The Face of the Seal

by Jennifer Cumiskey

  “Not nothing,” Ryan said, stepping out of his cubicle to Ive’s side, a styrofoam coffee cup in hand. “Blackwell’s not just a close friend to Walters, there’s more to it. The man’s really in mourning, he choked up several times, and it wasn’t crocodile tears. But I don’t think it’s because he’s lost Blackwell the man.”

  “Maybe tears for losing a man with deep pockets.” With a few strokes on her keyboard, Ive brought up a couple of social media sites teaming with photos of Walters and Blackwell at high profile cultural and social events. Both men always had female companions on their arms. While Blackwell seldom had the same girl at any event, Simone Loveless was always by her boss’s side. “Look at these. Less than three years ago our glamorous gallery owner Mr. Walters was selling cheap posters in Chinatown. According to your notes, Blackwell came into Walters’s life two years ago and the posh W Gallery was born shortly after. I’d say Walters got himself a sugar daddy.”

  “But the society people we’ve interviewed so far seem to think Simone was Walters’s wife, or at least on the way to becoming his wife . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, but it doesn’t mean the two men couldn’t be having a secret affair just for fun.” Ive was her blunt self.

  Ryan thought for a second. “Possible, but that theory doesn’t get us closer to the murder suspect.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you think of Simone, by the way?” Ryan decided to move away from Walters for now. He’d asked Ive to pay a surprise visit to Simone yesterday afternoon. He thought the ice queen might respond better to a female detective.

  “The woman is quite fond of her boss. She told me if it wasn’t for Walters she could be dead or a bag lady in the street. But I think Simone’s feelings for Walters are more out of gratitude or maybe professional admiration. I don’t see love there.”

  “Hmm.” Ryan thought of Simone’s face, frosty and wary.

  “The poor woman had it tough earlier in life,” Ive said. “At seventeen she left her hometown in Iowa to come to the big city. She never knew her father, and her mother is a drunk. She was almost starving before a fellow waitress at a diner brought her back to a rat-infested apartment which she shared at the time with three other young girls, all aspiring for a modeling career . . .” Ive paused. Ryan wondered if Ive was conscious of how the life she’d left behind fifteen years ago in Puerto Rico mirrored Simone’s. Ive never knew her father. Her mother died in her car on a suffocatingly hot day, a needle stuck in her arm.

  “I can see that,” Ryan agreed, picturing the waif-thin Simone behind the reception desk at the gallery.

  “Simone told me that she’s not tall enough to make it big on the glamorous runway,” Ive continued. “She thought she could make up for her height by being ultra-thin. For years she ran on alcohol, diet coke, and lines of cocaine but all she could manage was a handful of print modeling jobs. At least she was able to move into an apartment of her own, without the companion of rats and cockroaches. When she hit thirty, even small modeling job began to dry up. She was about to be evicted by the landlord, couldn’t afford booze and drugs, or even groceries. She said she’d seriously considered killing herself. Luckily, Walters came along and made her his assistant, and that was three years ago.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “At some new year’s party near Chinatown where Walters had just set up his gallery. A hole in the wall according to Simone, a humble beginning.”

  A single buzz from his cell in his jacket pocket. He pulled out the phone, it was a text from CSU. “Forensic investigation lab report is ready, let’s see what we’ve got,” he said to Ive.

  At his desk, Ryan logged onto the case management system and opened the forensic biology report. A quick scroll down didn’t yield much more than what he already suspected. The ingredients in the pills found in Blackwell’s bathroom were identical to those found in the victim’s system—fentanyl and acetyl fentanyl, synthetic opium-like drugs. It was confirmed that the imprint on each of the pills was 489. According to the imprint database of the FDA’s Center for Drug Evaluation and Research, such an imprint didn’t exist. The pills were illicit. In addition to the 489 drugs, a commonly prescribed sleeping pill was also found in Blackwell’s system. Why would Blackwell take two drugs that have opposite effects the same evening? One to get high and the other to put him to sleep? He died around ten-thirty p.m., wasn’t it too early to take a sleeping pill if he’d taken the 489 earlier for an evening or night of fun? Doesn’t make sense, unless . . .

  “Hey Ryan, you’ve got to see this.” Ive’s beckoning from the other side of the partition disrupted Ryan’s thoughts. He rose and looped around to Ive’s side.

