thief. He lives in the shadows, but he has to be funding his survival in some way. Finding him, however, has been impossible to date. He has managed to hide himself away for a very long time."

  "You sure you don’t want to step back from this, Flynn?"

  "No. If my father is involved, I would have no problem arresting him."

  "I know you believe that. But thinking it and doing it are two different things. You can't forecast how you would feel in that situation, and that bothers me."

  "How I would feel?" he echoed. "The man abandoned me and my mother. You think I want to save him?"

  Damon stared back at him. "Like I said, I don't think you can predict how you'll feel if you see him again."

  "Well, I can predict it. It will be the same anger that I've always felt. And that's all I want to say about it. You can trust me or not—up to you."

  "I'll trust you."

  "Good. Not that I should have had to say that," he added pointedly.

  Damon frowned. "You're right, Flynn. We've all had conflicts of interests come up, myself included. I actually didn't ask the question because I was worried about the case. I'm more concerned about you, and what the potential personal cost might be."

  He could see the sincerity in Damon's eyes. "I appreciate that. I don't know what the cost will be, or even if there will be a cost, but I'm not backing down. I'm not walking away. You can take me off the case, but that won't stop me. I will get to the bottom of this and whatever the truth is, I'll deal with it."

  "I get it."

  "Then let me get back to work."

  "Keep in touch."

  As Damon left, Savannah came into the room, a questioning gleam in her eyes. "What was that about? You and Damon were having a heated conversation."

  "He's concerned about my father presenting a conflict of interest for me. I'm hoping you're not here to say the same thing."

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  "Good. What's up? Something new happen in the last few minutes?"

  "We just identified your assailant. His real name is Eddie Norman, twenty-seven years old, born in France to an American mother who was studying abroad at the time. They came to the US when he was three. He grew up in LA, dishonorably discharged from the Army four years ago for assault on a senior officer. Since then, he's been working for a paint crew and, according to one of his coworkers, was flashing new cash last week from what he referred to as a side job."

  "Is there a connecti
on to any of our suspects?"

  "No, but there is a connection to the art world. Before Eddie was born, his mother, Tracy Norman, was an art student in Paris and worked part-time at a gallery called Maison d'art. The gallery has changed owners twice since then. The new owner has never heard of Tracy Norman or her son. I'm trying to track down the previous owners. I don't know if it means anything, but the art connection tells me this information could be relevant."

  "I agree. Keep on it."

  "I will. I was going to head over to Layana Vazquez's studio this morning to interview her, but Bree said she'd take that over so I can concentrate on Norman."

  "That's great. Thanks for helping me keep all the balls in the air."

  "No problem. How is Callie doing?"

  "She's better. She's with her mom. I'm heading over there now to see if I can speak to Juliette."

  "I hope Juliette can tell you something that will prove her innocence."

  "I wouldn't mind that," he admitted.

  She gave him a knowing look. "Because you have a thing for her daughter."

  "I don't have a thing," he said dismissively.

  "That's the real conflict of interest for you, Flynn. It's not your dad; it's Callie."

  He didn't bother to address her comment, mostly because he had a feeling she might be right.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Callie was waiting outside her mother's room when Flynn walked down the hallway a little before two. She'd been at the hospital for hours. He'd almost been afraid she'd gotten a car and gone back to her apartment on her own. But, eventually, she'd texted and said her mother had been cleared to speak to him.

  As he drew near, she gave him a tired smile, and he had to fight the urge to sweep her up into his arms.

  "How did it go?" he asked, digging his hands into his pockets.

  "We talked for hours. I did her hair and makeup and tried to cheer her up as best I could. We actually had lunch together in the sunroom at the end of the hall. She ate more than I expected. I didn't realize she'd gotten so thin, which is always a sign that she's bothered about something. Anyway, after lunch, we met with Dr. Clarke, and he said she can speak to you, but only for a short time. She's much better, but I'd really appreciate it if you would go easy on her."

  "I will do my best."

  "I did tell her that she's a suspect. I had to, Flynn."

  He wasn't thrilled about that, but he doubted it would matter. "All right. Did she say anything?"

  "Yes. After she argued with Arthur about Palm Springs, which was the conversation you saw on the security footage, she went into the restroom to pull herself together. She ran into Gretchen Vale there. My mom was suspicious of all the phone calls between Arthur and Gretchen, so she asked Gretchen about them. Gretchen replied that she was buying art for Arthur, and that it was complicated. But then she paused and told my mom that she might want to stop asking questions, because there was a good chance she wouldn't like the answers."

  "That's cryptic, which is consistent with Gretchen. She seems to like to be deliberately vague."

  "My mom thought about it and got angry. She decided to follow up with Gretchen, so she went looking for her. That's why she wasn't in the Grand Hall when the event began. She checked out the Seville Room because Victoria had mentioned Gretchen was headed that way, but she wasn't there. When my mom returned to the hall, she heard the screams and saw Arthur on the floor." She paused. "So that explains where she was when the cameras were off and Arthur was pushed over the railing. She wasn't anywhere near the fourth floor."

  "All right. Anything else?"

  She frowned. "You still don't believe her, Flynn?"

  He could see the disappointment in her eyes. "I didn't say I didn't believe her. I'm processing."

  "I wish you'd process with a smile on your face."

  "Sorry. Did she say anything else?"

