Consigned to Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “I’m not yelling,” he shouted, agitated.

  We scowled at one another.

  Max cleared his throat. “I’m not sure this line of questioning is productive,” he said.

  Alverez turned on him. “She tells me I have a leak in my department and you say it’s not relevant?”

  Max shrugged. “You don’t know that it’s a leak. First of all, people gossip. Second of all, the police aren’t the only people who knew about the connection between the Taffy Pull and a call to Mr. Grant.”

  “They damn well were supposed to be.”

  Max shrugged again. “Come on, Ty, what about the phone company employees?”

  I’d forgotten that Alverez’s name was Ty and wondered, as I had before, whether that was short for Tyrone. I also noted that using it in the midst of an angry altercation was an effective way of lowering the volume, of reminding someone that you shared a personal relationship. It reminded me of my father’s instruction about handling anger. He always said that when other people are loud and shrill, you should take a deep breath, smile politely, and speak quietly and courteously. It disarms them, kiddo, he told me. Kill ’em with kindness. They’ll follow your lead Because you’ll sound like a leader.

  “This discussion isn’t over,” Alverez said, poking his finger in my direction, but sounding less fierce.

  My heart still racing, I forced myself to speak softly. “Was there anything else or are we done here?”

  I watched as Alverez, his eyes pinning me with their intensity, took several deep breaths, then, sitting up straight, he turned to Max and spoke with his usual, even tone. His rage, for the moment, at least, was reined in. “As part of our investigation, we want to offer the Matisse for sale. Specifically, I’m hoping Josie will make a phone call, arrange a meeting, show off the painting, and negotiate a sales price.”

  “With a suspect in a murder?” Max asked incredulously. “You’re asking Josie to do something illegal and put herself in harm’s way?”

  “She’ll be in no danger.”

  “How can you possibly know that? You’re making a target of her! Look what happened to Mr. Grant when he offered the Renoir for sale. If it’s such a good idea, why don’t you do it yourself? Don’t you ever go undercover?”

  “Nothing personal,” Alverez said to me, “but I think it’s easier to believe that an antique dealer is a crook rather than a police chief.”

  “Oh, please!” I said. “As if the news isn’t full of stories about corrupt cops!”

  He shrugged. “It isn’t just that. It’s the likelihood of success. People who are desperate aren’t looking through a wide-angle lens. Their focus is strictly on their immediate needs and nothing else. Think about it-if you approach someone, the opportunity will be seen as heaven-sent. But if I do it, my job title will signal that it might be a trap.”

  I understood his point. When you’re hungry, all you can think of is getting food. It’s only the affluent, people who know where their next meals are coming from, who think about organic ingredients and what they’re in the mood to eat.

  “You don’t think people would be surprised if I offered to do something illegal?” I asked.

  “No insult intended.”

  “Sigh,” I said, sighing loudly for effect. “None taken.”

  Alverez half smiled. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy,” Max said, shaking his head, his tone righteous, gesturing his amazement. “I have no idea what you’re planning, but I can already hear the lawyers asking for the charges to be dismissed-entrapment.”

  “I checked with Murphy. We’re clear.”

  “Murphy? The ADA?” Max asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Max explained, “The assistant district attorney.”

  “So, with no worry about complaints of entrapment, may I explain?”

  Max sat back, his arms crossed across his chest. “All right,” he said, “but it’s extremely unlikely we’ll agree.”

  “Understood. All I want is to catch the person I think is guilty of murder committing a lesser crime. Once arrested on a felony charge, I got ya. I can process you, fingerprint you, and interrogate you.” He opened his hands, palms up. “It’s simple. That’s what I want.”

  Max looked at me. I thought for a moment of the courage it would take to do what I was being asked. I’d need to exude confidence and calm. I couldn’t start crying if I became frightened. I swallowed, knowing that I was still vulnerable to bouts of unexpected emotionalism. Yet, despite having seen me at weak moments, Alverez felt I could be trusted with this responsibility. His faith in me gave me faith in myself. If I could help Alverez, it would represent a quantum leap on my road to rebirth. And success breeds success. Plus, I could hear my mother. When in doubt, Josie, she always said, do the right thing.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. I realized I was still gripping the chair as if it were my only support, and encouraged myself with my father’s oft-repeated words: Fake it ’til you make it. I hoped that if I didn’t admit to feeling fearful, the emotion would disappear, and I’d be strong and brave and resilient. I swallowed and smiled, adding, “I’m glad to help.”

  “Wait,” Max interjected. “I’m going to draft a letter for you to sign indicating you asked for Josie’s help and are appreciative of it. Just in case.”

  “I’ll bring in Cathy now and you can dictate it,” Alverez said. “That way it will be on official letterhead.” He turned to me. “It’ll be easy to write, because it’s one hundred percent true.”

  I smiled and, embarrassed, whispered, “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We spent so long going over the plan that I was almost late for my 2:00 appointment with the couple who were downsizing to a condo on the pond. Mostly Max sat still, observant, but without comment.

