Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1

by DB Kennison

  Terri nodded. “And Thomlin?”

  Jon hesitated. “Yeah, I suppose you should let him know what’s going on.” He looked back at the artist. “Then we start on this guy again.

  “You think he’s not telling us everything?”

  “Trust me. This guy has skeletons in his closet. I just hope it’s not in the literal sense.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “Why don’t I believe you, Manny?” Jon poked him hard on his bony chest.

  Manfred winced, clearly not used to this kind of physical contact. “Stop it. That’s assault.”

  “Your word against mine. Besides, it’s just my finger, not my fist.”

  “Yet,” said Terri, standing behind the suspect.

  Manny looked like he was about to cry.

  Jon leaned forward. “Let’s start again. Where is Georgia?”

  “I told you, I don’t know! Even when she’s here there’s always some crisis that keeps Georgia from actually being present. She’s busy like that.”

  Terry took a turn. “Okay, where is Sonja?”

  “I don’t know.” Manny got up and walked to a narrow table against the wall and pulled a card from the bowl on top. “Here, you can try to reach Sonja on her cell. Sometimes she runs to town for supplies.”

  Jon looked down at Sonja DiBattisa’s business card and handed it off to Terri, who then tried the number.

  “No answer. I’ll leave her a text message just in case.”

  They’d been at it a while, questioning Manfred in a small room off the lobby as the other detectives searched the resort and its cabins. They’d just finished and come up empty-handed. Manny was indeed the only person left on the property.

  There had been nothing out of the ordinary in Truman Perry’s room. Ostlund was there now doing a forensic search for anything that would explain Truman’s death.

  “All right. Let’s pretend that’s true, you don’t know where they are. What about Truman? Who do you think would want to kill him?”

  The man was wracked with dry sobs now, the interrogation having drained him emotionally. “Do I need a lawyer if I didn’t do anything wrong?”

  Jon pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “Depends on what you didn’t do wrong.”

  Manny lifted his head, hoping for some kind of lifeline. Jon would have preferred to toss him an anchor.

  Terri tagged in. “Truman’s dead. Someone murdered him. Was it you?”

  “No!”

  “How about Sonja or Georgia?” asked Jon, “You kill them?”

  “No!”

  “Then where are they?” asked Terri.

  “I don’t know!”

  Jon suddenly became calm and almost friendly. “You know what? I believe you. But here’s the thing…I think you know something, and you’re dying to get it off your chest. The problem is you don’t know how to tell me. If you have information that can help us, I can help you. But if you don’t, and I find it on my own, I’m going to arrest you for accessory to murder—at the very least.”

  Manny’s bony hands trembled uncontrollably as he spoke. “I just kept thinking…don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” He looked up at Jon, the bags under his eyes pushing out as he winced. “You know.”

  Jon remained silent. Once people started talking, as long as you didn’t interrupt them they had a tendency to just keep spewing everything out, like a dam bursting. And the crack was starting to give way.

  Manny took a deep breath. “It started a couple of years ago. Truman was in a slump. Everything he did was absolute crap. I felt for the guy, you know, I’ve been there myself. You wake up one day and you wait for that spark of creativity and…nothing. Then you force it, and all you create is junk. You recognize it, see that what you’ve worked on is worthless. But worse, everyone else sees it too. Next thing you know you’re a failure. Can’t eke out a living, let alone get famous.” He paused to take a drink of water from the glass Terri left him.

  “Truman thought he was washed up, didn’t know what he was going to do. Georgia was kind enough to keep him on, let him stay for free. We were all hoping he could turn things around. When it didn’t happen Georgia gave him notice that he’d have to leave at the end of the month. The next day, and I mean the very next day, Truman comes into the studio and paints with a new air of confidence. He stays up all night and the next. Next thing you know he’s come back from the brink. He’s found it. The work was brilliant.”

  Manfred stared at them, as if hoping that was all he needed to explain. They waited, and the flood continued.

