I smiled slyly and was about to comment, but our server appeared ready to take our order. We each asked for a martini, a vodka martini for me and a gin martini for Maks.
After our server had gone, I said, “I got the sense when Jason Sutton was quoting me a price for that Daniel Bilmes painting that things weren’t quite on the up-and-up.”
“You’d do well to look somewhere else,” Maks said, tracing my blazer collar with his finger. I rather loved that he wasn’t afraid of subtle PDAs. Odd, too, how I never felt fondled or touched inappropriately. Tom used to get super handsy when he drank, and it always drove me nuts, but somehow Maks’s touch never made me feel anything but a delicious shiver in parts best left to your imagination.
Still, I managed to keep my focus on getting information out of Maks. “Are you going to tell me how you really got that cut above your eye?”
Maks grinned. “Nicked myself shaving.”
I laughed, but deep down it troubled me. “What about this?” I asked him, fiddling with his collar. It was then that I noticed he had a button missing.
“What?” he asked.
“Well, it almost looks like someone strong pulled you around by your collar. And a button is missing.”
Maks patted at his clothing. “I snagged it on my coat earlier and pulled when I should’ve been more patient.”
I sighed and at that moment our server appeared at our table again. While I waited for her to set down our drinks, I had time to consider that it really bothered me that Maks wouldn’t tell me what’d happened to him because he’d clearly been in some sort of scuffle. And I only wanted to know because I worried about him and I didn’t want him to be in danger. So, after the server left again, I pushed a little further.
“You know,” I said next. “I read an article in The Washington Post about how the FBI had traced a money-laundering scheme to certain art galleries that were being used to wash money for organized crime.”
“Mmmm?” Maks said, taking a sip of his drink and noticeably not making eye contact.
“I was wondering if Mr. Basayev might use the same tactic?”
“Why would you be wondering such a thing?” Maks asked.
His tone wasn’t angry, more curious, so I felt okay about proceeding. “I think it’s because I have a theory.”
“A theory?”
“Yes. My theory, and it’s purely speculative, goes like this: if I’m Boris Basayev, and I’m looking to do what I want in the Hamptons, without worrying about being investigated by the top detective in the town, and I’m also looking to funnel money through a gallery where I can sell very expensive artwork to wealthy clients, then I might kill two birds with one stone.”
Maks’s brow wrinkled, and I wasn’t quite sure if he didn’t follow me or if he was curious how I’d actually figured things out on my own.
I pressed on. “And the way to do that would be to hire someone to take out the detective’s ex-wife, who just so happens to be a real estate agent, showing a home my gallery owners are interested in but can’t afford, thus ensuring that the detective is swept up into an investigation that he’ll most definitely become obsessed with, and allowing my gallery owners to purchase the house—possibly at a significant discount, giving them a reason to relocate their gallery from Manhattan to the Hamptons.”
Maks was now staring at me in alarm, and I suddenly regretted telling him my theory. “Catherine,” he said very softly.
“Yes?”
“Besides me, who else have you repeated your little theory to?”
I gulped. “Only Gilley.”
Maks nodded ever so slightly. “Good. Make sure he’s the only one besides me to hear of it, and make sure he also doesn’t repeat it. To anyone. Do you understand?”
I bit my lip. Maks’s tone was soft, but his eyes were deadly serious. “I’ve hit on it, haven’t I? I’ve hit on the reason that Lenny Shepherd was murdered.”
“Catherine,” Maks said, his tone holding a hint of warning. “Please . . . forget this theory. And you should have nothing more to do with the Eastwater Gallery, do you understand?”
“I do,” I said, sufficiently scared. “I’m sorry for even mentioning it.”
Maks relaxed and wrapped my hand in his. Pulling it to his lips, he kissed it, and in that moment I felt him press something to my palm. When he set my hand down he smiled sweetly at me. “You’re a brave woman. Like your sister.”