  Alverez sent out for sandwiches around noon, and we kept working as we ate, detailing whom he suspected, what I needed to do and say, and how we’d arrange the logistics, including such important factors as telling Fred and Sasha they couldn’t work late in the office tonight after all.

  Keeping the warehouse empty would allow Alverez’s team to set up the hidden microphones and cameras, determine where we should position the locked cabinet that the police department would provide to store the Matisse, and with any luck, execute the sting. It felt oddly natural to plan the lies I’d tell, and I felt increasingly confident that I would be able to do exactly as Alverez wanted. I began to think that I’d missed my calling. Maybe, I thought, I should have been a con woman.

  At about 1:15, Alverez finished up by saying, “That’s it. If you can get those points in, we’ll do the rest.”

  “I can do it,” I told him.

  He walked us to the parking lot and thanked me again. “Are you okay with everything?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, with more self-assurance than I felt. “But it’ll be good when it’s over.”

  By keeping my apprehension to myself, and acting as if I had no doubts that I’d succeed, both Max and Alverez seemed to gain additional buoyancy themselves. As I drove away, alone and free to release the pent-up anxiety I’d kept in check all morning, I acknowledged that their sublime confidence ratcheted up the burden on me to perform. I didn’t want to let them down. I gave myself a pep talk as I drove, and mostly I believed it.

  Walking into the big Colonial in Durham, I wondered what it would feel like to be leaving a home like this. Was this couple feeling sad? Or liberated? The house was a suburban American dream-freshly painted, beautifully landscaped-and it exuded serenity and contentment.

  Taking a deep breath, I readied myself to work. I wanted to be with Max and Alverez preparing for my role, not surveying goods for sale. Still, since I couldn’t be with them, I was glad for the need to focus on something besides the challenge that awaited me.

  It took me an hour to list the items the owners intended to sell. It was complicated because their
selections weren’t uniform. They wanted to get rid of the sofa, for instance, but not the matching club chairs, all of the chests of drawers, but none of the beds, and certain knickknacks, but not most of them.

  The only valuable items they were offering for sale were a collection of hand-carved wooden decoys, a nineteenth-century dollhouse, and a small Navaho rug. I offered $1,200 for the lot, and was accepted on the spot, making me wonder if I’d bid too high.

  I had them initial each of the inventory pages I’d written out, and sign at the bottom that we could pick up these items first thing in the morning.

  On the way back to the warehouse, I called Gretchen, and asked, “Anything going on?”

  “Just a lot of stuff. Two more callbacks about selling household goods, and an inquiry about auctioning some stamps.”

  “Wow, that’s great.”

  “Should I come in tomorrow? We’re awfully busy.”

  “No. Thanks, but I want you to take your day. We’ll be fine without you for a few hours.”

  “Okay, but I can come in if you need me. Trust me, I prefer work to laundry and dusting, which is all I’d planned to do tomorrow.”

  I laughed. “You’re a gem,” I told her, meaning it. “Are Sasha and Fred there?”

  “No, they’re at the Grant house.”

  “Call Sasha for me, okay, and tell them they can’t work late tonight after all. Tomorrow’s fine, but something came up for tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said, evading her question. “Is Eric there?”

  “Yes, do you want him?”

  “You can tell him for me. I need him to get a twelve-footer and a helper and get over to the Durham place by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Whew!” she exclaimed. “That’s great! I’ll get cracking setting it up.”

  “I’ll give him instructions when I get there today. Tell him that he should stop by the office en route in the morning to pick up the cash.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Getting a truck and helper arranged so quickly wasn’t as big an accomplishment as it sounded, since we were regular customers of a truck-rental firm less than a mile away, and they were always glad to subcontract one of their employees to us when Eric needed help with the heavy lifting.

  Arriving back at the warehouse, Eric showed me where he’d stacked the boxes of books he’d picked up that morning from the professor, and I warned him to be certain and count the ducks when he packed up everything in Durham the next day. It wasn’t unheard-of for a seller to show off a collection and then hold one or two favorite pieces back. Writing out the details in advance, and getting them to sign off on it, prevented a lot of headaches. But only if the person charged with the pickup actually confirmed the count.

  Explaining that something had come up, without providing details, I shooed everyone out at 5:00. Alverez arrived, technicians and other police officers in tow, on schedule at 5:15, and Max drove up at 6:00, looking troubled but willing. A man of intellect, I thought, most comfortable when he had a pen in his hand and time to think. Not a man of action.

  By 6:30, the stage was set and, with the automatic taping in place, Alverez listening in from the front office, and Max standing nearby, I made the call.

  I panicked when Barney answered the phone, thinking, Oh, my, you just called a murderer, but took a breath, and willing myself to sound composed no matter how I felt, I said, “Barney, it’s Josie.” My voice cracked, as if my mouth was dry. I cleared my throat and drank a sip of water.

  “Hello, Josie,” he said, sounding plainspoken, neither cordial nor irritated.

  “Barney, I found something I want to show you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t explain on the phone. I know it’s late, but can you stop by this evening?”

  “Come to your location?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re making it sound rather urgent,” he said, after a pause.

