“You think one of them may have been the target?”
“Lots of art selling to the one percent of the one percent club, so who would really look too closely at receipts? It all sounds like a convenient way to funnel money through a gallery, so, yes, I think it’s possible.”
“But they bought the house after Lenny was murdered,” Gilley said. “I checked. Lenny was murdered in late June, and the house sold in early September. Plus, Lenny wasn’t hosting a private showing, she was hosting an open house, which means the house was still looking for an offer at the time that she was murdered.”
I nodded, conceding the point to him. “That’s true. And that day, even if the Suttons were scheduled to attend the open house, Greta would’ve been met with possible traffic from other interested buyers. Still, I am a little surprised the house sold so quickly. I mean, can you imagine buying a house where someone was murdered so randomly only a few weeks before?”
“Maybe they got a deal,” Gilley said. Going back to his computer, he clicked a few keys and said, “Aw, man! There’s no sold price listed, which means they probably paid cash for it.”
“What’s the appraised value?”
Gilley glanced at his screen. “Two-point-two million.”
I bounced my eyebrows.
Gilley nodded. “Yeah. I know. Where would a pair of gallery owners get that kind of liquid cash? But they could’ve sold their apartment in the city or something.”
I shook my head. “How much did you and Michel clear from the sale of your place?”
“One twenty,” he said proudly. “We made a killing.”
“That’s my whole point, Gil. You guys cleared only a hundred and twenty thousand for your place in Manhattan. What’re the odds that Joseph and Peter—”
“Jason and Paul . . .”
I waved my hand. “Whatever. What’re the odds that the Suttons would’ve cleared at least two million?”
“I’m still not following the thread here, Cat. What’s it matter where the money came from?”
I sighed. “I suppose it’s that article I read in the Post, Gil. I clearly remember that the article noted that the FBI was looking specifically at galleries in New York City, D.C., and L.A. So I’m suspicious about the timing. These guys just so happen to move their gallery to the Hamptons, where we already know there’s a Chechen mafia presence, and they move into really swanky new digs where an assassin for said Chechen mafia kills the listing agent? I think it may be one too many coincidences for me.”
“Okay,” Gilley said with a nod. “I’ll concede that, circumstantially speaking, it is a teensy suspicious, but it still doesn’t explain why Lenny was murdered.”
I scowled. “Well, that I don’t know. Yet. But we should definitely keep digging in this direction. Somebody knows something.”
Gilley wiggled his index finger at me. “Call Miranda again. See if she knows something.”
“Good idea,” I said.
After placing the call, I hit the speaker function and Gilley and I both listened to the phone ring, and ring, and ring without answer.
“It’s been forty minutes since Miranda and I talked,” I said.
“Hmm, she could be dodging you, or she could be a sweet old lady who forgot you even called, answered the door to get what was probably a package from UPS, then headed off to the market, or her knitting group, or some other crucial errand. Try her back tonight around eight, and if it rings without being answered, then she’s definitely dodging you.”
I set down the phone and frowned. “I really wanted to talk to Chanel.”
“I could try hacking into Miranda’s Facebook account, you know. . . .”
“No!” I said immediately. “We’re not hacking anyone’s social media account again. Remember the last time and it led to disaster?”
“I do, and that just makes me ask you in return, what’re the odds that that would happen again?”
“They could be a zillion to one and still not long enough,” I said, shuddering. “No, we’re going to figure this out the right way. I’ll try Miranda again tonight, and hopefully she’ll give up her grandniece’s phone number and we’ll be off to the races.”
“And in the meantime” I continued, “I say we visit the Eastwater Gallery and see if it’s the kind of place that could support the purchase of a multimillion-dollar home in the Hamptons.”
Gilley got up quickly and offered me his arm. “Oooo, an excursion. I does lurve me some midday adventure!”
I laughed as we walked out the door together. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
He eyed me slyly. “You mean, conducting a gumshoe investigation we have no business sticking our noses into?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
“Me too!”
We arrived at the Eastwater Gallery just a few minutes later. The place was only five blocks from my office. I’d been hoping that the gallery itself was something small and unimpressive to further cement my theory about the place being an obvious front for the mob, however, when we walked through the door, I couldn’t help but be immediately impressed.
A spacious, open area greeted us and the brightness of the all-white walls, floor, and ceiling made me feel like I’d walked into a cloud. The artwork on display was large, designed to be hung in the sizable homes of the super wealthy, and the absence of a price listing on the nameplates on each of the pieces gave a not-so-subtle message that, if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.
The gallery itself was further divided by large white panels hung from the ceiling by piano wire. It was an effective way to showcase the best pieces by putting the canvases on canvases so to speak, and bringing them all enticingly down to eye level.
As I took in the gallery my gaze immediately went to a painting nearby that I recognized right away. There was no mistaking the work of Daniel Bilmes, the same artist who painted my favorite work of art in Chez Cat, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to walk over and marvel at the portrait of a breathtaking young lady, maybe no older than twenty, peeking through both the tangles of her wild hair and the petals of a flower. Gilley followed me leaning over my shoulder to view the art too.
