The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  “And what do you suggest I tell them—that I coveted a great work of art, stolen from the Pope himself—or that I took a painting from a poor dead man who never did harm to anyone?” Alicia Calibano took a great juddering breath, and said, “I will never be able to face them. My shame is too great. If they found my sinful secret my life would be destroyed.”

  Franklin gave her a tight look, his face reflecting the pain that this poor, tormented woman of principle was wrestling with so valiantly. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a business card, “Should you wish to reach me at any time Madam, this is the number to call,” Franklin held out the card, offering it as though it were a lifeline to salvation.

  Alicia Calibano looked at the card, for a long moment then, very suddenly, she reached out and snatched it, holding it to her chest in two hands, as though she was clutching a rosary. “Thank you Signor, you are a good man. Now go. Take the paintings with you, so that I might be alone with my prayers.”

  Franklin nodded quietly.

  Signora Calibano then insisted on giving them a pair of lustrous Egyptian cotton bed sheets in which to wrap their trophies. Mira thanked her and hauled Verrocchio’s painting of the Annunciation into her arms. It was heavy, damned heavy and as they walked the dark echoing corridors towards the car, Mira felt as though they had just robbed the tomb of a doomed Pharaoh. She quickened her pace, sensing eternal curses of retribution hovering after them on a gloomy miasma of Latino cooking smells and low-band radio chatter.

  “The Cardinal is going to be pleased,” said Mira. “Who knows, you might even get back in the Pope’s good books after you bring this job in.”

  Franklin opened the trunk of the Bentley, “ I am sure his holiness has a very long list of concerns to attend to Mira, all of them far more important than my humble contribution to the heritage of the High Renaissance.”

  “So what’s my cut?”

  Franklin settled behind the wheel of the Bentley, and released the convertible roof. As the top sunk backwards, he gave Mira a smile. “I really don’t think my dear brother would approve if I gave you money—heaven knows what you might spend it on.”

  “Since when did you give a damn what my father thinks?”

  “The opinions of my dear brother are far less important to me than your welfare Mira. So I urge you to constrain your views—to avoid any unpleasantness before dinner.” Franklin put the Bentley in to gear and pulled out onto the Boulevard. There was a long silence, interspersed by the rush of traffic sounds merging in on them.

  Finally, Mira said, “I am twenty-five years old. You keep talking to me like a kid and I am out of here, you understand me?”

  Franklin let the breeze flow. As they moved west to the freeway, the traffic began to build, a heavy afternoon moving south through Sepulveda. As the speed began to build, and the Santa Monica Mountains reared high around them, Franklin spoke at last, “I have found your company most enjoyable these past months Mira. Having devoted my time to academia these many years, I fear that I am out of tune with the dynamics of family life, so far out of tune in fact, that I have absolutely no desire to become enmeshed in a battle with my brother over your welfare. So, if you would like to manufacture a conflict of that nature, I fear that you will be gravely disappointed.

  Mira looked sulky, kept staring ahead, the slipstream blowing her hair back in dark snaking rivulets, “I moved out here because I needed some space. I figured you would understand.”

  “Relationships can be tricky Mira, devilishly tricky, which is why I moved to Los Angeles myself. This town accepts much, forgives little and leaves the individual, to fashion their-own interpretation of existence. So, if you have a problem with the way things are, shout it to the hills—see where that gets you.

  Mira looked at him now, over the top of her sunglasses, “Jesus Uncle C, you sound like some kind of self help guru or something.

  “Self help. Precisely Mira. That is exactly why you must discover your own spiritual, emotional and financial future. So if you imagine I will cut you in on my business dealings, you are sadly mistaken. You will draw an assistant’s salary and nothing more.

  “You sound like my father.”

  “I will take that as a compliment.

  “Where are we going any way?”

  “We are going to Venice Beach.”

  “To the Beach?”

  “So that we might make steps with your emotional and spiritual future.”

  “You are kidding.”

  “Of course I am kidding, we are going to see the Prodigy.”

