“She should wait outside,” the officer said.
Mitch placed a hand on her shoulder. “Julia…”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “He’s all right, isn’t he? Trip isn’t hurt.”
The officer looked from her to Mitch then back. He didn’t say anything.
“He’s not—he can’t be dead.” Julia felt a quaking begin deep inside.
The way the officer quickly averted his gaze told Julia that her fear had been realized. Trip Youngblood was dead. She looked up at Mitch. “I shouldn’t have delayed you. If I hadn’t insisted on coming with you, if you hadn’t wasted time…”
“Stop it.” Mitch glanced at the officer who got the message and disappeared back inside the house. “Whatever happened was already a fact when we tried to call. This has nothing to do with you.”
“How can you know that? He might simply have not wanted to take a late night call.” Julia felt the internal shaking spread to her hands and she clenched them as she willed it to stop. If she fell apart Mitch would refuse to allow her into the house. She needed to see what had happened.
“This is a crime scene now, Julia. I can’t allow you inside,” he said as he waved a Savannah patrolman over.
She caught the lapels of his sports coat. “I can help.” She closed her eyes for an instant and when she opened them she had on her game face. “I know what to look for in the house, to see if anything is missing.” She could read the refusal in his expression. “It might help determine what Viktor is thinking, what he might do next.”
“This isn’t something you should see, Julia.” He held her by her upper arms. “I promise you, something like this will stay with you forever.”
“I won’t look at Trip,” he was shaking his head at her, “I promise. Just at the room, the situation.” She felt on the verge of tears and she knew she couldn’t let that happen. “I need to do something to right this.”
“This isn’t your fault, Julia.”
“It might not be my fault but I can’t help feeling that if I hadn’t been so dense, if I had read the files more carefully, this could have been prevented.” She tugged gently on his coat lapels. “Please, Mitch. Let me do what I can.”
Mitch took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Your father is going to kill me.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
Mitch waved the police officer away and together he and Julia entered the house.
The entry into the house was a twenty-five foot wide hallway with curved stairs on each side leading up to a second floor landing about midway the depth of the house. Just past the right hand stairs double doors opened into the library. The officer who had met them at the front door glanced up from his notebook. He shot a dark look in Mitch’s direction. Another policeman was photographing everything in the room. Trip lay sprawled, face down, on the floor in front of a well worn leather wing backed chair. A cut crystal highball glass had rolled about a foot from where he laid, a trail of liquid across the carpet marking its trajectory.
Julia averted her gaze from Trip’s body. She didn’t want to see how he had died. Instead she started with the bookcases where he housed his antique book collection. Nothing seemed amiss there. Her gaze traveled on to the open areas within the paneled shelving designed to display paintings. She was looking for the Valentin Serov. The gallery lighting of the empty niche made its absence more profoundly obvious.
Here, then, was irrefutable proof that Viktor Letov was behind the theft of the other Russian art. Julia felt a rush of adrenaline but she made herself focus and continued to mentally catalogue all the other items in the room. The Jan Brueghel the Younger pastoral was in its rightful place as was the portrait of a young woman thought to be the work of Rose-Adelaide Ducreux.
When she had made a circuit of the room, staying on the outer perimeter, well away from Trip Youngblood’s lifeless body and the necessary things going on around it, Julia slipped out the door of the library and made her way to the kitchen.
Her hands shook as she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the burner to heat. Mitch came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her gently against him.
“I shouldn’t have put you through that.” He held her there for a long moment.
The warmth of his body, the touch of his hands grounded her, comforted her. With a sigh she relaxed against him and drew from his strength until the kettle screamed. She busied herself with the tea preparation and found the ritual and his presence calming.
They sat at the battered, old table in an alcove of the kitchen. Julia wrapped her hands around the hot mug of tea, raised it to her face, and inhaled the steamy fragrance.
Mitch watched her in silence until she was ready to talk. He had a talent, she decided, with his quiet ways. It made you want to tell him things.
“There’s a painting missing.”
He didn’t speak, allowing her to focus her mind and control her emotions. She stared into the amber depths of the tea as she spoke.
“It’s a piece he acquired about a year ago. Nineteenth century Russian artist Valentin Serov. It was a painting of Peter the First.”
“That would be Peter the Great?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t one of his better works, quite possibly a cast off because of the quality, but it was a Serov and Trip was very proud of it.”
She glanced up at Mitch and saw he was staring across the room at the crown molding around the ceiling, that pensive look on his face. After a moment his mind returned to the here and now and he looked at her hands still cupped around the mug of tea.
He took her hand and held it lightly in his. “You think it’s related to the others, don’t you?”
Julia nodded. “Yes.
“And you think Viktor did this.”
She nodded again.
He stood and brought her to her feet with gentle pressure on her hand. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”
This time she didn’t protest. Though her hands no longer shook, she felt the shakiness inside, as if her internal organs were quaking with all she had seen and all she knew.
The guard at the front of her house had a reassuring effect and by the time they were securely ensconced in her apartment, Julia began to relax. The relief at being snug in her apartment with Trouble twining around her feet was like being drugged. She felt as if her legs could no longer support her.