“That looks very similar to the painting hanging above your mantel,” he said.
“It’s the same artist,” I told him. That painting in my home, which so much reminded me of my sister, depicted a young woman, glancing over her shoulder; her chin dipped low . . . almost demurely, but there was nothing demure about her gaze. Her eyes conveyed this keen, almost crafty intelligence, and perhaps it was simply the way her gaze was so knowing, so . . . sharply sardonic, that reminded me of Abby.
My sister is arguably one of the world’s most talented psychics, and it’s nearly impossible to get one over on her. There were days I envied her ability to see right through someone’s lies and hidden agendas.
And days when I didn’t.
“This one is beautiful too,” Gilley said, motioning to the piece in front of us.
“Indeed,” I agreed.
“It’s quite fetching; don’t you think?” a voice behind us asked.
We both turned to see a tall, thin, bald man in a blue and pink plaid blazer, with a matching pink dress shirt and paisley ascot, standing there with his own chin dipped and a knowing smile on his lips.
I disliked him immediately.
Gilley, however, seemed unfazed. “It’s lovely,” he said. “How much?”
I stiffened. It was considered gauche in these circles to start the conversation about an art piece with the price.
Baldy’s lip quirked down ever so slightly to show his displeasure, which made me dislike him all the more. “Twenty-two,” he said, his eyes narrowing to see if Gilley would balk at the price.
But Gil didn’t balk; instead he turned to me and said, “It would be beautiful next to the Shkola in the library, don’t you think?”
Baldy’s brow rose. “You have a Sasha Shkola?”
“Oh, yes,” I said easily. I had no ide
a who she was, but Gilley seemed to know, and Baldy’s interest was piqued, so I went with it.
Gilley turned to Baldy, while looping an arm through mine. “She’s being modest,” he began. “We don’t just have a Sasha Shkola, we’re dear friends of hers.”
Baldy’s jaw fell open a fraction. “You don’t say? You know she’s impossible to get ahold of. And very selective about where she exhibits.”
Gilley laughed lightly and shook his head. “Ahh, that’s our Sasha for you! Truthfully, she’s confessed to me that she finds dealing with the art world very distracting. She’d rather hole up in her studio and paint, sketch, and sculpt the days and weeks away without having to deal with any of the people who handle the sales of her incredible works.”
Baldy cleared his throat. “So . . . how do you know Ms. Shkola?”
Gilley turned to me and I shrugged slightly. I couldn’t think as fast on my feet as he could. He turned back to Baldy and said, “Well, we’ve known her for ages. In fact, we were fans of Sasha’s back when she was living in a four-floor walk-up in Soho with six roommates and a cat named Turnip. Everyone but Turnip was practically starving!”
Gilley chuckled, and then I chuckled, and then Baldy started chuckling too. We were all expending considerable effort making it appear we thought the topic at hand was delightful.
Gilley was the first to sober. “Back then Sasha sold most of her work at flea markets, which is where we discovered her. Can you believe we picked up a few of her early sketches for a pittance just because we felt sorry for her? We couldn’t make out much of what she was attempting to sketch back then, but now we see the genius.”
Baldy forced a shaky smile to his lips and fiddled with his ascot. “You knew her before she was discovered? And you have some of her earlier sketches?”
Gilley hung on my arm like we were the best of chums. “Oh, yes. We have how many, Cat?” Gil turned to me again and I held up five fingers. He nodded as if that was the correct number. “Yes, five of her earlier works. They’re very raw, very moody, but I actually like them better than some of her more recent creations.”
“Me too,” I agreed.
“Anyway,” Gilley continued, “like I said, we met her at the flea market, became friendly, and even had her over for dinner a few times just to help put some meat on those skinny bones of hers. Of course now she only comes over once every couple of months, you know—she’s so busy these days with all her exhibitions—but whenever her schedule allows for it, we still cook up a storm and send her packing with the leftovers because sometimes she forgets to eat and she’s still far too skinny.”
Gilley turned to me and I nodded as if that’s exactly what we did for this obviously famous artist I’d never heard of. And I didn’t quite know how or even if Gilley knew her, but I was very happy he was spinning this current tale because he was definitely causing some interest from the man in front of us, and I believed that he would tell us anything we wanted to know simply for the off chance of connecting with the famous Sasha Shkola.
Baldy reached into his side pocket and produced a card. “You know, I would be willing to lower the price of that Bilmes painting if, in turn, you were willing to make an introduction for me to Ms. Shkola.”
Gilley accepted the card and showed it to me. I realized then that we were speaking to Jason Sutton himself. “How much of a discount would you be willing to offer?” I asked. His answer would tell me a lot about how much of a markup there was on the Bilmes painting. I’d only paid eight thousand for mine, but that was a few years ago, and it might’ve been the case where the artist’s work simply appreciated a great deal since he’d started to become more widely known.
“I can go as low as fifteen,” Sutton said.
I squinted at him. “Really?”
“Yes, and at that price you’d be stealing my entire commission.”
