Trix

by Kate Morris

  They were greeted at the door by Harvey’s assistant, who was flamboyant, wearing red skinny-jeans and had yellow hair- not blonde, but yellow. He talked continuously and non-stop. He showed them to his boss, who was in the back reviewing some new pieces in wooden crates. The large warehouse was made up of slightly smaller rooms but with equally tall, unfinished ceilings and exposed rafters. There wasn’t fluff and flair like an art gallery. It was simply a warehouse with boxes and crates that clearly contained art and were stamped from destinations around the world. They walked past a Picasso that Lorena recognized, then a Pollock that had to be eight feet high by six feet wide. But most of the crates contained sculptures, some old, ancient even, and others that were new and modern. The assistant left them with his boss and sashayed from the room.

  “Mr. Phillips, thanks for meeting with us,” Craig said and made the formal introductions. When he was done, he asked, “Is there somewhere you’d like to talk?”

  “Here would be fine with me,” the man replied. “I’m busy. I have a gala opening in Milan and must get these items ready for Customs.”

  “Absolutely, fine with us,” Craig said. “Sir, do you remember attending a charity event given by Mrs. Elizabeth Neumann?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure,” he said. “I’d have to check my calendar. I attend many such events every year.”

  The man was short, wore a tailored maroon vest with a black velvet paisley print on it, black ankle trousers, a white blouse with flowy sleeves and flared wrists. Harvey sported a mustache that curled upward on the ends. His hair was jet black and slicked back, pressed tightly to his skull. He was fifty-six according to his profile but did not show even a single gray hair yet. Lorena suspected a lot of hair dye was being used in his household. She admired his alligator skin loafers and red socks and wondered if he got dressed in the dark. His look was completely and totally artificial as if he were trying to make everyone see him as the quintessential art dealer. He was almost a caricature right down to his large, round black eyeglasses.

  “Could you do that, please, sir?” Craig requested.

  He sighed dramatically and pulled out his phone. Scrolling through for a while, he finally announced, “Yes, here it is.”

  “Do you remember going to her home for the event?”

  Lorena hung back with Jack and let Craig do the questioning. These were all preliminary questions anyway.

  “Hm, let me think. Neumann…” he pondered, his British accent thick and formal. He even tapped his finger with the large, gold and ruby ring to his chin. “Neuman. Rightly so! Elizabeth Neumann, Liz, nice lady. Sad.”

  “What’s sad?” Jack asked. “She’s sad or the party sucked?”

  “No, the party was fabulous, stupendous even,” he said. Then he whispered and placed his hand to the corner of his mouth as if sharing some special secret with Jack, “Except those hors-d’oeuvres. Lord, shrimp? Really? And finger sandwiches? So American.”

  “Was Elizabeth Neumann sad?” Lorena asked.

  His gaze shot to Lorena, assessing her from head to toe with unconcealed criticism. “I have a wonderful stylist downtown who could work with your look. This angry detective thing isn’t working for you. Your clothes are too big. Your figure is wonderful, young lady. Why hide it? You could…”

  “I’m not concerned about my appearance, Mr. Phillips,” she interjected. “Please, just answer the question.”

  “That’s rather obvious, don’t you say?” he joked. “Yes, Elizabeth was sad. I could tell. She was having a bad night of it.”

  “Why’s that?” Lorena asked, reasonably sure that Phillips was not their serial killer.

  “She was miserable. Rich women always hide behind their Botox and their spray tans. I’ve been around enough of them to know when they’re hiding something,” he revealed.

  “What was she hiding?”

  He shrugged, “I think it had to do with her husband. I asked a friend of mine that night what had Liz so down in the doldrums, and she told me that her husband was cheating on her.”

  They were getting off course, but the information could be useful at some point.

  “Cheating, huh?” Lorena asked. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Darling, I don’t know. Who isn’t cheating these days?”

  “True enough,” she concurred. “Did you meet their daughter, Hailee?”

  “Oh, yes, delightful young woman,” he exclaimed. “Quite an artist, too.”

  “Artist?”

  “Yes, she showed me her art, wanted to know my opinion,” he told them.

  Lorena looked at Jack, who shrugged. This was not something Hailee must’ve shared with him. In addition, they had not found any signs of her being an artist in her bedroom. She must’ve hidden it from her father.

  “Why would she do that?” she asked Harvey.

  He sighed and answered, “She wanted to know if I thought she was good enough to get into a good art school in New York. I think she was interested in going to Pratt.”

  “But she has a full ride to Brown,” Lorena informed him.

  He shrugged, “I don’t know why she’d give that up. Maybe she didn’t want to go there after all. Who knows? Kids these days are so complex. Glad I never had any.”

  “What else do you remember about Hailee? Do you remember seeing her talking to anyone else? Any other men?”

  “She talked with Moreti some,” he said with an expression of distaste.

  “Do you know Valentino Moreti?”

  He groaned dramatically and rolled his eyes, “Valentino Moreti is everything that is wrong with the art world today. He’s been investigated many times for fraud, counterfeiting, just about everything else. I don’t know how he’s still a dealer. Italian scum.”