Next to me, my phone, which was tucked inside my clutch, pinged with an incoming text. Maks set my hand back down on the table and said, “You have a text message. You should probably read it and put that away while you’re at it.”
I kept my fist closed, then reached over to my purse and opened the flap of the clutch. Depositing the flash drive inside, I then fished out my phone and looked at the display. There was a new text from a number I didn’t recognize, and the text said,
It’s Sam. Can we meet tomorrow at 3:00 p.m.? Also, it might be time to head home.
“I’m assuming I should reply to Sam’s text in the affirmative, and then pretend to have a reason to leave?” I asked Maks. I had a feeling Sam’s text meant more than confirming a meeting for the flash drive.
“Yes,” Maks said. “Something’s come up and I need to set up a meeting. I’m so sorry we couldn’t spend more time together this evening. Being in your company is something I always look forward to.”
I texted Sam a thumbs-up emoji, then set my phone back into my purse, and cupped Maks’s face with my hand. “I like you, Maks. A great deal. But all this covert business scares the hell out of me.”
“As well it should,” he said seriously. “But, I promise you, it’s not for much longer. We’re very close to the end.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, attempting to settle my nerves. I then did something rather unexpected, and leaned in to give Maks a light kiss. His hand came up to cup my face, and against my lips he whispered, “Soon.”
When he released me, I got out of the booth and left the restaurant, walking to my car with the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. And I realized that Maks had been quite deliberate about seating us next to the window.
Getting in my car, I forced myself not to look around, but as I pulled away from the curb, a car passed me going in the opposite direction, and I caught the driver tipping a pretend hat toward me.
I only caught a glimpse of the man, but I knew it was Sam, and I believe I shook all the way home.
Chapter 8
Gilley walked into Chez Kitty where I was sitting on the couch, wrapped in an afghan, watching the Hallmark Channel.
“Yikes,” Gil said the moment he saw me. “It must be bad if you’re doing more of the Hallmark Christmas thing.”
He and I had watched literally dozens of Christmas movies together over the holidays, until we were well and truly tired of them, but this evening, when I got back to Chez Cat, I’d needed a bit of comfort to settle my frazzled nerves, so I’d headed to Chez Kitty and the comfort of Gilley’s couch and fifty-two-inch flat screen.
“Are you tired?” I asked, hitting the mute button.
Gilley made his way over to the couch and sat down next to me. Lifting the edge of the afghan, he pulled it so that it covered both of us, and said, “No, I’m not tired. In fact, I’m glad you’re here and we can talk.”
“Good,” I said. “Do you want to go first?”
“Duh, I always want to go first, but I’ll defer to you. What happened with Maks?”
I told him everything . . . well, save the part about the flash drive. I still didn’t feel like I could put Gilley in danger like that by confirming that I was passing on information to the FBI.
I did, however, confess the fact that Maks appeared to have been in some sort of altercation that he’d refused to tell me about.
“He’s obviously trying to protect you,” Gilley said. “Which is damn chivalrous if you ask me.”
“I don’t need chivalry,” I said. “I need for Ma
ks not to get into a kerfuffle that could get him killed.”
“You don’t know that it was a kerfuffle,” Gilley said. “For all you know it could’ve been a wrestling match with a good friend that got a tiny bit out of hand.”
“If it were that, then Maks would’ve told me, so that I didn’t worry or obsess over it.”
“Hmm, yeah. Good point. Still, he kind of confirmed our theory by not confirming our theory and telling you to stay away from the Eastwater and its owners.”
“Speaking of which, did you have any luck with Sasha?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Gilley said. “The second she heard the name she spit on the floor to dispel the evil that is . . . the Suttons.”
“You and your dramatics.”
“I’m not being dramatic,” Gilley insisted. “She really did spit on the floor, Cat.”
“So she’s heard of them.”
“Oh, yeah. Their reputation is hateful! They never pay their artists the full commission due, and lie about how much they sell the pieces for to further cheat the artists out of the money they’re owed. There’s also word going around that there may be a forged art piece or two showing up that hint back to the Suttons. Sasha said it’s all just rumors, right now, but she’s convinced they’re capable of something like that.”