  “So Georgia says he can stay. He sells paintings—and I mean a lot of them.” Jon detected a note of jealousy in his voice there.

  “Soon he’s an outright celebrity. But the funny thing was, for all his success and all the paintings the guy was selling, not once did he accept a commissioned piece. Nobody turns down commissioned work—and I mean nobody. We all thought it was weird that he was selling like mad, yet turning down work that people were willing to pre-pay for.” He pursed his lips. “That’s the one thing that didn’t make sense.”

  Manny’s eyes seemed to drift to some other time and place. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. Jon cleared his throat to bring Manny back to the present.

  “That’s what sparked my curiosity.” The small man sounded regretful, like being curious about his fellow artist’s work was the worst thing he could have done. His voice was nearly as whisper now.

  “One night I made it my mission to get him drunk. It was the end of the weekend, and Truman was way ahead of the game—plenty of art in reserve. I start mixing cocktails and daring him to take shots with me while dumping my own on the sly. Pretty soon he lets his guard down. An hour in and he’s shit faced, his lips are pretty loose, so I ask him—because there’s not one of us in the troop who wouldn’t give their left nut to become that prolific, that admired, I asked him—what brought you back, Truman?” He paused as if reliving the night in real time.

  “He gets this big-ass grin on his face and tells me he has a muse. A muse. As if we don’t all claim to have one of those. But it’s obvious he’s not talking in the metaphorical sense.”

  Jon looked over at Terri as she stood behind Manfred, to see if she was still recording. She nodded.

  “It was about three in the morning. I poured us a couple shots of vodka—a toast to his muse, I say. When he’s at the point where he can barely speak intelligibly, I ask him about this muse of his.” Manfred took on a faraway stare again. “He tells me every so often his muse slips a photo under his door, and that’s what he paints.”

  “A photo?” Terri sounded incredulous.

  “Inspiration,” Jon said, understanding. “Inspiration from real life.”

  “At first I thought it was another bullshit answer, something he’d made up so no one would learn his secret. I mean, you’ve seen his work. Then I thought maybe someone’s slipping him autopsy photos.”

  “One weekend I stayed behind sick while everyone else was off to Mineral Point, and my curiosity got the best of me. I started snooping around to see what these pictures were, or if they even existed. I found them underneath a loose floorboard.”

  “That’s when I learned the truth. These weren’t pictures of autopsies, cattle mutilation, or some kind of collage of butchered meat.” He shook his head. “These were dead women, right at the crime scene.” He laughed, a despondent, cruel sound.

  “Real women. I was careful when I put the pictures back, but somehow Truman knew that I found out. He begged me to understand, to forget what I saw. As if I could. It took me a week to decide what to do. I needed the troop to do the one thing—the only thing—that made me happy. My art.”

  “And you never thought to call the police?” Terri accused.

  “I didn’t do anything! Truman didn’t kill them. And part of me still beli
eved they could have been taken by the police, not… Besides, by the time I saw those photos there wasn’t anything that could be done for those women.” He hung his head. “I’m not like other people. I don’t have friends or family. My art, my creations, those are my entire world. I couldn’t give that up.”

  “Well, you’re right,” said Jon. “You didn’t do anything. And that was hands down the worst decision you’ve ever made.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Voicemail again. What the hell was Jon working on? This time Randi left a detailed message of what she found in Minnesota, and that she left the info at his house on the kitchen table. She also mentioned that thanks to a complete lack of parental pet training she had been forced to take his dog with her, currently slobbering in her passenger seat and refusing to leave. She added that she was meeting Sonja DiBattisa at a house showing and that she would return Dammit when she was done.

  Randy could not get over how beautiful this part of the country was, with the low rolling hills of grass and wild flowers. She zipped along Old Highway 5 as the paved road wound its way south and eventually gave way to steeper forests filled with pine, maple and ancient oaks. Where the lake access road met the highway there was a tumbled-down shanty that doubled as a gas station and bait shop.