  “What did he talk to her about?”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue, darling,” he said. “Valentino is a known pervert, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he was making her a proposition. He frequents places in Europe where young women Hailee’s age are employees, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you think he wanted to sleep with Hailee?”

  “Of course. He’s a little worm. He would’ve taken her to his cabin outside of Dundee. Has a view of Mount Hood. Nice little place down by the river.”

  “By the river?”

  “Yes, his cabin is by a river. I’m not sure which one. He has been known to take many young women out there to impress them. Real pervert if you ask me.”

  “Interesting,” Craig said.

  They discussed the party a few more minutes with Harvey Phillips and then thanked him for his time. He was a character and slightly odd, but he wasn’t Trix. He had proven useful, though. Plus, Craig had buzzed him with the text while they were standing there talking to him, and the man hadn’t even flinched. It hadn’t gone to any phone he had on him. However, he’d given them a good lead. Their next suspect to look further into was going to be Valentino Moreti, world-renowned art dealer and lover of young girls.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jack

  “Moreti’s in the Netherlands now,” Craig told them as they drove to the crime scene. “Flew out of Spain before our agents got there last night. That’s suspicious.”

  “Just slightly,” Lorena said sarcastically. “If he’s our killer, he’s not in the Netherlands. He sent that text from somewhere in this state according to your tech geeks.”

  “Our contacts at Interpol have him tracked with his passport. He entered the airport in Madrid last night and flew out. His assistant is still in London. He said his boss was coming back to Portland tomorrow. Hopefully, we can nab him the second he comes off that plane.”

  “I’m assuming you have a plan,” Jack commented.

  “You know it,” Craig boasted. “Make a left up ahead.”

  Jack was driving, so he turned at the designated street. Lorena was sitting in the back seat with her feet drawn up, her knees pressed to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. He was worried about he
r. She was very quiet, even more so than normal. This man knew who she was and a lot about her. He might even know more about Lorena than Jack did. Jack already knew that her father murdered her mother and that he was serving time in prison for it. Mostly he knew that from Juliette Nicholson with whom Lorena had argued so loudly when they’d finally fronted her out for being Gingerbread. He also knew that her sister, brother-in-law and young nephew were killed in a car accident. Other than these things, he didn’t know a lot about her. She was hesitant to share when it came to personal information. She didn’t date. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She was raising her niece and was probably one of the best detectives he’d ever worked with. She was quirky and odd, but those personality traits in no way deterred from her overall appeal as a partner.

  Wanting to offer her some semblance of privacy, Jack had never pried into her past or looked at her father’s case. When she was ready, she’d tell him. And if she never did, then he wouldn’t force it. She deserved to have some sort of anonymity in her life.

  He made another left turn again, and it immediately became clear that the scene of the crime was just ahead. There were multiple vehicles and crime lab vans on site. Agents in navy blue rain gear with yellow FBI letters on the back were there, as well as local law enforcement. He pulled up next to the crime lab van and parked.

  They walked down toward the water, and Jack noticed that Lorena immediately left them with her earbuds in and her hood pulled up. Jack observed her a moment, watching her walk away from them to settle on a grassy incline that overlooked the water. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular but was staring out at the water. She squatted and stayed in that position. Jack glanced around to make sure nobody was going to bother her or that there were any strangers in the crowd of rubber-neckers on the other side of the yellow tape who seemed like a threat. They always watched crime scene spectators for the killer to show his face to observe the police going over his work. He was quite sure the FBI did the same.

  He left Craig with an agent who was talking with him and headed down the short incline to the scene. The area was draped off to prevent reporters from taking photographs. The medical examiner was stooped over the body of a young woman.

  Her body was lying with one foot in the water, which was still flowing, although it seemed to Jack that such a thing shouldn’t be. The water should stop, cease its activity in a show of respect for the dead. But nature didn’t know any better. It was unfeeling, unyielding, much like the man who’d killed her.

  Once at a crime scene out in the middle of nowhere and at the far edge of a meadow- he’d been the first one there other than the patrol officer who’d discovered the man’s body- two vultures were pecking at the man’s face. It had angered him to the point of being irrational. He’d shot at them to scare them away.

  Her fingertips were slightly bluish, her skin pale, her dark blonde hair with the dark roots damp and stringy-looking. Her sightless, cloudy brown eyes were staring at nothing. He heard once that when a person died a violent, terrifying death that their eyes would remain open. He’d researched that and found nothing conclusive that people who died afraid or murdered kept their eyes open. The ligature marks around this young woman’s neck would indicate the opposite was, in fact, true.

  Jack tried to stay out of the forensic team’s way, so he circled the area, looking at the body and the ground near it for anything that stood out as strange. She was dressed formally and a bit old-fashioned again. This time, she wore brown, tan leather shoes that he believed were called Mary Janes. Her small print floral dress buttoned all the way down the front with a matching belt. It was dirty, smudged here and there and likely soiled also from the water. At one time, it was white with purple flowers on it. Now it just looked dingy. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and kept there with bobby pins. Like the other women, she appeared to have stepped out of 1954 and was headed to a block party with a casserole and her family, minus the fact that she was dead and probably a prostitute or homeless girl who nobody would miss or likely not even report as being so.