“So she’s a fan of theirs,” I said with a smile.
“Big fan,” Gilley agreed. “Huge.”
Getting serious again, I asked, “How are they even still in business? Hasn’t anyone investigated them for fraud?”
“What police department is going to investigate these guys for art fraud?” Gilley asked. “I mean, talk about low-hanging fruit. Shepherd wouldn’t waste an afternoon looking into it, not when he’s still working his ex-wife’s murder.”
“Which is exactly the point, isn’t it?” I said.
“It would appear to be,” Gilley said.
I then turned to him and gasped. “You didn’t tell Sasha what we suspect about Lenny’s murder, did you?”
Gil pulled his chin back in surprise. “What? No. The last thing I want is to get Sasha mixed up in any of this. No, I just gave her the heads-up that the Suttons were looking to get in touch with her about setting up an exhibit, and she said that she really hoped they’d call so she could tell them to eff the frick off, only she didn’t use ‘eff,’ or ‘frick,’ if you get my drift.”
“I do,” I assured him.
A silence fell between us until Gilley asked, “What do we do now?”
“I was just thinking about that.”
Another silence fell between us.
“What if we took all this to Shepherd?” Gilley said. “We could simply tell him our theory and let him follow the leads.”
“We can’t, Gil.”
“Why the hell not? I mean, Cat, this is getting scary, right?”
“It is. Which is exactly why we can’t take it to Shepherd. If he starts investigating, it could get either him or Maks killed. Maybe both.”
“Oh, crap. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I may have a resource, however,” I said, suddenly lighting on the idea of telling all this to Sam.
Gilley looked at me curiously, but then he figured it out and said, “Your newest client.”
I didn’t confirm it, but I did say, “Adding a murder charge to the indictment might speed things up.”
“And it would free us from pursuing this further.”
I sighed. “I still think we should do a teensy bit more digging. If I’m going to take our theory to my other source, then we’ll need something more than a hunch to offer him.”
Gil frowned. “Sara Beth Sullivan, the Realtor who sold the Suttons the house?”
“Yes. Are you up for that?”
“I am if we’re subtle.”
“When are we ever subtle?”
“Truth. Still, maybe we can turn over a new leaf when we talk with Sara Beth.”
I held my fist out for a bump. “Here’s to subtlety.”
Gilley tapped my fist with his own. “Kabloom,” he said.
* * *
The next morning Gilley and I met up at the office early and sent out a message to the e-mail listed on Sara Beth’s contact page. We were rewarded with a response only twenty minutes later. “She’d love to meet us,” Gilley said.
“I bet,” I replied. My message to Sara Beth had mentioned that I was interested in finding a home in the ten- to fifteen-million-dollar range.
“What time works for us?” he asked, pulling the keyboard on his desk closer, ready to email Sara Beth.
“The sooner the better. We’ve got to meet Willem at one for our beach outing, and then I’ve got my other client at three.”
Gilley’s brow arched. “Your other client is back so soon?”
I hated that he kept honing in on any mention—or nonmen-tion—of Sam. I couldn’t tell him anything, and I couldn’t confirm anything, and this hinting at things was starting to fray my nerves. So I did the only sensible thing. I ignored his question and changed the topic.
“Where is Sara Beth’s office?” I asked.
Gilley pursed his lips at my segue tactic, but he answered the question. “She’s in downtown Apaquogue, so about twenty minutes from here.
“Ask if she can meet with us at ten,” I said. It was only a little after nine, and that would leave Gilley and me plenty of time to get our story straight and head over there.
Gilley sent off the e-mail and we each got up to fetch a cup of tea. By the time we were seated back at his desk, Sara Beth’s reply had come in. “She’s cool with ten,” Gil said.
“Perfect. Now, let’s work on our story. . . .”