Now, I don’t possess my sister’s human-lie-detector ability, but my baloney meter is still pretty good. I gave Gilley the side-eye and he was looking at me the same way. Neither one of us was buying it.
So I wrinkled my nose and said, “We’ll have to think about that, Jason.”
Jason opened his mouth to perhaps come at us with another—better—offer, but he was interrupted by the sound of the door chime and two new patrons crossing the gallery’s threshold.
Gilley gasped when he saw who it was.
My gaze landed on the large, heavyset man with a thick beard and matching eyebrows—so it took me a moment to switch my attention to his companion.
“Catherine!” Maks said, obviously surprised to see me.
“Oh! Well, hello there, Maks!” I said, flustered by his sudden appearance. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Nor I you,” he said.
I paid close attention to his mannerism and his expression, trying to detect if he was uncomfortable running into me, but he honestly seemed delighted.
“Hello, Gilley,” Maks said.
Gilley gave a tiny curtsy. “Maks,” he said.
Maks turned his attention back to me. “Are you here to buy some art?”
I glanced at Jason, who was looking intently at Maks’s companion. “Maybe. I was intrigued by the Bilmes,” I said, pointing to the lovely painting behind me. “But we’ll have to think about it.”
Maks nodded. “Very good. I was going to call you later and see if you wanted to have drinks with me this evening.”
“Drinks?”
“Yes. A cocktail around six o’clock, if you’re not otherwise busy?”
There was something in Maks’s expression that seemed intent on letting me know he needed me to say yes.
“I think I can swing that,” I said.
“Excellent,” Maks said. “Text me later and I’ll pick you up.”
I smiled and nodded politely, but it was growing rather obvious to me that Maks was pointedly avoiding introducing me to his companion, and I started to wonder why.
Meanwhile, the man in question had walked over to the side, where he was speaking with Jason in low tones, and it was then that I noticed that Jason’s entire demeanor had gone from oily slick salesman to terrified business owner.
And that’s when it clicked. The companion was obviously from the “organization” and I was grateful that Maks had avoided introducing us. I was also aware that the longer I remained in Maks’s company at the gallery, the more likely that was to become suspicious. “Well, Gilley and I really must be going,” I said to Maks.
Gilley looked from me to Maks in confusion. “But weren’t we going to—”
Taking Gilley by the arm again, I pulled him toward the door. “We’ll need to hurry if we’re going to meet our friends at the club on time,” I said to him.
He finally got the hint and said, “Oh, yes! That’s right. Time flies. Bye, Maks!”
Maks nodded, playing it very cool but I could’ve sworn he looked relieved.
“Who was that?” Gilley asked when we were safely a block away.
“The guy with Maks?”
“Yeah.”
“That,” I said, “was very likely the confirmation of a hunch.”
Gilley turned to frown at me. “I’m lost.”
“You know how I mentioned that galleries can be convenient places to launder money?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I believe the guy who came in with Maks was . . . connected if you get my drift.”
“Part of the mob,” Gil said.
I nodded. “And did you see how terrified Jason Sutton was at the sight of him?”
“I did notice that he went pretty pale while they were talking.”
We walked another block in silence and my mind was awhirl with theories. “Gil?” I said.
“What?”
“What if... ?”
“What if what?”
“Say you liked a house out this way and wanted to buy it, but it was out of your price range. Like, maybe way out of your price range. What’s one way you could get the hou
se to drop in price rather dramatically?”
Gilley sucked in a breath. “You murder someone inside the home!”
I nodded. He was following my train of thought. “But you can’t murder the owners, because then the property would just end up in probate and that’d be at least a year to figure out, so you do the next best thing. You murder someone else in the home, like the real estate agent, and the owners are then so desperate to get rid of a house where a violent crime was committed that they’re willing to lower the house by, let’s say . . . twenty percent or more.”
“I’d say you’d walk away the clear winner in the deal,” Gilley said. “Especially if you got away with the murder.”
“You certainly would.”
“So you think that the Suttons hired Greta?”
“I think it’s possible. Either them or maybe the head honcho of the organization hired her as a way to ingratiate the Suttons and make them loyal to him enough to move their gallery and allow him to funnel money through it.”
Gilley shook his head. “I think the theory is amazing, but I can’t help but think it’s also kind of a big leap.”
“Is it?” I asked. “I mean, hasn’t the lead detective on the case been working it to nothing but dead ends for almost two years now? And isn’t it also incredibly convenient that the victim you murder just so happens to be that lead detective’s ex? And because of that connection, aren’t you then ensuring that one of the only men in the area smart enough, dedicated enough, and true enough to his job would be totally distracted to the point of obsession for at least a few years trying to solve that murder, thus allowing you and your associates free run of the Hamptons?”
“My God,” Gilley whispered, halting in his tracks to fully take in the theory. “If it’s true, it’s an absolutely masterful plan! Shepherd has been trying to find the link between the Chechen mafia and his wife’s killing all these years, and he’s the link, but indirectly!”
“Exactly,” I said. My hands were shaking and my palms were sweaty. The genius, and cold calculation of the plot—if it were true—was enough to really, really rattle me.
To Coach a Killer Page 11