  “Any identification on her?” he asked an agent near him and got a shake of his head in answer. He was smoking. Jack longed to bum one but thought better of it. He hadn’t smoked for almost two years. Some habits he’d picked up in the Army just hadn’t worn off yet. Being on high alert was another one.

  She was not exposed like the one who had angered Trix so badly. Nor did she have any makeup or gaudy lipstick plastered to her face. Until they had a positive i.d., they wouldn’t have much to go on. She looked like all of his other victims so far. She’d been dressed in matronly clothing and positioned near the water. Ligature marks around the wrists, neck, and ankles proved the same as other victims, as well. The only thing that was different about this victim was that he left her here for Lorena to find. He likely dumped the body just last night. The lack of decay and exposure to the elements would suggest the same.

  “If he helped his father dispose of his mother’s body,” Lorena said, startling him. Jack looked down to see her right beside him. “Then why does he leave them out in the open like this?”

  “Not sure. We both figured he was cleansing them, symbolically, by leaving them by water.”

  “Could he be recreating the scene of his mother’s death? He said he helped bury the evidence,” she speculated. “We should have Craig dig up murders committed by husbands who buried their wives…”

  “What if they left her by the water somewhere? What if that’s what he’s recreating?”

  “He said ‘bury’. I think he buried her literally. It had to be by water like this. Maybe a lake or a reservoir, somewhere that wasn’t beautiful or scenic. He leaves the bodies near water that is usually kind of dirty or streams and rivers, nothing picturesque. If Trix helped his father bury her, and the authorities obviously found the body, then he would’ve been taken into Child Protective Services’ care.”

  “Unless they had relatives who could’ve taken him. He may have had an older sister or a family member of the mother’s who would’ve taken him in.”

  She nodded. “True, but if the police thought he could’ve been involved, or if his father told them that he was, then they would’ve put him in juvey.”

  “I would think so, depending on his age at the time,” he said, swiping a hand through his hair. “We need more info on this guy.”

  Lorena bit her lip, “I need to text him again, ask him if he had siblings, if he got in trouble for helping bury his mother.”

  “I don’t think he’s gonna tell you. He wants to talk, reach out to you, but he’s not stupid.”

  “The good thing is that we got a tire track over there where they think he might’ve parked,” she said, changing the subject, nothing new for her.

  “Let’s talk to Craig about accessing their database for information. If he is leaving the body by the water to recreate the crime scene, then the FBI might be able to pull up something on the guy’s father. He served time for the crime. Sounds like he probably died in prison.”

  “Good,” she remarked quietly.

  “Got a hit!” someone shouted from under a white, pop-up canopy that they must’ve erected to keep the drizzle off of their expensive equipment and computers.

  Craig caught up to them as they entered the tent.

  “Positive fingerprint identification. Stephanie Pearson,” the FBI agent called out. “Twenty-one, busted for prostitution three years ago.”

  Jack was a little jealous because the Cleveland department he worked for didn’t have portable fingerprinting machines yet. Of course, these were the feds. They spared no expense and had all the fun gadgets and tech toys, and this was a priority case.

  “This is our victim,” the tech geek said as if she were happy. Then she frowned and looked back down at her computer. “Was never reported missing.”

  Craig asked her, “Got an address?”

  “Sure. Last known…” she said, scrolling through her laptop. She wrote it down on a not
epad and tore off the paper, handing it to Craig.

  “We’ll head there now,” Craig told a man standing near them, who must’ve been someone of authority. Jack wasn’t sure who any of them were and had only been introduced to Craig’s supervisors.

  They left immediately, not being able to do much until the coroner’s report came back with any potential evidence. Jack drove again, maneuvering through the morning rush hour traffic. Lorena was still being quiet and introspective in the back seat. Jack told Craig about their staging idea, and he started quickly making phone calls to start the ball rolling. He told them to perform searches for women buried by their husbands with or without the son’s involvement who were found by water in the Midwest. At the murder rate in this country, Jack suspected they’d have an answer back after about two years of digging. It was still worth a try. They didn’t have a whole lot more than that.

  He turned around to find Lorena leaning her head against the window. She looked dead asleep with her earbuds in and aviators on. He could never tell with her. She could just be in her own world as usual.

  Pulling up to an old brick, four-story building in an area of town as bad as the one last night where they’d been shot at, he cut the engine. He hoped the SUV was still where he was parking it when they came back out.

  There wasn’t security, so they walked right in. Jack immediately noticed the tenement feel of the place: single lightbulbs suspended from old, frayed black wiring lighting their way, scuffed and dilapidated stair treads that squeaked with every step, walls with faded and chipped dark green paint likely containing lead, empty beer bottles, cans and other trash littering the way. It was a real shithole. He followed behind Lorena, taking up the rear up the stairs to the third floor to apartment three-sixteen. Craig knocked twice. They weren’t sure if she lived with someone, so they didn’t want to go breaking down the door if they didn’t have to. A young woman around the age of twenty answered their knock.