Mitch obviously knew what to do. Without knowing how she got there, she was in bed, the comforter drawn up to her chin, and Trouble lay beside her kneading the covers and purring. His body, snugged against her’s, radiated warmth.
Mitch took the laptop from Jones and went back upstairs to the apartment where Julia slept. She had been in a state of near shock from the moment they discovered Trip Youngblood dead. By the time they returned to the apartment her body shut down, demanding that her mind escape into the balm of sleep until it could process what had happened and she could gain some distance from the night’s events.
He looked in on her. The cat raised his head and eyed him through slits that glowed green before resting his head once again on her outflung arm.
Friday was now a memory, the night melting away into the early hours of Saturday. The security company had provided the Marshals with footage from Youngblood’s house for the previous evening. They also had surveillance from the city camera on the corner across the street. Mitch logged into the laptop and pulled up the video.
At 10:10 p.m., Youngblood’s Mercedes could be seen in the far right corner of the recording as he pulled into his driveway. The wrought iron gates closed behind his car. There wasn’t an angle from which the viewer could see what happened within the courtyard and garage but a few minutes later light from the library window fell across the paving stones just beyond the closed gate.
Mitch switched to the city camera to get a wider view of the street. At 10:22 p.m., a car appeared from the left and parked in front of the house. A man got out of the car dressed in what
he assumed was a tuxedo because the white fabric of the man’s shirt blazed in the low light when he turned to close the car door. Mitch paused the recording and enlarged the image. The definition wasn’t great but he recognized the man as Rocco Sullivan.
The door to the house opened when Sullivan rang the bell. Mitch couldn’t determine who had opened it because whoever it was remained in the shadow of the interior. He could only assume it was Youngblood.
At 11:01 p.m., the home security footage went dark. Mitch fast forwarded through a black screen until, at 11:39 p.m., the front view of the house reappeared with the strobing of blue lights. He switched to the city camera and saw Rocco Sullivan leaving the house at 11:09 p.m. Nothing else changed in the image until the first patrol car arrived at 11:27 p.m., not a shadow where there shouldn’t be one, not a piece of trash blown along by the breeze, not a cat prowling the street. Nothing.
Mitch sat back in the chair and stared out the window into the darkness of early morning. What was he missing? Finally he stood and went to the bedroom doorway.
Julia slept restlessly, her hand twitched where it lay on top of the coverlet, her brow furrowed, she jerked her head to one side. She was very pale. Mitch felt remorse wash over him. And guilt. He had allowed this evil into her life and even when it was dealt with, the case finished, it would remain with her. It had forever changed her and there could be no going back.
He returned to the living room and found Julia’s phone. He checked the call history and made a note of the time she had attempted to reach Trip Youngblood. If nothing else, he wanted to remove that doubt from her mind.
With his own phone he called the office. “Pull Gerty from whatever she’s been doing and send her over to the Hampton house. Round up Rocco Sullivan, the ex-fiance, and the guy Viktor was seen with down by the river.” He thought for a moment. “And the receptionist and claims secretary for The Weatherby Insurance Agency.” He listened to the response from the other end of the call. “I don’t care, wake them up. I also want all you can dig up on Alphonse Chapman. He’s a local.” He closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket.
Mitch looked through the surveillance mirror into the interview room where Rocco Sullivan sat. At six o’clock in the morning he looked as well turned out as he had the previous evening at The Club.
With the time line for the activities around Trip Youngblood’s house late the preceding night firmly in his mind, Mitch entered the room
“Mr. Sullivan.” He placed his cup of coffee on the table and sat. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.”
Rocco Sullivan gave a faint smile. “There wasn’t much choice in the matter, but I’m happy to help, under the circumstances.”
“And what circumstances are those?”
“Someone is going around shooting at the good citizens of Savannah. I imagine Chappie will be prostrate from this for a month.”
“Yes,” Mitch took a sip of his coffee. “From all indications he’ll make a full recovery.”
Rocco laughed. “You have to know Chappie, Deputy Lawson. He loves drama, real or imagined, and if there isn’t any, well, he tends to stir the pot to create it.”
“Really? So you think he had a hand in this, what shall we call it? Escapade?”
“No. Chappie wouldn’t go in for anything that involved real danger, especially if he’s a potential casualty. His specialty is salacious gossip and innuendo.”
“So, you have any ideas what this might be about? Who the target was?”
“Obviously it was one of the six people grouped together under the chandelier.” He didn’t smile but Mitch could tell from his eyes that he was enjoying himself. “That would appear to include four pillars of Savannah society, an insurance salesman, and,” the smile returned, “a U.S. Marshals deputy.”
“But you weren’t far from the targeted spot.”
“True, but if the marksman is that bad, well, we’ll never know who he was trying to shoot.”
“How well do you know the people in that circle, I mean, myself excluded, of course.”
“I’ve lived here forty years, Deputy. I know all of them except the guy who works for Weatherby.”
“Would you consider these people friends?”
Rocco shifted in his chair and angled his head slightly to one side. “Yes, for the most part. We all interact socially, belong to The Club, work for the good of the community. So, yes, I would.”
