by J. A. Kerley
“It’s nice to finally have a question I can answer,” I said.
We landed in Atlanta and waited for a Mobile flight, arriving in late evening. I should have been ass-weary, but felt a strange buoyancy. “Looky ahead,” Danbury said, pointing. “It’s Harry Nautilus. He’s been lonely without me, I’ll bet.”
Harry leaned against a column beside Baggage Claim, resplendent in a teal suit, yellow shirt, red tie. Last time I’d seen that ensemble was at a funeral. Danbury shot off for the restroom and I walked to Harry.
“We found the background for my likeness in the Wicky piece, a small park beside the academy Hexcamp attended. Still no idea who made it or why.”
“Hexcamp turn out like Danbury’s research predicted?”
We walked toward the luggage carousel. “Egomaniacal in galactic portions. And a masochist, hard core. Calypso used it to own him. She scoped him out, smelled his darkness, and provided what he wanted. A lot of it.”
“Strip me, whip me, beat me ‘til I come?”
“She sounded scary before, now she sounds pure freak. It’s why he emerged from his socalled ‘creative sessions’ so drained. She probably took him to the edge for days at a time.”
Harry wrinkled his nose. “I’ll never understand this stuff. Which ain’t too bad because I don’t want to.” He shifted gears. “Orange Lady, the case Roy Trent can’t dent, his backshot victim. After I told Roy about the connection, we went to the group home where she lived. No art in her room. Her mail comes through the front desk, goes to the director of the home, gets disbursed to the residents. Only eight folks live at the home, so it’s not a huge volume. All Nancy Chastain - Orange Lady - received in the previous week were a couple occupant-type fliers. She didn’t get a lot of mail.”
“You tossed her room?” It was a rhetorical question.
“Vents. Fixtures. Everything. We also tore apart every other room in case she’d had someone hide it for her. Nothing. The director said there’d been no change in Chastain’s personality or actions before her death. She wandered in her happy fog, got her daily oranges, sang her songs, helped around the house.”
I watched baggage climb from the bowels of the terminal, tumble onto the track. Harry said, “I’ve been giving it some thought, laying out a timeline: Heidi Wicky, Marie Gilbeaux, Nancy Chastain…The whole weirdness side of this, with the candles, the flowers, started at the Cozy Cabins with Marie G. The art started there, too, even if it was sent to the convent.”
I said, “But the weirdness seems spur of the moment. If we go by your take, the perp drove by a candle sale, thought they’d be a nice touch, picked up some rings, stopped at the cemetery for flowers…”
Danbury reappeared, her brown bag swinging over her shoulder. “How about we head to my place? I want to check Carla.”
Harry said, “I checked before coming here: she was washing clothes and getting ready for bed.”
She narrowed an eye. “How about my feeders?”
“You were out of cracked corn. You owe me eight bucks.”
Danbury took Harry’s arm, leaned her head against his shoulder. “He fills my feeders, buys treats for my birdies. What a guy.”
“Ease up, Danbury,” Harry rumbled. “I had to go to the pet shop anyway.”
“When’d you get a pet?” I asked.
Danbury said, “Let’s grab the bags and git. We’ve got to tell Harry about the big chess game. The elevator operator. And waltzing the night away.”
She saw her bag circling and ran for it. Harry nudged me with an elbow.
“Waltzing the night away? Ooo-la-la, Monsieur Carson.”
Chapter 42
The next morning we regrouped on Danbury’s porch and sipped coffee. Birds flitted between feeders in the trees. I heard Carla Hutchins inside watching TV. As always when we discussed Hexcamp, she wanted to be elsewhere. I couldn’t blame her.
Danbury said, “The only ones to die are from Paris, the charter members of Club Hexcamp. There weren’t many, because he finally drove off all but the most devoted - read dysfunctional - followers. Why?”
Harry said, “Maybe because they knew he wasn’t much of an artist?”
I shook my head. “If Hexcamp had drawn piss-pictures in snow, his followers would have swooned in ecstasy. Maybe it involves the attack on the Parisian artist.”
