Above the headboard, a blue and white kimono robe hung on the wall, its wide sleeves stretched out like butterfly wings. From there, Ryan’s eyes moved around the four obelisk posts of the mahogany bed. Each bore carved images of a dragon’s scaly body entangled with a phoenix’s sweeping feathery tail.
“Was he the owner of this place?” Ryan asked, eyes tracing the intricate motif on the posts where the dragons crouched at the base of the posts and the phoenixes rose to perch on the top.
“Yep, one of the first buyers when the condos came on the market about a year ago, according to the records provided by the building management,” said Ive, stepping to the side of the bed to peel back the white sheet.
Ryan had seen many crime scenes, a lot of them gruesome, macabre, and horrific. The same words could still be used to describe what was in front of him, but he was not quite prepared for the bizarre nature of the scene. Blackwell, lying on his back, spread eagle. His naked body was covered with bloody streaks as if he’d been beaten by a thorny whip. Ryan bent to get a closer look. The streaks were not random, they were actually cuts in the shapes of crosses, rather symmetrically lined from shoulders down to wrists, thighs to ankles, and aligned in parallels on the torso. Blood rivulets had congealed around the slashes, blurring the deliberate pattern of the cuts. “What the hell . . .”
“Don’t bother to count, I have it written down here—a total of one hundred. Whoever did this, they did it after the victim was dead. The cause of death was asphyxiation,” Ive said, referring to her notepad.
“Manual strangulation or ligature?”
“Ligature, could be a necktie or stockings. Death occurred approximately between eight-thirty and ten-thirty last night.” Ive glanced at her wristwatch. “That’s about thirteen to fifteen hours ago.”
Ryan studied Blackwell’s neck and face—bruises under the Adam’s apple, sunken, blood shot eyes, and dried rivulets of blood around the corners of the mouth. “And yet no visible signs of struggle, and no valuables missing,” he murmured.
“Nope, looks like the attacker and victim knew each other, I’d say intimately even, if he was killed in bed,” Ive said matter-of-factly.
“Maybe, so what did this guy do?”
“You mean for a living? Guys like this don’t do for a living.” Ive chuckled. “I’ve Googled Mr. Blackwell, he was one of the richest and most eligible bachelors of the United Kingdom, philanthropist and patron of the arts, loved to collect antiques, especially those from the Far East.”
Ryan shot a glance at the robe above the headboard. “That’s for sure, just look around here. We know the guy had to be some Asian art nut. Let’s look at the rest of this place, together with Carmen.”
“Why Carmen?”
“She comes here three times a week to clean. She should know what things belong where . . .”
“Hum, I knew I asked her to stay for a reason,” Ive said in mocking self-congratulation.
*
With Carmen leading the way, Ryan and Ive looked over the massive penthouse room by room. If Blackwell loved Oriental antiques, he was equally fond of and an expert in decorative art—east, west, classic, contemporary. His artistic flair and discerning taste were evident not only by his collections of furniture, paintings, drawings, sculptures, and ornaments, but also by how they were arranged in each room. Ryan and Ive were no art connoisseurs, but they could appreciate the pleasing effect of the style and decor. A black Japanese Samurai sword on a silvery grey wall paired with Fredrick Remington’s bronze sculpture of Wild West displayed on a dark mahogany Chippendale council table. Georgia O’Keeffe’s Jisom Weed, a painting of a single white Datura flower, graced the wall of a room where an Oriental black-lacquered mother-of-pearl partition stood. Everything was where it should be, untouched and undisturbed by the death in the master bedroom.
They came to Blackwell’s study. It was surprisingly cozy and inviting, absent of the stately severity in some of the other rooms. No imposing chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, no prominent displays of masters’ paintings. Instead, there were armchairs and wingback chairs, each paired with a small round table, placed within a comfortable conversation distance from one another. Across the room, in front of a wall of bookshelves, was a dark wooden writing desk.