“And Julia Hampton?”
“Ah. You’ve been listening to Ethel.” He smiled. “I could see her bending your ear. She thinks I hold a grudge against Julia. I don’t. It’s in everyone’s best interest to prevent fraud.”
“Is that why you couldn’t take your eyes off Julia all evening?”
“Jealous, Deputy Lawson?”
“What did you do after you left The Club?”
“Went home, checked my mail, checked my messages, and called Trip Youngblood.”
“What about?”
“Is that really any concern of yours?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
Rocco was silent for a long moment. “We had business to discuss. I’m an art dealer and I was doing some investigating for him.”
“Investigating what?”
“The provenance of a painting he acquired some months ago.”
“The Rose-Adelaide Ducreux?”
Rocco sat up straight in the chair. “How do you know that?”
“What did you do next?”
“I went over to Trip’s house.”
“Why?”
“To take him the report I found in my mail from Belgium. He was beside himself to establish the authenticity. We were able to track down a great-great-grandson of the original owner of the painting. He had old family photographs revealing the piece in the background.”
“And this is proof enough?”
“It goes a long way in affirming everything we know so far. The painting has been thoroughly examined by three experts. All the elements are in keeping with the period. This is just further evidence in support of what we believe.”
“So what happened next?”
Rocco shrugged. “I gave him the file. He put it in his safe and I left.”
“Nothing else happened when you were there?”
He frowned. “No. He answered the door when I got there. It was late. The staff had already gone to bed, I imagine. We went into the study. He was having a bourbon, offered me one but I declined. I wanted to get those documents in his hands and get back to an early bed.”
Mitch stretched his feet under the table, leaned back in his chair with his fingers laced at his waist and waited.
“The power flickered. Right after I got there.” Rocco seemed to be searching his memory. “That’s it.”
“How long were you at the Youngblood house?”
Rocco shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I didn’t check the time, if that’s what you’re asking. I took the documents over. Trip read through them while I was there, so maybe I was there a few minutes longer. I really don’t know.”
“How did Mr. Youngblood seem when you left him?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean. He was happy enough to get the reports. There was a copy of two photographs from the great-great-grandson included in the documents. He took a moment to look at them with the magnifying glass before he locked everything away.”
“So he was alive when you left him?”
“Alive?” Rocco reared back in his chair. “What kind of question is that? Of course he was alive.”
“Not anymore.”
Julia woke and sat straight up in bed. Trouble sat in the window looking out. He turned when she stirred from sleep and blinked slowly as if in greeting. She remembered the warmth of his body in the night, the gentle purring.
“Come here
, you.”
Trouble hopped down from the window ledge and leaped onto the bed. She pulled him close and tickled him under his chin and between his ears. “You’re such a good kitty.”
His ears flattened momentarily as if the diminutive endearment was insulting then he endured her caresses for a few minutes longer before he rose, hopped off the bed, and left the room. Julia became aware of the smell of coffee.
“Food,” Julia said softly, “that’s always foremost in your thoughts.” She threw back the comforter and slid out of bed. She padded barefoot through the apartment to the kitchen. There she came to an abrupt halt. A woman with fiery red hair pulled back severely stood at the island doctoring a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” the woman said. “I’m Gerty.” She gave Julia a quick once over in assessment and took a sip of her coffee. “Mitch sent me.”
“Why?”
“To keep an eye on you.”
“Oh.” Julia went to the cabinet and got a cup. “How long have you been here?”
“Since about four.”
The clock on the wall read seven thirty. “I overslept.” The comment sounded absurd even to Julia’s ears. How did you make conversation with an unexpected stranger in the middle of your kitchen first thing in the morning?
“You’re allowed. You had a rough night.”
The memories of the previous night came rushing back and Julia turned from the woman in the pretense of doctoring her coffee. She took a deep breath and realized she could think about what had happened without her heart pounding and her hands shaking.
“He was a friend.” She spoke to the tile backsplash, unable to look at the strange woman in her kitchen as she remembered Trip. “A dear man.”
“That’s tough,” Gerty said. “Look, is there some place I can park to be out of your way?”
Julia turned to look at her unexpected guest.
“I know how it is in the morning,” Gerty said. “I have my routine and I like the quiet. So, if you’ll just tell me where I’ll be the least intrusive, I’ll get out from under your feet.”
Suddenly Julia wanted very much to be alone. She needed to work, to sort through what she knew, and find the missing pieces. In the light of a new day she knew she wasn’t in danger. The break-in at her office had been in search of the file on the estate theft. Letov somehow discovered Peter Ryder had slipped it to her and he had wanted to either destroy it or alter it. He was a thief. Whether or not he was a murderer was yet to be proven. But in either case she wasn’t a threat to him. He was already known to law enforcement, his new identity vanished last night when Trip saw through him. There was no way she could expose him or incriminate him. In her heart she knew Letov had no further use for her. It was a very freeing thought. The fear that had gripped her the night before was gone. Only sadness at the loss of a dear friend remained.
Trouble in Dixie (Familiar Legacy Book 2) Page 10