  “What? Who the hell is the Prodigy?”

  Franklin smiled. “That my dear Mira, you are about to find out.”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 32

  By the time Mira and Franklin arrived in Venice Beach, the afternoon was burning azure and gold. They headed down Washington, past the beach bum cantinas and took a turn south, down Via Dolce. The neighborhood was pretty ritzy—muscle-beach modernism, jostling with steroid induced Cape Cod super homes in shades every grandmother would approve of. Turned out that the Prodigy had a place overlooking Ballona Lagoon, the high-falutin’ centre of South Venice. His place was so post modern it was practically the day after tomorrow. Mira figured it looked like a Stalinist sewage treatment works, had been washed into the cadaverous innards of a Frank Gehry style art museum. Who the hell could live in a place like this? It was so cold and unwelcoming, with concrete and twisted art-metal meandering everywhere.

  Franklin pulled the Bentley up front of the building, and popped the trunk. Standing to one side he said, “Be a dear Mira—the Verrocchio painting…”

  “It’s heavy. I carried it last time,” said Mira.

  “Indeed. An invaluable experience for you I am sure. Perhaps you could utilize that acquired wisdom and employ it for a second time?”

  Mira scowled, then reached down into the trunk and lifted the heavy, shrouded painting into her arms. She gave her uncle a sour look. “How much did you say it was worth again?”

  Franklin gave her a breezy smile then closed the trunk. “Cheer up my dear, your afternoon is about to liven up considerably.”

  “You think that’s possible?” growled Mira.

  “Not only is it possible my dear, it is required, so buck up, and take care not to drop Mr. Verrocchio’s painting, or I will have to dock your salary for the next ten thousand years—at least.”

  “About that salary,” said Mira. “What kind of money are we talking exactly?”

  As they walked up the steps to the entrance of the building, hi-tec security cameras panned around to greet them. The front door was an oversized metal blast door, like something you would see on a gold-bullion depository, or a nuclear bunker. The entry meanwhile, was etched with deep, swirling lines that gave it a mysterious, almost psychedelic quality. Quite a place thought Mira, not the kookiest house in the neighborhood, but it was pretty darn close.

  Professor Franklin ran his fingers lightly over the security keypad by the door, tapping out the entry code. He paused, looked at Mira and said, “Prepare yourself my dear. The gentleman you are about to meet might be considered in some circles as an eccentric, in others as a criminal. But what ever he may be, I can tell you most assuredly, he is a genius, unsurpassed in his field.”

  Mira frowned, a dozen questions hanging ready on her lips. But her uncle was already inside, disappearing into the climate-controlled interior, at a spritely pace. Mira followed hesitantly. As she entered, the heavy metal door swung closed behind her. The door was even thicker than it looked on the outside, and it worked on some kind of spooky remote operated system, like a space-age germ warfare lab.

  Standing in the lobby, the place gave Mira the clammy-creeps—it was so lifeless and antiseptic. The cold, white lobby rose endlessly into the roof. Underfoot, black marble reflected the freakishly architecturalized scene. Looking around, at the high white walls, Mira had an uneasy feeling that they were being scrutinized, by hidden eyes. She gave a cold shud
der and held tight to the painting, as though it might be snatched from her at any second.

  There were no stairs in the Prodigy’s building, only an industrial sized lift, made of glass and heavy-gage steel. As she followed her uncle inside, the heavy doors closed with a menacing hiss and the lift rose upwards. Mira took an anxious breath, feeling the climate controlled air pressing in. She mulled over how many millions it must have cost, to build a fortress like this. The conclusive total evaded her, but as they reached the top floor and the doors opened out, into a palatial artists studio, she knew one thing for sure—the Prodigy was a millionaire, many times over.

  Stepping out, into the light of the studio, they were assailed by the austere sounds of Beethoven, booming at concert volume. Mira drew breath and was hit by the heavy scent of freshly applied oil paint, melding into the jagged sweetness of pharmaceutical grade marijuana.