  Seconds later two pairs of eyes were blazing the desktop screen which showed an organizational chart titled “Dragon Head” and its designated number of 489.

  “You think the 489 pills could be linked to some modern-day Dragon Head triad?” Ive asked without taking her eyes off the screen.

  “I can’t say,” Ryan murmured. His dad had spent the better part of his career in the ’70s and ’80s fighting heroin traffickers who had connections with the Dragon Heads in Hong Kong, which was then still a port city colonized by the British. The NYPD veteran had developed his own theories about the drug wars he’d been fighting. He’d lamented the fact that the Opium Wars the British waged against China was coming full circle. Chicken is coming home to roost, we’re now breathing our own medicine.

  “But Dad, you said it was the British who pushed opium into China, not the Americans,” Ryan had observed.

  “Aren’t you a smart boy. The Opium Wars may have been started by the British but just about every other country in the West joined in: France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Holland, and yes, America. We all got a piece of China, pushing narcotics and forcing the country to buy everything we wanted to sell. Even your Irish great-grandpa, led by the cannons and guns of the British, made a living running boats loaded with opium into Hong Kong’s port. We’re all guilty in that sense.”

  It had been decades since the dragon head of Hong Kong had been chopped off. But its body and tail seemed to have been resurrected, this time even more poisonous, more powerful, and more destructive. Dad was right, the war was started in China but now it’s being fought at the homefront and could go on for generations. But right now, I have a murder case to solve.

  Ryan looked away from the screen and turned to Ive. “Let’s say our victim did unfortunately get mixed up with the China connection. But we know drug 489 didn’t kill Blackwell, it only incapacitated him so he didn’t put up much of a fight before he was strangled.”

  “But if we find out how Blackwell got his hands on these 489 pills it may provide some clue as to why he was murdered.”

  “Exactly, partner. We need to talk to everyone here who knew the victim, even casually.”

  The desk phone on the other side of the partition blared. Ryan decided to let it go to voice mail. The ring stopped then began to shriek again seconds later. He gestured to Ive to sit tight and went back to the other side to pick up the phone.

  “Detective Ryan, there is a Mr. André La Croix on the line. He wants to talk to the detective handling the William Blackwell case,” a woman spoke urgently.

  “Should he be calling the hotline first?”

  “I asked him to do that, but he said he has very important information and insisted that he talk directly with the lead detective.”

  “Patch him in, please,” Ryan agreed reluctantly as he sat down in his chair. Experience told him that in a high-profile case like Blackwell’s, large numbers of so-called witnesses would come out of the woodwork claiming they had crucial information. But most of them usually led the police nowhere. Many had made up stories hoping for a few minutes in the lime light.

  “Hello, is this Mr. Ryan?” Mr. La Croix’s voice came through, heavily accented.

  “Yes, how may I help you?”

  “This is André La Croix calling from Paris.”


  “Paris? Paris, France?” This is a surprise.

  “Oui, Paris, France. I’m sorry to trouble you,” La Croix continued. His French accent was a brisk flow, clipped by occasional flowery notes. “I saw the report of Mr. Blackwell’s death on television the other day and decided I should call you.”

  “You knew Mr. Blackwell?” Now it’s interesting.

  “Not directly, actually I never met him in person. But I know his friend Mr. Walters who came to Cartier a few months ago. He wanted to commission a replica of the Empress Seal that Mr. Blackwell owned . . .”

  Ryan jumped up from his chair. “Walters, you mean Wesley Walters?” Ryan leaned forward and tapped on top of the partition, alerting Ive to come around to his side.

  “Oui oui. Mr. Walters came to Paris and talked to me and Mademoiselle Garnier. He wanted us to produce a copy of the original Empress Seal, which now the whole world knows has since been returned to China.”

  “Mr. La Croix, do you mind if I put you on speaker, I’d like my partner Detective Rica to join us.”

  “Not at all, please.”

  Ryan pushed the speaker button and repeated what La Croix had said so far, so Ive could have the context of the conversation. “So, you were saying you met Mr. Walters in your office and accepted the commission to reproduce the Empress Seal. Did you know at the time who the owner of the seal was?”

  “No, Mr. Walters didn’t want to reveal the owner’s name.”

  “Did Mr. Walters tell you why he wanted the seal replicated?” Ive asked.