Danbury said, “They beat him to death, or so Mimi Badentier believes. Could there be a fear of prosecution after all these years?”
It didn’t work for me. “These people, or this Calypso, didn’t seem particularly worried about prosecution. I get the feeling she was fearless, and everyone followed her lead.”
“We’re talking big money for the collection,” Harry said. “What if it came out, even after the fact, the deal was bogus, or tainted somehow? Buyers who can afford that much for garbage from a killer might take some action, the painful kind. Or worse.”
Danbury stood, walked to the edge of the porch, her brow lined in thought. She tucked sprigs of blonde behind her ears, tapped a pink nail on the porch rail. “Does anything really have to be sold?” she asked, turning to Harry and me. “I’ve probably done two dozen stories where people lined up to buy things that don’t exist. Shares in thoroughbred horses, beachfront lots in Cancun, a saint’s bicuspid…How many times has the Brooklyn Bridge changed hands? Give people an offer to believe in with all their souls, and the greed kicks in. No matter how smart or common-sensical people are, push the Greed Index past that, and they’ll stand naked on your porch at midnight and push hundred-dollar bills through the mail slot.”
I leaned back, ran the possibilities. “What if she’s right, at least hypothetically? Suppose there’s no collection. Nada. Not even fake art. All that exists is the story about the collection, and the promise one fantastically lucky person will own it with the right dollar amount.”
She said, “A promise of a lifetime, drawing big-money nutcases to town for Coyle’s backlot Sotheby’s. What you want to bet the deal is cash and carry?”
“Cash,” Harry said, snapping a finger. “Wads of upfront cash. That could be the point of the whole screwy thing.” He paced the porch for several minutes, his face darkening with every pass. “It’s possible,” he finally whispered. “Sixteen years a cop, you give me enough information and I’ll smell it. Danbury’s onto something. This has the stink of a scam, a rip-off.”
I did rhetorical. “How many customers did Walcott say might be involved in this? A half dozen or more?”
Harry said, “And Willow guesstimated the price at a half-million? At those kind of bucks we’re talking three million dollars. I saw two guys shot dead at a crap game over forty-three bucks. What’ll a minimum of three million bucks do?”
“Three bodies so far,” I said, showing the count on my fingers. “Wicky, Gilbeaux, Chastain.”
“Would this Coyle guy do that?” Danbury asked. “Or is he just running the deal portion? The verification and whatnot.”
I snapped my fingers and jumped up, suddenly too charged to stay sitting. “If the collection isn’t Hexcamp’s, the person verifying it is a fake. Or an expert paid to issue a false statement of authenticity. It has to be someone in on the deal,” I said. “Maybe even the person behind this house of mirrors. I’ve got to talk to Walcott again. I’ll need both of you on this one. Borg too, if you can get hold of my good buddy.”
Twenty minutes later we were crossing the causeway toward Spanish Fort, everyone in on my idea for opening Walcott up. “Where the hell is Borg?” Danbury said, tapping on her cellphone as Harry blew by an ancient pickup stacked high with furniture.
“I don’t need him to shoot pictures,” I said to her. “But I want him to look like he is.”
She laughed. “That’ll be a switch. He’s a master at making like the camera’s off when it’s sucking up every word and gesture; a natural sneak.”
“Just keep him aiming the big glass eye at Walcott and his house, that’s all I need.”
“Maybe he’s
with a woman friend,” she said, glaring at the phone in her hand. “It’s rare, but when he digs up a bimbette, he goes at it like a pig in slop. I’ll send someone from the station over to bang on his door.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. If Borg can’t meet us, we’ll go it alone. He’s window dressing. Just having you there will mess with Walcott’s head. Then, of course, there’s our outsized amigo. If Walcott’s not intimidated by the media…”
“A large and irritated-looking black cop is not something to be trifled with,” Harry said. “You has my word on it.”
We pulled into a supermarket lot in Spanish Fort and let Danbury try the videographer again. Nothing. We crossed Zipinski off the list and headed for Walcott’s. He was standing amidst the manicured shrubs of his front yard.
“He’s out, Harry; let’s go for it.”