  She stopped in her tracks, almost gasping for breath. As the heavy aroma took over her senses, she felt a craving so strong, she could hardly control her movements, She felt herself floating forwards, unable to contain the dark compulsive tendrils of need, as they stretched into her body. She took a deep, shuddering breath—pulling her self back, from the edge but is was too late—the dark spirits within her had been awakened from their slumber, enlivened by the call of a stoned and demonic reality. The rush of fear grew, like a great tsunami wave, crashing in from the ocean—her secret would be discovered—there would be terror and disgrace, as her dark and addictive past was revealed to all—her mother, her father—and worse, the punitive powers of a legal system, unforgiving of personal weakness would fold in upon her, punishing her for her sin.

  But, as the swirling wave of fear carried her imagination—the worst possible outcome she could contemplate, was the thought that her uncle would find out just how far she had descended into the netherworld of personal addiction. Mira swallowed—her brain spinning—all she could think of was escape, and how quickly it would come. She staggered forwards, dropped the Verrocchio on an expensive looking designer couch that looked like it had never been sat on, and flopped down next to it.

  “My dear Prodigy how are you?” asked Franklin, his voice clipped, the words bright and sharply annunciated, as though he were addressing a class of post-graduate art historians. Mira gave a cold shudder. The thought of academia filled her with self-loathing—knowing she had bottomed out at medical school—grinding painfully through the horror of her own limitations until finally, her unsuitability as a future practitioner of medicine became very publicly clear.

  “I am busy Franklin. You know my feelings regarding visitors when I am busy.”

  “But my dear boy, you are always busy.” Franklin walked across the room, addressing his comment to the back of a large canvas, mounted on an impressive looking easel. Suddenly a head bobbed around the corner of the canvas and regarded them over a pair of dark rimmed spectacles.

  “There is a girl with you Franklin, and she is sitting on my furniture. What on earth are you thinking—bringing a girl to my place of work?” The man had a thick European accent. Mira figured he sounded Italian, but it was hard to tell, against the booming music.

  Suddenly the head disappeared and the music stopped dramatically, mid phrase.

  The silence reverberated.

  A thick cloud of smoke wafted above the canvas and drifted languidly upwards.

  “I have brought you a surprise Prodigy—an old friend,” said Franklin breezily.

  “I do not like surprises Franklin, as well you know—as for old friends, I despise them almost as much as new friends.” The Prodigy appeared again, from behind the canvas. He had wild eyes, and a straggly mane of blue-black hair, that glistened in the sun. His face was hard and angular, covered in a thick layer of dark stubble. He was younger than Mira expected, and taller too. He had a dangerous arrogant look to him, like he had just walked out of some European fashion magazine that specializes in pretention and dysfunctional eating as couture statements. As he came towards them, in his untucked shirt and battered blue jeans, Mira noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes. He had dark feet, and unusually long toes, that gave him a savage, primitive look.

  Looking directly at Mira the Prodigy said, “You must be the niece,” He moved closer and looked her over, with wild dinner plate pupils, like he was examining a racehorse and said, “You ever done any modeling?

  Mira pulled a face and said, “This is him?”

  Franklin laughed, “Indeed Mira, why don’t you show him the painting?”

  “Pain-ting?” muttered the Prodigy, drawing out the word, into a slow languorous invocation. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a painting for me?”

  “Because this work is the old friend I was speaking of. A friend that we haven’t seen for quite some time I might add.” Franklin’s voice was alive with enthusiasm, enjoying the effect his words engendered.

  The Prodigy gave Franklin a wide-eyed look, then smiled broadly. “You are working a job Franklin—of course—this is why you came to me,” the Prodigy wagged his finger with roguish admonishment. “You are looking, to sell perhaps?” He paused, tugged thoughtfully on his lips, “Perhaps we should see this painting—if it is worthy of your enthusiasm I will offer you a fair price…”

  Mira unwrapped the painting and tilted the Verrocchio towards the light.