  “He never offered that information, we didn’t ask.”

  “So, you never knew who the real owner of the seal was until the news broke that Mr. Blackwell, the owner, was returning it to China?” Ive double-checked.

  “Correct. But Mademoiselle Garnier was in contact with Mr. Blackwell during the process of replicating the seal. She personally delivered the replica to Mr. Blackwell in London when the work was completed.”

  “Is Ms. Garnier the one who designed the royal jewelry line?” Ive jumped in. “I’ve seen photos of her work in the window of the Cartier House here in New York. They’re beautiful.”

  “Oui, it’s the nineteenth century Chinese imperial court jewelry line she created exclusively for the House of Cartier, not just any royal jewelry line,” La Croix said.

  “Is there a way we could talk to Ms. Garnier?” Ive asked.

  “Not now, but she’s on her way back from a trip to China and–”

  “Why is she in China?” Ryan interjected.

  “Mr. Blackwell invited her to the ceremony in Beijing, you know, to celebrate the return of the Empress Seal.”

  “That was almost two weeks ago.” Ryan gave Ive a wow-that’s-a-new-one look. “So she obviously decided to see a lot of China.”

  “She originally planned to be there for a week but changed her mind. She texted me a week ago to tell me she wanted to stay a bit longer. I can’t blame her, it’s a good opportunity for her career.”

  “Thank you, Mr. La Croix, for taking time to talk to us. In a case like this every bit of information helps . . .” Ryan said, glancing at the scribble on a note pad Ive had just thrusted under his nose—Should we ask him if he knew the copy seal was stolen? He shook his head and said, “Is there anything else you need to tell us Mr. La Croix?”

  “That is all. Mr. Blackwell’s death is so unfortunate, I thought it’s my duty to let you know everything I know.” La Croix sounded somewhat relieved.

  An exchanging of niceties then Ryan hung up the phone. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “Paris, here we come?” Ive said with excitement.

  “Sorry Ive . . .” Ryan stammered.

  “You’ve got to learn to take a joke, Ryan. As much as I’ve dreamed of going to Paris I don’t want to go there because of a murder investigation. Besides, I’ve got work to do here if we still want to keep the relationship normal between the Brits and us Americans,” Ive giggled, “but I’d like to know why you didn’t want to let La Croix know that the copy seal has been stolen.”

  “Now that’s a question I prefer to ask when I’m in Paris.”

  Chapter 6

  Paris, present day

  Gerel opened her eyes and squinted at the glaring sunlight slanting through the single balcony window in her studio apartment. She reached for her cell on the bedside table. It was almost eleven a.m. Damn it, she cursed and swung her legs out of the bed.

  Coffee, I need coffee. A few steps later she was in the kitchen area, glad to have her vintage percolator sitting on the stovetop.

  Forty-eight hours ago she was waiting in line to board the plane back to Paris when a slew of text messages with exclamation marks leaped on to the screen of her cell phone.

  “Call me when you get this!”

  “We need to talk immediately, it’s urgent!”

  “If you don’t know already, Blackwell is dead. Come to my office, as soon as you can!”

  It was middle of the night, Paris time. But she’d called him anyway. André answered immediately. “Mr. Blackwell was murdered in New York City,” André said, his voice wobbly.

  “That’s horrible. It seemed I was with him only yesterday. What happened exactly?” Gerel could hear the panic in her own voice.

  “The report on TV said he was strangled.”

  “Mon dieu,” she gasped.

  André wanted to get together, to talk. But she knew she would be in no shape or mood to go to André ‘s office immediately after she landed at de Gaulle. So they agreed to meet the next day.

  Earlier that morning, André called, waking her up at seven a.m. “A New York detective has just called me. He has just arrived at de Gaulle and wants to talk to you and me this afternoon.”

  She could hear the dread and anxiety in André ‘s voice. “Why?” She tried to sound calm.

  “What do you mean why? It has to be the Blackwell murder case.” André sounded annoyed.

  “When will the detective be there?”

  “Thirteen hundred hours. Come early please so we have time to get our facts straight.”

  After she hung up the phone, she stayed in bed, recalling the last moments she’d spent with Blackwell. Then jet lag pushed her into a semiconscious zone, she’d lingered there for almost three hours.

  As the French roast percolated, she showered, shampooed, and styled her hair so she’d look semi-presentable. She’d have some coffee, smear on some lipstick then go to André ‘s office to face the American detective.