The Crown Vic thumped into the driveway. Walcott’s dark suit had been traded for a gold-buttoned navy sport jacket over a white crew-neck shirt. He wore white pants and white shoes. Going casual didn’t diminish the cylindrical effect of his long, shoulderless body; he looked like a cigar on a cruise.
Walcott’s face angered when it saw mine. He strode toward us, jabbing his finger at the car. “That vehicle. It’s so obviously police. Do you have to park in my drive? We talked about this last time. You said my business would remain…”
“Don’t give me that pissy look, Giles. I haven’t burned you. Not just yet. And as long as we keep our lines of communication open -”
“I don’t have any other names for you.”
“Yes you do. The thing is, I don’t want them now. I want to talk more about the Hexcamp collection.”
He did exasperated. “I told you -”
“It’s a dream, or a gorgon or a whatever. It doesn’t live in this world.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t exist. I said there was no authoritative proof of its existence.”
I said, “Jibble-jabble. They’re pretty much the same.”
“Not in my world.”
“That world is what has us beating a path to your doorstep, Giles. Why don’t we step inside and discuss it in detail?”
“I don’t want to…who’s that colored man?”
I grinned. “That’s Harry Nautilus. He’s joining us. Big, ain’t he?”
Walcott crossed his arms defiantly. “Neither of you is joining me.”
“Both of us is joining you,” Harry rumbled on cue, exiting the car. “And guess what…?”
Danbury had been leaning out of sight in the back seat. She popped out, hair bouncing, white teeth beaming, notepad in her hand. Giles Walcott turned as white as his pants, and I took it he was a viewer of Channel 14.
“Here’s the deal, Mr Walcott,” she said. “I’m just here on a small research mission, a story on people who collect serial-killer memorabilia. There are two ways you can be identified in my story. One is ‘an anonymous broker who lives in the South.’ The other is, of course, by name. Much of it depends on your cooperation.”
I put a brotherly hand around Walcott’s semi-shoulders, pulled him close.
“There a pizza joint around that delivers, Giles? It’s almost lunch time, and we figure on being here a while.”
Chapter 43
“I have never sold a piece of work represented as a Hexcamp,” Walcott complained. Harry shrugged, took a bite of pizza, burped. The pizza box sat on a very shiny and probably very expensive cherry table in Walcott’s expansive dining room. Harry set the remaining piece of pizza on the table. We weren’t exactly doing Good Cop/Bad Cop; more like Polite Cop/ Impolite Cop.
Harry said, “There’s money in Hexcamp, Giles. There are also pieces floating around. What I want to know is why some of these pretty little pieces of history haven’t passed through your palms.”
Walcott walked to the arched window overlooking the front lawn. The idiotic dolphin sculpture spewed its stream into the air. Walcott turned to me. “Can we talk alone, Mr Ryder?”
“He ain’t a mister,” Harry said with his mouth full. “He’s a detective. He’s Detective Ryder. I’m Detective Nautilus. This here’s Countess Danbury. And no, he ain’t talking to you alone.”
“Countess?” Danbury said.
“A field promotion,” Harry said, smacking his lips. “Just for the day, though.”
Walcott was confused, the desired effect. He had a penchant for evasion, but flustered easily. He disliked being flustered, thus answered more readily, hoping to rid himself of the source of confusion.
“Countess is cool, even if it’s a temp position,” Danbury said. She pointed to Walcott. “What’s his title?”
Harry set a baleful eye on the broker. “Sicko.”
“I am not one of those people,” Walcott protested. “I explained this to Detective Ryder on his last visit.” He looked to me for support; I busied myself with my napkin.
“You’ve sold Hexcamp pieces,” Harry said. “You’re not just a sicko, you’re a lying sicko.”
My turn to ring in. “He’s got you, Giles. Please don’t argue. We’ve looked deeper into this than you can ever imagine.” I gave him the gotcha! eye. Pure bluff.
He looked away, guilty. “I sold a few small scraps, that’s all. And I never said they were by Marsden Hexcamp, I represented them as ‘In the Hexcamp tradition’.”
Harry said, “From what I heard, it’s the same.”
