“Thank you. I’m not quite sure what to do with all this information, but you’ve been a huge help.”
Misty beamed. “Any time, but I’m afraid I have to go. Shirley’s set me up on a blind date. It’s just for a drink but…”
I smiled at the thought of sexagenarian Shirley setting up tarot-card-reading, fifty-something Misty, but it was nice to think that they’d become friends. “Scoot, and don’t forget to take the leftover pizza with you. It’s cold enough outside that it’ll stay refrigerated in your car.”
I made myself another cup of tea after Misty left, considering everything she’d told me, my mind eventually drifting back to Brandon’s partially completed tattoo of The Fool. Had Sam Sanchez planned to include all the elements of a tarot card, or did she, like her grandfather, plan to exclude some? I didn’t know if it mattered, but it was one more thing to ask her when I paid her another visit.
37
I picked up Chantelle at nine a.m. sharp Friday morning, allowing us ample time to make the trek to Burlington. As usual, she looked drop-dead gorgeous, her blonde hair worn casually loose, black jeggings accentuating toned legs, and a gray sweater that would have looked drab on most, but only served to intensify the smoky charcoal of her eyes. Even so, I couldn’t help but notice the blue smudges beneath them.
“Are you okay?” I asked as she settled into the passenger seat and buckled up.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. You look…tired.”
“If you must know, I had a late night.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line, then turned her focus to the passenger side window.
“Whatever you say.” I put the car in gear and hit the road, determined to ignore both Chantelle and her snippy response. We’d been driving in silence for a few minutes when she spoke again.
“It’s Lance.”
“What’s Lance?”
Chantelle exhaled the exaggerated sigh a teenager might bestow upon a particularly clueless parent. “The reason I’m not sleeping is because of Lance and trust me, no one is more surprised about it than I am.” She squirmed in her seat, fidgeting with her seatbelt.
“I know you’ve been helping him with his family tree. Has something…” I searched for the right words, “…worrisome come out of that?”
“Worrisome. I suppose that depends on your point of view. We discovered a few matches, mostly fourth to sixth cousins, meaning they share a great-great-great grandparent plus another one or two greats, and most of those didn’t have family trees. But one match was encouraging—a female second cousin that’s willing to meet with him.”
I wasn’t seeing the connection. “That’s good news, right? That he’s found someone who might be able to help him trace his roots.”
“Yes, it’s good news, except now Lance doesn’t want my help going forward. He says he can do it without me, and that it’s better that he take this journey with Sienna.”
“Sienna?”
“Cleopatra’s real name.”
“Ah.” Sienna, Mercy. Why couldn’t they have regular names like Kathy or Vicki?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Chantelle said. “It’s been over between us for ages. I mean, we’re divorced, right? But these past few weeks, I don’t know. It just felt like it used to, before the bitching and the bickering and the oh-too-inevitable—and if I’m being honest—welcome breakup. It felt comfortable, like coming home after an extended time away. Part of me thought we might try again. As if. I should have known he’d break my heart all over again.”
The bitterness in Chantelle’s voice concerned me. “A wise woman once told me that we shouldn’t be afraid to get our hearts broken.”
Chantelle laughed. “Touché, my friend. Way to throw it back at me. Speaking of broken hearts, how is Royce?”
I told her about running into him with Mercy at the diner, then filled her in on my meeting with Ben Benedetti. I decided to skip the part about our mutual attraction. For one, it was early days and for the other, she was already feeling fragile enough. She didn’t need her best friend getting all gloaty.
“What are you going to do with the information?” Chantelle asked when I’d finished.
“My plan is to confront Michael Westlake with it in the hopes that he’ll come clean with me. My guess is Brandon discovered the keylogger software and that triggered him to leave home.”
“Still doesn’t change the outcome though, does it?”
I admitted it didn’t. “What about David Alexander Samuels? Find anything in the DNA databank?”