  Randi knew that once she took the turnoff, the road would fork every few miles, splitting off into a maze around the lake. Thankful that she’d been to this particular listing before, Randi had forgotten how isolated the property was. Most of the cottages out this way were weekend retreats or seasonal vacation rentals.

  Her stomach did a tiny flip when she thought of Truman Perry and entered the dark canopied forest at the same moment. She thought about what he’d done to the sisters when they got too close and with her just as close now, she’d be a prime target. Good thing his ass was in jail.

  At the crest of the last hill, the thousand-acre lake came into view. The pristine water shimmered and sparkled in the sunlight. The area was known for its seclusion and privacy, but without being too far from town. She could see a few tiny fishing boats on the far side of the lake.

  She knew Sonja would be impressed with the property. Much more than just a traditional lake house, the two-thousand square foot home came with three hundred feet of shoreline and a dock the needed some TLC, but was still fully functional. The post and beam construction gave the house impressive, open spaces with high vaulted ceilings and a two-story bank of windows overlooking the lake.

  On the passenger’s seat, Dammit sniffed the air as Randi pulled into the long, curving driveway flanked by overgrown brush and thick forest. The scent of shaded earth, pine and leaf mold surrounded them.

  She shot Dammit a you’re lucky I didn’t take you to the pound look and confirmed by the dash clock that she was only a few minutes late. She was surprised to find that Sonja wasn’t here yet. She had come across as the uber-punctual type.

  “Thank goodness,” she said and pointed at the dog. “Her tardiness just saved your behind.” The dog cocked his head. “Where’s she at, boy?” Dammit’s ears perked up and he wagged his stump enthusiastically. So easy to trigger those kind of reactions with the right words spoken in baby talk.

  Randi got out and Dammit tried to follow her. “Sorry buddy, you get to stay here. You’d might scare the shit out of my client.” Actually it was just as likely that she’d scare the dog. She remembered watching her supervise her staff at the gala. If that woman told Dammit to go back in the house, not only would he have done so, he’d have locked the door. Dammit sat behind the wheel and whined.

  “Sit!” She pointed to the seat and Dammit looked at it like it was the first time he’d ever seen such a thing in his life. Randi sighed and tied his leash to the brake handle. It wasn’t foolproof, but she didn’t think the brute was smart enough to get it loose. She reached out and scratched his ear. “Stay put and maybe we can go for a walk on the beach when I’m done.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  It hadn’t taken long to find Truman’s hiding spot, right where Manfred said it would be. Jon had taken the photos out and flipped through them with gloved hands, each one a match to one of Becca’s killings.

  Jon looked down at the photos in his hand and fanned them out. There was a woman bent over a Duck boat with a rubber duck on her back, a woman who was sliced open throat to the pelvic bone on a wide stone portico, a bank sign visible behind her. Jon thumbed through them. He came to a woman spread eagle on the ice, blood smeared around her like a gruesome red snow angel.

  Jon felt sick to his stomach. He held them out to Manfred and the man looked away.

  “What do you have to say, Manny?” Jon said through gritted teeth. “How is that not doing anything sitting with you right now?” It was all he could do to reign in his anger. “Success. That’s what you said, right? So if I’m to believe this supposed narrative, who would have benefited from his financial turnaround?”

  “Truman did.”

  “No shit, Picasso!” Terri leaned in from behind, cutting in as she lost her patience. “Who else?”

  “Well…er…everyone. The whole troop benefited.” Jon and Terri stared at him, not quite getting the explanation. “Look, it comes down to simple supply and demand. Truman’s art became a big commodity. It pulled big buyers into the exhibitions, the weekend classes, and resort stays—all of it. His was the art everyone wanted to own a piece of—especially if it was one of the performance pieces. And the prices skyrocketed, for everyone. We all got to ride on his coattails, especially if Truman sold out at a showing. We all benefited. Even Sonja caught a break from it.”