  Later, a cup in her hands, she settled on the couch and turned on the TV. A cartoonish commercial was just ending, followed by a network anchor’s detached voice, droning on about insignificant current affairs.

  The coffee was bitter and intense, just the way she liked it. She downed the whole cup quickly, feeling the dark liquid wash away the ooziness in her brain. Maybe she’d be able to work up the nerve later to face the dreaded American cop. But she knew the time to get dressed was now. I’ll just have to get this over with.

  She dragged herself up, shuffling toward the alcove closet across the room. Something on TV grabbed her attention. She back stepped to stare at the screen—in addition to the image of the news anchor, a woman’s picture had appeared on the upper left corner of the screen. Gerel recognized it immediately as a photograph of herself, taken during a marketing campaign for her nineteenth century Qing Dynasty imperial court jewelry collection. She grabbed the remote on top of the TV and upped the volume, “. . . Gerel Garnier, Paris’s up and coming jewelry design artist, was commissioned by the Cartier House to create a replica of the Empress Seal, a rare nineteenth century Chinese treasure owned by William Blackwell IV, who was found dead in his New York residence three days ago.”

  The image of the Empress Seal flashed on the screen for a second, followed by the cartoonish commercial again.

  Gerel collapsed onto the couch and wondered what was waiting for her around the next corner. Was she blinded by her own ambition? Had she made a mis
take going to Beijing with Blackwell, a man she’d disliked, to say the least? Nobody had forced her to go but she’d accepted his invitation anyway. He was the client who commissioned her for the replica of the Empress Seal, a high profile, potentially career-boosting undertaking, hopefully bringing her a step closer to the crème da la crème of the jewelry design world. Wasn’t that what she’d been working for? Then this is your chance, you’d better learn to feel comfortable with the likes of Blackwell, she’d convinced herself. Yet the road she thought would lead her to fame had instead lured her into this nightmare. She could be considered a murder suspect.

  She’d talk to the American detective. The world didn’t have to know the mess she was in. But seeing her photo plastered on network TV and having her name associated with Blackwell and his murder was frightening. And she hadn’t been easily frightened for a long time, at least not during her adult life.

  The critics had called her jewelry design the embodiment of an artist’s passion for life. They adored her choice of gemstones—the crimson red ruby, the intense blue of lapis lazuli, the mystic indigo of amethyst, the captivating green of emerald. One critic went so far to say about an amber necklace she’d designed: “The fiery gold of amber, like that of the artist’s eyes, reflect her fervor for life.”

  That was Gerel to the outside world: the artist. But the real Gerel Garnier’s view of life was far from the rainbow colors of her art. Her fiery amber eyes looked at the world in a rather cold and detached way, though she preferred the word practical. She couldn’t help it. She’d watched her parents’ marriage fall apart, seen her mother fade away, and witnessed her mother’s death—or was it suicide? —all before the age of ten.

  She sighed. André’s right, we need to talk this over before the American detective arrives. She turned off the television and dropped the remote on top of the bookshelf that doubled as a TV stand. Her eyes caught the photo next to the TV—her mother holding little Gerel in her arms, leaning against the wooden balcony at the family villa in Normandy. Gerel’s little fingers tugged her maman’s dangling lapis lazuli earring. The smile on her mother’s face was as bright as the golden sunshine that lit the blue sky and azure sea behind them. Gerel smiled back and picked up the photo. She ran her fingers across the glass surface to get rid of particles of dust that had accumulated during her two-week absence. When she looked at the photo again, a montage of nightmarish scenes seemed to play out on the six-by-eight-inch frame. She and her mother were going for ice cream at Bertillon on Rue Saint-Louis, near the Notre Dame Cathedral. Gerel, not quite ten years old and eager for her favorite candied chestnut ice cream, had let go of her mother’s hand and trotted across the street. “Maman, hurry up!” she had called, standing in front of Bertillion’s store front, waving at her mother impatiently. But her mother didn’t seem to hear, she just stood there on the sidewalk, completely still. Her sunken eyes seemed to be staring at little Gerel, but without really seeing. A big black truck was barreling down the street. The truck got closer, about to obstruct Gerel’s view of her mother when her mother stepped down off the curb—there was a soul-shattering cry . . .