“I’m sorry, I should have told you about that right away instead of blathering on about Lance. There are close to a thousand entries under that name. It’s going to take some time to weed through them, but I’ve scheduled a few days off from the gym. I should have an answer sooner rather than later.”
A few days off from the gym? That was a first. I decided to withhold comment.
Light Box Auction Gallery was on Burlington’s main downtown strip. Brant Street had colorful awnings and varied facades—everything from brightly painted stucco to brick and barn board—lending an eclectic vibe to the upscale shops, galleries, and restaurants vying for business. Most stores had apartments above them, seamlessly blending commercial, retail, and residential space.
“There it is,” Chantelle said, pointing to a narrow, stone-fronted building with a magenta door and a matching awning lettered “Light Box Auction Gallery.”
I found a spot on the street just up from the gallery and took a deep breath. “Parallel parking. Not my strong suit.” An understatement. Have I mentioned that I hate street parking? It’s actually more like fear. I haven’t parallel parked since the day I got my driver’s license. I kept driving.
“Seriously?” Chantelle said. “That spot was prime.”
“Maybe there’s a Green P lot somewhere.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, circle the block and I’ll guide you in step-by-step.”
I circled the block, wondering what made Chantelle an expert and deciding that the wisest course of action was to hold my tongue. I slowed down on Brant, saw the coveted spot had been taken and drove down a few spaces. “There’s one up ahead.”
“That will do,” Chantelle said. “The first step is to line up the back of the car with the back of the front car, then stop.”
I lined up and stopped.
“Now, then turn wheel all the way to the right. All the way.” Chantelle’s voice brooked no argument. I did as instructed.
“Perfect, now turn around and look out the back of the car, then slowly begin backing up until the right-front corner of the rear car is in the exact middle of the rear windshield. When you get there, stop again.”
“Done,” I said, stopping again.
“Okay, now while stopped, turn the wheel back to the middle position. I repeat, while stopped, turn the wheel back to the middle position.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Fine. Now, back up slowly until your car barely clears the front car, then stop again.”
“I don’t want to hit—”
“You won’t.”
I backed up slowly into position. “Got it.”
“Perfect. Turn the wheel all the way to the left, and begin backing in again, keeping the wheel to the left until the car is parallel to the curb.”
OMG, it worked. But apparently I wasn’t done yet.
“Final step. Turn the wheel to face forward. That way you’re ready to drive off at a moment’s notice. You know, just in case you’re a bandito or something.”
I turned the wheel, shut the car off, took the keys out of the ignition, and wiped a bead of perspiration off my forehead.
“Piece of cake,” Chantelle said, hopping out of the car.
I waited until a lengthy procession of vehicles passed by, grateful for the opportunity to steady my breathing. Seriously, I thought, giving myself a mental slap upside the head. You go around digging into death, deception, and des
peration, but parallel parking freaks you out? I opened the driver’s door and slipped out quickly to join Chantelle on the sidewalk.
“Thanks.”
Chantelle waved me off. “Rented a basement apartment at Main and Danforth when I first moved from Ottawa to Toronto with Lance. You either learned to park on the street or you gave up your car.”
A small sign in the front window of Light Box Auction Gallery posted the hours as “By chance or appointment.” It had been flipped over from Open to Closed.
“I hope we didn’t come all this way for nothing,” I said, battling between panic and annoyance. Surely I hadn’t just taken Parallel Parking 101 for naught.
Chantelle, ever the optimist, tried the door. “Chill out. It’s open.”
We walked in, a bell tinkling above us to announce our presence. Dark hardwood floors, color-blocked walls in varying shades of plum and purple, and recessed lighting highlighted the tattoo flash on display. In addition, there were vintage Disney cels and original comic book art. At least I assumed they were vintage and original. A statuesque woman emerged from double doors at the rear of the shop, her slender physique made taller by six-inch stilettos. “Right on time,” she said, by way of introduction. “Nicolette Baxter.”