  “How so?” Terri asked.

  “She got hired for a catering gig in Chicago with the Richmonds, an event that then-Senator Obama and his wife attended. That spun into the occasional small job in DC later on when the Obamas referred her work. You know what Washington is like. People would pay for Sonja to fly out and cook for them so that they could say they had the same caterer as the Obamas, even though she only cooked for them in Chicago the one time.”

  Jon and Terri stared at Manny, unsure if what he was saying was the truth.

  “Don’t you people read the Style section of the paper? It was a big story in our little circle. You know, what Sonja does is art too. She is every bit as creative as any of the rest of us.”

  “And she has just as much to lose as the rest of you.” Jon thought about that for a second. The night of the gala flashed in his mind once again, the tiny candy sculptures Georgia had delivered to their table at Sonja’s request. Each one looked like a small-scale feat of engineering, most definitely a work of art.

  Jon hadn’t tried any, he wasn’t really into chocolate, but Randi had. Then Georgia had put on the video from the previous gala showing some of Larissa’s final moments, which had stressed her out, and that wig-wearing artist had wanted to paint Randi nude…he was pretty sure she finished off both of the sculptures after that.

  It all sounded farfetched, but right now it seemed awfully coincidental. And Jon didn’t believe in coincidence. He shared his thoughts with Terri and wasn’t afraid to say it in front of Manfred. Jon wanted to see his reaction. The man just slumped over further and stared down at his shoes.

  “Jesus,” Terri whispered. “So Sonja was worried our investigation was getting too close to the truth and she tried to poison you?”

  “Not to kill, that would only attract more attention. I’m guessing she wanted us sick enough that we weren’t going to witness Truman’s performance piece, or at least buzzed enough not to pay attention. But if Randi ate more than her share that would explain her violent reaction.”

  “Sonja DiBattista is our killer?” Terri shook her head and Jon could see she struggled with the idea.

  Jon got on the line to dispatch and requested an Attempt To Locate for Sonja DiBattista as a suspect, along with a potential missing witness, Georgia McGovern. A few m
inutes later they all heard the ATL come across on their radios. By shift-change the same information would be on hot sheets in briefing rooms across the state.

  They didn’t know for certain that Georgia was missing. She could be in danger. Or she could simply be shopping. Jon frowned at the thought. Under the circumstances they needed to think of the worst-case options.

  In the meantime they would continue to work on Manfred’s recollection, help other jurisdictions pick up and hold of the rest of the artists, and start a contact list to work through of Georgia’s friends and family who may know of her whereabouts.

  Once everyone had their assignments, Jon took a moment to check his voicemail, and remembered the missed call from Randi.

  Jon held the phone to his ear, and felt the color drain from his face. He went weak in the knees and had to sit on the couch.

  “Jon, what’s the matter?”

  He replayed the message for her.

  “Hi, it’s Randi. I’ve been in Minnesota and long story short, I’ve uncovered some info on Perry. I left on your kitchen table. I took Dammit because he’s never learned good manners and he refused to stay home so he’s with me. I’m meeting Sonja DiBattisa at a showing and I’ll return him after that. Maybe we can talk, Jon. Figure us out?”

  Jon managed to pull himself together and quickly dialed Randi’s number. It went straight to her voicemail. He dialed Lassiter Inc. and got a busy signal.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  Terri nodded. “You going to her office?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll keep trying her cell in case she turns it back on. Will you call Becca and let her know what’s happening?”

  Terri pushed him toward the door. “On it. Now go already!”

  Jon barely had the door on his Jeep closed before spinning out of the gravel drive of Walnut Ridge, scattering pebbles out in a froth.

  It took Jon six minutes to get into town and in that time he’d redialed Randi’s office five times, her cell six. Frustrated, he snapped his phone off and tossed in onto the passenger seat where it bounced, ricocheted off the door and landed on the rusted floor. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.