  “Yes, it is. It’s something, well, it’s a special piece that I think you’ll want to buy.”

  “What kind of piece?”

  “It really would be better to talk in person,” I said, my words measured.

  “Well, all right, you’ve succeeded in enticing me. I’ll be glad to stop by.”

  I closed my eyes. Thank you, God, I said to myself. First hurdle, done.

  “Good,” I asked. “What time is good for you?”

  Another pause. “I have a dinner engagement at eight. How’s, say, seven-thirty?”

  I glanced at my computer clock. “About fifty minutes or so from now, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.”

  I hung up the phone and tears of relief that the first ordeal was over welled up. I shut my eyes for a moment and was easily able to stem the flow. As I wiped away the last moisture from my cheeks, I heard Alverez clamoring up the spiral steps.

  I looked toward the door as he entered, forced myself to smile, spread my hands, and said, “Any other little tasks you need doing?”

  “Good job, Josie. That was perfect.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s just review the next phase. Where’s the key to the cabinet?”

  “In my jeans.”

  “Show me.”

  I stood up, reached into my pocket, and extracted a shiny golden key.

  “I think you should put it on your key ring. It’ll look more natural that way.”

  I nodded and opened my purse, found my ring with its engraved Tiffany silver circle, a birthday gift from my dad, and added the gold-colored key. I slipped the ring into my pocket.

  “Are you ready?” Alverez asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and I almost believed it. “I am.”

  “Max and the others are moving their cars out of sight. I want everyone in place by seven o’clock. Let’s go on downstairs.”

  All of the cars except mine were to be parked at the truck-rental site. A police officer shuttled everyone back in an unmarked car, then left on his regular cruising detail. I followed Alverez down the spiral staircase, past the newly installed taupe-colored metal cabinet, and into the office. I sat at Gretchen’s desk.

  Everyone returned and moved into their preassigned positions out of sight in the warehouse or upstairs. Max, who joined a police officer upstairs, looked worried. Alverez slipped into the closet near the coffee machine where we stored office supplies, closed the door but didn’t latch it, and silently we waited.

  Too tense just to sit, I grabbed one of the books that Roy had sold us and began to research it. It was volume one of a twelve-volume, calf-bound, gold-tooled set of the complete works of Shakespeare, complete with hand-colored illustrations and gilt edges, published in 1804. There was minor foxing on several pages, nothing unexpected in a book more than two hundred years old. The leather needed cleaning-we mixed our own beeswax paste-but other than that, it was in near-perfect condition. I brought up a search engine and looked for comparable sets. After only about fifteen minutes, I realized we had a real find. It wasn’t unique, but it was a pretty set in wonderful condition.

  I decided to start stockpiling fine books and bindings. With any luck, we’d be able to devote an entire auction to them next year. I typed up the catalogue entry, stating the expected price range as $575 to $650, printed it, inserted the paper in the front of volume one, and set it aside.

  As I reached for the next book, I heard a car drive up and stop. My heart began to pound, and momentarily I felt as if I might faint. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I heard a car door close, then faintly, footsteps. I opened my eyes as Barney walked into the room.

  “Josie,” he said, smiling, his eyes impervious, his manner stiff.

  I stood up. “Thanks for coming, Barney. Especially on such short notice.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Have a seat,” I invited, gesturing to the guest chair, where, not long ago, Mrs. Cabot had sat while
she waited to offer me the appraisal job.

  “I found the Matisse,” I said, jumping in.

  “What Matisse?”

  “It seems that Mr. Grant had three masterpieces, a Renoir, a Cezanne, and a Matisse.”

  I could see the change in Barney’s eyes as his demeanor transitioned from professionally attentive to guarded and wary. He said, watching me closely, “You’re kidding! Mr. Grant?”

  I shrugged. “It’s true. I’ve got the Matisse, and I’m offering it for sale. Knowing that you sometimes deal in fine art, I thought you might be interested.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Certainly. Come this way.”

  I walked him into the area of the warehouse near the spiral staircase where we’d placed the cabinet, pulled out my key ring, and selected the right key. The unit stood about four feet tall. Two doors opened outward, revealing three deep shelves. It was empty except for the Matisse, laid flat.

  Barney picked it up by the edges and looked at it. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “It would need to be authenticated,” he said.

  I thought of Dr. Snow, the expert Alverez had brought down from Dartmouth who had, in fact, authenticated the paintings. I wondered if Barney had ever used his services. “Of course,” I said.

  “Assuming it’s what it appears to be, I might be interested.” He continued to look at the painting. I had no sense of what he was thinking or feeling. “How much are you asking?”

  “A quarter of a million.”

  “That much?” Barney asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

  I reached for the canvas and slid it back into the cabinet, locked the door, pocketed the key ring, and gestured that Barney should precede me into the office.

  “Research it yourself. You’ll find that a quarter million is a bargain and a half.”

  “Not on the private market.”

  “Then say no.” I shrugged. “That’s my price.”

  After a long pause, Barney said, “I can hardly believe we’re having this conversation, Josie.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “What about Mrs. Cabot?”