Carmen looked tired. Strands of her wavy hair had escaped from the band that held back her long ponytail to cling on her tear-streaked face. “You’re doing good, Carmen, it’s the last room, you can go home after this,” Ive encouraged.
They came to a tall French door leading to a balcony outside. Ive turned to the spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline when she heard Carmen’s gasp. Ive spun around, saw Carmen standing by the desk staring down at the leather embossed desktop. “What’s wrong, Carmen?”
“The stamp, here, it’s gone!” Carmen exclaimed, pointing at a spot next to a set of ornamental letter openers, a magnifying glass, and a penholder.
“What is it?” Ryan rushed over from the far end of the bookshelves where he’d been browsing the dead Brit’s leather-bound collection of literature and history.
Carmen was now speaking in rapid Spanish, hands gesturing tensely. Ryan could tell something was missing and Carmen was trying to describe the size and shape of the object, but he couldn’t understand a word she was saying. He looked at Ive helplessly. She was listening intently, interrupting now and then, occasionally jotting on her dog-eared notepad. I got to get pass my command of Spanish beyond Sí and Gracias, he lamented to himself.
Anxious for the ladies to stop talking to each other and for Ive to talk to him, Ryan was pacing around the desk when he tripped and struck his knee on a half-opened drawer on the side of the desk. “What the hell,” he cursed, rubbing his kneecap to dull the sharp pain shooting down his leg. The drawer was now more than half open, allowing him a clear view of the contents within—a postcard-sized photo featuring an ornate blue and gold object on top of a stack of paperwork. Probably some fancy antique worth more than my annual salary, he thought to himself. But curiosity trumped contempt, he carefully fished the card out of the drawer with two latex wrapped fingers and laid it on the desk.
“Okay, Ryan, it looks like one thing could be missing. It’s most likely a seal, a stamp, but this one seemed to be a fancy knickknack.”
“Does Carmen remember what it looked like?”
“She said it’s about a five or six-inch-tall cylinder, no more than an inch in diameter, made of metal, blue and gold, circled by a golden bird from top to bottom. She cleaned the penthouse two days ago and that’s the first time she saw the seal displayed on this desk. I guess it’s a piece of newly acquired art in the Blackwell museum.” Ive looked up from her notes, Ryan was standing behind the desk, seemingly staring at the floor.
“Ryan, did you hear me?”
Without a word, he pointed at the postcard-sized photo on the desk.
“Sí, sí.” Carmen’s eyes widened.
No further questions needed to be asked and no translation required. They’d found the image of the missing object. The three of them huddled over the desk, staring at the picture in silence.
Ive was the first to point out the tiny print at the bottom of the picture. “Look at the description, what does it say?”
The Empress Seal, cloisonné, 24 carat gold, and red ruby. 18th Century Qing Dynasty.
“Oh my god!” Ive let out a cry.
“Yeah, I saw the picture a minute ago when I knocked my knee on the drawer, I thought it might be worth more than my whole year’s salary. Now I think it could fund our department for a whole year,” Ryan said derisively.
“Detective Ryan, would you like to come upstairs?”
All three whirled around simultaneously. One of the CSU technicians stood at the door.
“Ive, why don’t you walk Carmen out and I’ll go upstairs to have a look,” Ryan said to Ive then turned to Carmen. “Gracias.”
*
Upstairs in the black and white geometrically marbled bathroom,
one forensic technician was standing in front of a double-sink vanity. “Detective, over here.” A small round porcelain container sat on the vanity top. “Most likely the victim was quite intoxicated before he was strangled,” the technician said, using tweezers to clinch a pill out of the container. “I think this might be what did the vic in.” He held the pill in front of Ryan.
The pill appeared miniscule, no bigger than the size of a plump kernel of long grain rice. But if it was what Ryan thought it was, a couple of those could put a three-hundred-pound NFL player in a comatose state. “We’ve seen pills like this before, they don’t come by order of a doctor’s prescription,” the technician said.