  "I mentioned Layana's name to her, and she had no reaction beyond wondering why I was asking her about the artist who did Arthur's portrait. I don't think she ever saw the email. She was jealous of Gretchen, not of Layana. Anyway, that's pretty much it. Given that I've already told you everything, maybe you don't need to talk to her?" she asked hopefully.

  "I have to play this out, Callie. It's not that I don't trust you."

  "I am being honest, Flynn."

  "I understand. It's better that it's me than anyone else, right?" he asked lightly.

  "I'll answer that after you're done speaking to her."

  When they entered the room, he saw Juliette sitting in a chair by the window, wearing a robe over her nightgown with fuzzy slippers on her feet. When she turned her gaze on him, he was actually surprised at how good she looked. Her hair was brushed and there was a hint of pink on her lips and blush on her cheeks. However, she still had a fragile air about her, as if a good strong wind might knock her out of that chair.

  "Mom, this is Agent MacKenzie," Callie said. "You met him on Friday night."

  "Arthur's old friend," Juliette said. "And Olivia's boyfriend."

  "That's me." He took the seat across from Juliette as Callie perched on the end of the bed. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Corbyn?"

  "I'm tired and sad—angry." She shrugged. "So many emotions."

  "I'm sure they're overwhelming."

  "You must think I'm very weak, falling apart the way I did."

  "I think you suffered a tragic loss."

  "I loved Arthur so much. When we met, it was like the clouds parted, and the warm sun hit me right in the face. I felt awake and alive again. He was an amazing man. He made me feel very cherished…at least, in the beginning. The last few weeks, Arthur was stressed. He couldn't sleep. He worked late. He was always on the phone. He kept saying he needed to go down to Palm Springs, so he could breathe that warm desert air and take a break from the madness of LA."

  "Did you know about the room off the guest bedroom downstairs?" he asked, not wanting to waste too much time in case Juliette suddenly decided not to talk.

  "What room? The bathroom?"

  "No, it was through the closet in the downstairs guest room at the end of the hall. Callie said Arthur used to take calls in there."

  "Yes, he did. We didn't always get reception in the rest of the house."

  "Well, Callie and I discovered a secret room off that guest bedroom."

  "A secret room?" she echoed, bewilderment in her eyes. "I don't understand." She looked at her daughter. "What is he talking about, Callie?"

  "Arthur had created a room for art," Callie said. "It was downstairs, in a basement, but it could only be accessed through a hidden panel in the closet wall. Did he ever talk to you about wanting to keep his paintings in a safer location?"

  "No. He didn't even want to take his more valuable paintings down there. He said it wasn't safe because we weren't there all the time. He also thought art should be appreciated, not sealed away in some bank vault. I can't believe he would set up a secret room to hide it all away. But maybe that's why he wanted to go down there so often. I had the idea that he might be using the house for an affair with that Gretchen woman. But maybe he really was just buying art."

  "Did Arthur ever tell you that he thought someone was watching him?" he asked.

  She shook her head, more confusion in her eyes. "No. He never said that. Why? Did Arthur tell you that?"

  "He did. He asked me to meet him at the museum Friday night. He said he needed my help, but I never heard what he needed. I think whatever he was worried about was what got him killed."

  Juliette stared back at him. "I know that he was upset with that young painter, Marcus Vitelli. Marcus was at the museum last week when Arthur was picking me up. They ran into each other in the hall, and Arthur told Marcus that he wasn't going to continue to support Marcus's work if he didn't finish his painting. Marcus said he was having trouble. He was blocked. Arthur told him real artists paint through the block and their emotions make their work better. Arthur could be impatient at times, especially when he thought
someone was just being lazy. Marcus did not appreciate his comments."

  "Did anyone else hear this conversation?"

  "Do you think I'm making it up?"

  "I don't. I just like to have multiple witnesses to corroborate stories. It helps build a case."

  "You don't think Marcus killed him, do you?" Juliette asked. "I can't imagine that. Even though Arthur was annoyed with him, he was willing to buy his work."

  "I understand."

  "I think Victoria might have heard part of their conversation," Juliette continued. "She came into the hall as they were finishing their discussion. I know she told Arthur at some point that Marcus had a great talent and it needed to be nurtured. He couldn't produce on demand. He was a true artist."

  "Did Arthur and Marcus talk again after that?" he queried."

  "Yes, a few days later. Arthur told me that Marcus was painting again. He was happy about that, and I was relieved, because Victoria is my boss and Arthur is my husband. I didn't want anything to be awkward between the three of us, and I knew Victoria had taken Marcus under her wing." Juliette took a breath, glancing at her daughter, then back at him. "Callie says that I'm a suspect. But I didn't kill Arthur. I loved my husband. And our argument was not that big of a deal. It was just about a trip. I'm not crazy. I'm not a violent person. I wish you could see that."

  He could see that Juliette was starting to get agitated.

  Callie stood up, obviously thinking the same thing. "I think that's enough, Flynn," she said. "You can talk to my mother again tomorrow. She needs to rest now."

  "I am tired," Juliette said. "But I do want to help you find Arthur's killer."

  He nodded, thinking that Juliette was nowhere near as easy to read as her daughter. She wavered between weak fragility and stubborn anger. How far would she have gone if she thought her husband was having an affair?

  And he couldn't forget that Juliette couldn't seem to remember trying to throw herself off the balcony. Maybe she'd blocked out what she'd done to Arthur, too.

  Not that he wanted her to be guilty. He didn't. That would hurt Callie, and that's the last thing he wanted. He got to his feet, giving them both a smile. "You should rest," he said. "We'll talk again another time."