* * *
We arrived at Sara Beth’s office at ten after ten. We’d had plenty of time to get there, but I wanted to be in the driver’s seat, and showing up promptly would’ve sent the wrong message, I thought.
Gilley walked ahead of me as we entered the building, and I kept my sunglasses on while I stood in the lobby, ignoring everything and everyone around me while adopting an air of importance. For his part, Gilley played the role of stressed-out personal assistant to the T.
After Gilley had given our names, we were led to Sara Beth’s office by the courteous receptionist. I continued to wear my sunglasses even after the introductions had been made and I’d sat down in one of the chairs facing Sara Beth’s desk.
As for our unwitting Realtor, a statuesque brunette who dressed sharply right down to her Veronica Beard leopard-skin boots, she seemed to go with the flow of our energy with ease, and I had no doubt she’d handled many a client as pouty, self-important, and awful as I was pretending to be.
Folding her hands on her desk, Sara Beth eyed us keenly and said, “I understand that you’re looking for a house, Ms. Cooper. What must-haves would you like to see in your new home?”
Without answering her I turned my head to Gilley and gave him one curt nod. Gilley then rushed to open up his messenger bag and extract a photo.
It was a heavily doctored photo of the murder house. Gilley had used Photoshop to give it a different paint job, trim, trees, and skyline. He’d also added a unique front door.
Overall it was quite different from the murder house, but also, remarkably similar. “This is Ms. Cooper’s former home near Boston,” Gilley said. “In Brookline.”
Brookline is one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the Boston area. Tom and Gisele Brady had lived there, and I was hoping that Sara Beth knew that a house located in that town could easily fetch a similar price tag to any listing she might discover in Apaquogue.
Sara Beth leaned in to peer quizzically at the photo. Gilley handed it to her so that she could study it while he continued with the story we’d come up with. “Ms. Cooper simply adores that house’s architecture, and she’d like you to find her one that looks and feels similar.”
Sara Beth squinted at the photo, and a half smile formed on her lips. Her expression was one I was hoping for—it wa
s the expression of recognition. “My goodness,” she said. “You know, I had a listing not long ago that could’ve been this house’s twin!”
I cocked my head and lowered my sunglasses slightly to look at her over the rims. “Oh?” I said. “Is that house still for sale?”
Sara Beth bit her lip. “No. I’m sorry. And, anyway, even if it were, I don’t think it would’ve been something you’d be interested in.”
“Really?” I said. And then I pointed to the photo in her hand. “I think I might be very interested. If you represented it, you must know the owners. Perhaps they’d like to put the house on the market again?”
Sara Beth shifted uncomfortably. “I understand your interest, Ms. Cooper, however, that property is a bit . . . stigmatized, and I’d hate to drum up some enthusiasm from the current owners without divulging to you, as required by law, about that property’s history. You see, it was the site of someone passing away.”
I took off my sunglasses and waved them at her. “So some old man died upstairs in bed. That doesn’t bother me in the least.”
Sara Beth set down the photo carefully and laced up her fingers again. “It’s a little more than that, I’m afraid.”
“What’s a little more?” Gilley asked.
“Well, you see, a woman was actually . . . murdered in that house.”
Gilley gasped dramatically, but I only frowned and put my sunglasses back on. “What happened exactly?” I asked, as if the circumstances would be the difference in my interest waning or holding steady.
Sara Beth shrugged slightly. “It was a terribly tragic event. A fellow Realtor was showing the home one afternoon about a year and a half ago, and someone entered and murdered her.”
“Robbery gone wrong?” Gilley asked.
“No. At least, it didn’t appear so.”
“Jealous ex?” I asked next. I wanted her to be as forthcoming as possible so that we would seem justified in our more probing questions about the Suttons.
Meanwhile Sara Beth was shifting in her chair again. It was clear she was growing increasingly uncomfortable, but it was also clear that she was intimidated enough by my stature and bank account to answer our questions.
To Coach a Killer Page 13