  The Prodigy drew a sharp breath, his black eyes growing suddenly wider. He removed his spectacles and paced one way, then the other like a caged beast.

  Watching him closely now, Mira saw the arrogance fall away from his face.

  When he spoke next, the words came quick and breathless, “The Annunciation by Andrea del Verrocchio. How did you come upon this Franklin?”

  “I am glad you asked that,” said Franklin, “A mutual acquaintance met with a most unfortunate fate earlier today, and I have to say I was very impressed by not only the quality, but also the quantity of the work that the poor, dear man held in his collection.” Franklin gave the Prodigy a hard steady look. “You didn’t tell me you were working for Javier Elzorra, did you dear boy?”

  “My client list is confidential Franklin—I have a living to make,” The Prodigy paused, his olive face looking suddenly pale, “Are you telling me something bad has happened to Javier?”

  Franklin gave him a grave look. “ Let’s not be naive dear boy. Javier Elzorra worked for the Sureños, a clever little enterprise I am sure—he was always so adept in the financial world—a little too adept for his own good perhaps?”

  “Hey, I don’t know anything about that kind of business—far as I knew, the dude was some big-cheese corporate accountant, with a taste for the Italian Renaissance.”

  “Trouble is, our accountant friend got his head blown off this morning. His maid found him floating dead in his swimming pool.”

  The Prodigy pulled a face. “Sounds like he got a bad case of cash-till-fingers to me Franklin, which is too bad for him, because he was a heavy hitting client at one time, I must have run him out a couple of dozen museum quality pieces over the years.”

  “You’re not an artist—you are a forger,” said Mira.

  The Prodigy swiveled quickly to Mira, then looked at Franklin over the top of his glasses, and said, “This niece of yours—she just fallen off the cupcake tree? Because she’s precious—real precious—she going to be snotting around with you for long Franklin?—because this is a place of business, and there ain’t no room for angel-faced kindy-garteners here Capisce?”

  “Give me a break you ego-manic,” snapped Mira, “You talk down to me once more today, and I swear, I will bust you in your pretty little mouth.”

  “She thinks you have a pretty mouth,” said Franklin breezily.

  The Prodigy looked uncertain. “She can’t talk to me like that Franklin.”

  “I just did douche bag,” snapped Mira, “So cut the bullshit and spill the story on the dirty little scam you had running with the accountant.” Mira jumped up off the couch, took a step forward, and anot
her. As she moved closer, she jabbed the Prodigy in the stomach, with one of her sharp pointed fingers and growled, “What’s your real name anyway—because I am screwed if I am going to call you by some nerdy little nick name you thought up for yourself, like you are some art world big shot.”

  “Hey, don’t poke me.” yelped the Prodigy, dancing backwards to avoid Mira’s continuing assault.

  “If I might interject for a moment,” said Franklin smoothly. “While you were running out copies of Elzorra’s collection of Renaissance paintings, did you ever think to ask him why?”

  “Hey, the dude comes up with the green, it ain’t none of my concern what he does with the duplicates—If I was the cynical type, I would say he wanted to throw them out on the market and make himself some fast scratch,” said the Prodigy.

  “You mean you’re not the cynical type?” said Mira archly.

  The Prodigy gave her a look and said, “There was no way he could have been selling those works on—I mean it wasn’t like I didn’t make him an offer—little bit more time, a little bit more outlay, I could have made those copies so real they would have looked like they just dropped out of the sixteenth century, but Elzorra said no. He wanted fast copies that looked good from the front, but he didn’t give a damn about authenticity.”

  Franklin nodded, as if this revelation merely confirmed, rather than informed him of the direction his investigations were headed. He pursed his lips thoughtfully then said—“What about the da Vinci?”

  “Hey, I don’t know anything about that—I ran out the mid market stuff—three to five million tops. I got a no go rule about high profile work, on account of the fact it raises pulses at the FBI.”

  Franklin nodded once again, then turned to Mira, “You see my dear integrity is still greatly valued amongst true artists.”