Ryan knew he’d have to wait for the lab report to find out what exactly was in those pills. But he had time. This Blackwell “incident” was high-profile and expensive. When there’s a lot of money at stake, NYPD always had time.
Chapter 2
London, three months before the murder
He’d had a glorious day. One of the most well-known art philanthropists and art collectors in England, he had been the honored guest speaker at the Tate Museum, commemorating the opening of an exhibition of abstract paintings by famous contemporary artists from China. Months leading up to the opening the exhibition had been touted by organizers and promoters as an extraordinary event, offering glimpses through art of the social, economic, and cultural issues facing the country of China and its people.
The exhibition was an opportunity to see through the Eyes of the Awakening Dragon, to journey on the Silk Road to the World’s Rising Superpower, according to full-page advertisements in London’s major newspapers and magazines.
Looking at the paintings by those talented young artists was like peering into the soul of today’s China, a culture columnist of The Times pontificated.
He’d never doubted his ability of art appreciation; he was born with it. He loved classic paintings. Sculpture wasn’t his favorite, but he appreciated the process that required strength and dexterity to chisel a piece of cold stone and mold a mound of grimy clay into art. He admired the discipline of ballet and adored the ethereal physique of a ballerina. He’d even learned to like opera, most of them with laughably tragic story lines sung in foreign languages by people with girth that suggested a stroke waiting to happen. But the arias, soaring heavenly, would bring him to tears without fail. Then there was the abstract painting. In his book that was not art—especially the contemporary kind. All that splashing and pouring paint and ink onto paper or canvas, they were just bloody messes. But earlier that day at the reception after his speech, he’d put up with the discomfort of lingering around some of those bloody messes, exchanging words like “insightful” and “deep,” with many of the notable people of London. He was aware that a few of the guests were in the upper echelons of Her Majesty’s Government. Beneath their gentle conversations about the importance of cultural exchange between China and England was the burning desire for more of China’s investment money. But he, William Blackwell IV, could care less about money—with which he was born and never in lack of. The fact he was invited as the guest of honor for the opening of such a high-profile exhibition meant he’d finally been accepted as one of the most celebrated personalities of the city of London. He’d done the Blackwell name proud.
Now in the walnut-paneled study at his townhome in the posh neighborhood of Mayfair, William Blackwell IV sat in his favorite wingback by the fireside. He’d congratulated himself with a glass of Chateau Margaux 2011. As the warmth of the wine wound down his chest, a sense of pride rose from the deepest corner of his heart. Here in London, he’d first learnt about William Blackwell I, the man who was not just his great-grandfather, but one of Britain’s most distinguished historians and journalists. As a young adult, Blackwell IV had read his great-grandfather’s books here, ignited his ambitions here, and cherished his own hopes and dreams here. As he approached middle age, panged by the realization that he, William Blackwell IV would achieve in his lifetime none of the successes of his forebears, he’d sought comfort and solace here. He’d never met his great-grandfather, but he believed William Blackwell I’s DNA dominated his own.
The truth was by the time William Blackwell IV came along, his family name was more famous in the world of high finance than in the field of journalism. Both his father and grandfather had high hopes that young Blackwell IV would follow their footsteps for a career in investment banking. But he wanted none of it. A career of worrying about money was beneath him. He wanted to be like his great-grandfather. “Your great-grandfather made his name in war-torn areas of the Far East. It’s dangerous being a war zone reporter,” his father had warned him. But to the young Blackwell, there was a certain aura about his great-grandfather, what he’d done in his life and the legacy he’d left behind. What could be nobler than a reporter risking his own life to expose the horror and atrocities of war? And what could be more magnificent than penning that life of glorious adventure so the world would still remember him long after his physical body had turned into dust and gone with the wind? That’s what his great-grandfather had done and that’s what William Blackwell IV would like to do. What he hadn’t known was executing his lofty plan required certain physical and mental aptitude. He was raised in luxury and cultivated to be more of a cocktail-glass-holding diplomat than anything else. An expensive journalism degree and one tour in Africa later, he folded like a cheap tent. A short stint at his father’s firm didn’t work out well either. Numbers and currencies intimidated him and belittled him. Bouts of anxiety and depression ensued. He decided to take a break, to see the world. And wandering around the world turned out to be his whole existence for quite a long time.