“If the buyers wanted to believe the pieces were Hexcamp’s, I can’t help it.”
“You’ve moved Hexcamp pieces,” Harry growled. “You’re tied in. People across the country call you for information, right?”
“Of course they do,” Walcott snapped. “I’m a well-known broker.”
Harry’s fist slammed the table. “THEN GOD-DAMN TELL US WHERE AND WHEN THE HEXCAMP COLLECTION’S BEING SOLD!”
“I don’t know,” Walcott rasped, eyes wide. “It’s the truth.”
“YOU TUBULAR SONUVABITCH! STOP LYING AND TELL ME…”
Harry leaped up, shoved the table aside, jumped at Walcott. I dove into Harry, holding him off. We’d practiced this ploy about six months back, Harry nearly driving me through his living-room wall until we got our act down.
“Powerful drama,” Danbury said, pulling her phone from her purse. “I’ve got to get a video crew over here now.”
Walcott said, “No, stop. I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not much.”
I managed Harry back to his chair. Danbury sighed and dropped the phone into her purse.
Walcott kept a wary eye on Harry. “I’m speaking from rumors, you understand.”
“They better be damn good rumors,” Harry rumbled.
“The collection - yes, there is a collection - has been authenticated to the satisfaction of potential buyers. Recently, I understand. There’s to be an auction, and the event is nearing.”
I said, “Who authenticated it?” One name, and we could get real close.
“I don’t know who he is. A person in a position to know. We’ve discussed this. I’ve heard rumors that the particulars of the event are to be handled by a lawyer, a man with impeccable credentials in, uh, involved transactions. I assume the person handling the authentication has similar credentials.”
“Rubin Coyle’s handling the particulars,” I said. “He’s a local collector. He lives ten miles away and you’re telling me you don’t know him?”
Walcott said, “Coyle? Never heard the name.”
“COYLE’S A CUSTOMER OF YOURS, ASS-COTT!” Harry howled, pounding the table again.
“I don’t know that name,” Walcott pleaded, scooting back a foot. “You’ve got to believe me. Some people use cut-outs, intermediaries. Especially if they have a high community pro-file.”
That was likely, I thought; score one for Giles Walcott.
“How do we find out when and where?” Harry repeated.
“You’re asking me questions I can’t answer. I’m trying to be helpful.”
“You’re trying to be o
n the nightly news.” Harry said, looking at Danbury. She reached for the phone again. As ensemble players, we were getting good.
Walcott waved her off. “I’ve got an idea. Only a few collectors have the financial means for such a collection. I could call them. See what I can determine.”
For the first time since we’d arrived, Harry smiled. His teeth were red with pizza sauce. “Atta boy, Giles,” he said. “When can we expect to hear something?”
“Tomorrow morning. Afternoon at the latest.” Walcott looked pointedly at the front door. “The faster you leave, the faster I can get started.”
We left Walcott’s with the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this tunnel had a light. It was about half a watt and ten miles away, but it was something.
“Way to go, Nautilus,” Danbury said, sitting next to Harry and clapping his massive shoulder. “Love the intimidation factor.”
Harry looked at his watch. “We don’t hear by tomorrow afternoon, I’m going back and make him ride that idiot dolphin bare-ass naked in his front yard.”
Danbury’s phone rang. “Probably Borg,” she said. “Coming up for air.”
She popped open the phone, jammed it to her ear. I watched her face go from anger to confusion to disbelief. She kept repeating, “My God.” We were crossing the causeway to the western side of the Bay and Harry pulled over. He looked at me, What now?
Danbury closed the phone and stared at it, like she couldn’t believe what it had just told her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The station sent a gopher to Borg’s house, an intern. When she peeked in the window, he was on the floor, blood everywhere. The police are there now.”
Zipinski lived in a gray two-story bungalow just south of Jackson Heights. The yard needed mowing and the house needed paint. We arrived as Borg was leaving. The attendants rolled him to the ambulance, slid him in, drove away without flashers or siren. The team catching the call was Roy Trent and Clay Bridges. There were Channel 14 station personnel at the scene and Danbury ran over to talk to them.