When his parents passed away, he became the sole heir to a couple of real properties, homes to collections of valuables, classic paintings and exotic antiques never seen by the public, plus a trust fund that could make Prince Harry blush. Museums and galleries came knocking on his door, asking if he’d be kind enough to loan them his priceless collections for special exhibitions. The older Blackwells would have turned those requests down. But he readily agreed. Up until then he had been known for the Blackwell wealth. London had largely ignored him, he was just a spoiled Blackwell brat. Now the city had to deal with him if it desired to reveal to the world the rare treasure that had resided in the Blackwell family for generations.
He first loaned his father’s British impressionist collection to the Tate Museum. The kudos he received from the London art world was intoxicating. Soon, quite a few of his paintings found new permanent homes in London’s most prominent galleries. Britain’s artistic talents had a new patron. However, the antique collections, most of them brought back by his great-grandfather more than a century ago, remained private. The porcelain vases and clay teapots, the jade snuff bottles and animal figurines—they were not just things, they were his connection to the man he’d tried to emulate but failed, his great-grandfather who’d spent decades of his life in China when the Imperial Qing Dynasty ruled the country. His father, Blackwell III, called the collection oriental knickknacks, but Blackwell IV viewed them as the original Blackwell legacy, and it should never die. He decided to build on his great-grandfather’s collection, frequenting prestigious auction houses around the world, acquiring pieces that caught his fancy. With his great-grandfather’s fame and his father’s money, he’d become the toast of London. The crowning moment came earlier that day when the Mayor of London introduced him as the guest of honor, the icon of the London art world. For the first time in his adult life he was happy and content.
A wood log cracked in the hearth, spluttering sparks. The roaring fire had turned into ember glow. He rose from the wingback, rekindled the dying fire, and went to sit by the desk where a rather thick bundle of papers awaited his attention. Preparing his speech for the opening at the Tate had eaten a few days of his time. He’d neglected the daily post. His butler Allerton had already sorted through them, making sure no insignificant correspondence or promotion
al rubbish would land on his desk. Blackwell went through the post. Nothing special, invitations from the art societies and requests on behalf of the starving artists. He tossed them aside. It was too good a day to bother with mundane correspondences. Besides, those two glasses of Chateau Margaux had left him in a state of euphoria. Finishing the whole bottle by the fire would be a better way to end a noted day like this one.
The last envelope in his hand caught his attention. The cream paper was weighty, gold embossed. No post mark, no return address, not even his address. It was like someone just scribbled his name in a hurry before dropping it in his mailbox. He flipped the envelope over, hoping something on the back could tell him where it’d come from. Nothing, only a dot of red wax in the shape of a flower sealed the envelope’s triangle flap. Using his King Arthur’s sword letter-opener he carefully broke the seal and pulled out a single piece of paper, again weighty. No letterhead, only a short, typed paragraph:
Dear Mr. Blackwell,
Based upon our extensive research and thorough study of history, we have overwhelming evidence that you are currently in possession of an invaluable piece of artwork—the Qing Dynasty Empress seal. In our opinion it was stolen more than a century ago from the Forbidden City in Beijing, China. We therefore demand that you return the seal immediately to its rightful owner. Please be assured that your cooperation in this matter will be greatly appreciated. If you refuse to do so, rest assured that the prestigious Blackwell name will be forever spat upon in the court of public opinion.
We remain respectfully yours,
Incredulous, he stared at the same flower on the signature line, his manicured fingers raking through his moussed, artistically messy hair. “What the bloody hell,” he groaned.
The Face of the Seal Page 2