Nicolette Baxter was a study in scarlet, with flaming, waist length red hair, thinly penciled eyebrows, perfectly manicured fingernails, pinstriped palazzo pants, and a matching crop top that revealed sculpted abs and a ruby-studded belly button. She was striking, rather than beautiful, with impossibly high cheekbones, jet black eyes, and a smattering of freckles on porcelain skin. Everything about Nicolette Baxter was riveting. I expected she worked hard to maintain that image with regular visits to the gym, spa, and assorted stylists and salons that offered treatments I’d never heard of and probably couldn’t afford.
“Callie Barnstable. This is my friend and colleague, Chantelle Marchand. Thanks for seeing us.”
“I’d be hard-pressed to sell anything if I didn’t,” Baxter said with a grin. “Levon tells me that you’re interested in the Nestor Sanchez flash.”
“Yes, that’s why we’re here,” I said, wondering how I was going to tell her the real reason for our visit.
“I have to be honest. I met with another potential buyer yesterday. She’s interested in purchasing the entire lot. I told her that I’d already set up this meeting, and it would be unfair to sell it before you had the opportunity to view them.” Baxter gave us the once over, a frown creasing her flawless brow. “Maybe I should have taken her up on the offer. Something tells me you’re not here as collectors.”
It wasn’t the way I wanted to start the conversation, but at least it opened the door to full disclosure. “We’re not. I apologize if I gave you that impression on the phone. We’re actually co-owners of Past & Present Investigations.”
“Private investigators?” Baxter’s posture stiffened, the taut muscles in her bejeweled abdomen getting tauter. “I can assure you that I came by the Sanchez collection honestly. In fact, the consignor sought me out, not the other way around.”
“Apologies again,” I said. “We’re not here to accuse you of anything. We’re here because Nestor Sanchez’s name came up in a missing person investigation we’re working on.”
“A missing person case?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping to avoid the specifics, at least for the moment. “Can we ask who the potential buyer is? The information may be helpful.”
“You can ask, but I’m afraid she didn’t offer her name.”
“You let a potential buyer leave without getting her contact information?”
“I gather the investigator in you doesn’t approve. What can I say? The lady promised to call me on Monday. If she’s still interested, she’ll call. If not, my barraging her with phone calls, texts, and emails won’t change her mind. I like to think I’m above that, you know?”
“Can you describe her?”
“That I can do,” Baxter said. “Attractive. Hispanic. Mid-thirties. Wore a black turtleneck, ripped jeans, a fleece-lined denim jacket, black combat boots, gray dollar store gloves, and a Detroit Red Wings baseball cap.”
Which meant the tattoos and shaved head would have been fully covered. “You’d make a good investigator,” I said, “remembering all those details.”
“It was only yesterday,” Baxter said, but I could tell that the compliment pleased her.
“Was there anything noticeable about her?”
“Yeah. She had a diamond chip in her front tooth. Looked good. Made me think of getting one.”
The potential buyer was definitely Sam Sanchez. “Do you know how this woman came upon your gallery?”
“She claimed to have seen the pix on Instagram. I had no reason to doubt her. Why? Is it important?”
“Probably not,” I said, thinking just the opposite. It was one more thing to add to the list of secrets being stockpiled by the mysterious Sam Sanchez.
I also wanted to know who consigned the flash, but I sensed Nicolette Baxter was tiring of my questions. I’d ask later, after Chantelle and I saw the Nestor Sanchez inventory. “Do you mind if we take a look at the flash by Sanchez now? Even though we aren’t planning to buy anything?”
“I don’t see why not. Follow me. The collection is near the back of the gallery, right side. There are fourteen in all. Most show some wear, though thankfully there’s no water damage or foxing. Foxing, that’s the worst, brown spots eating through the paper. I’ve taken the step of employing archival picture framing techniques to preserve them going forward. His art deserves no less.”
With one exception, the sketches were all tarot-related, with the twenty-two cards in the Major Arcana captured on five pages: numbers one through twenty-one on four pages, and The Fool and The World, the first and last cards, on the fifth. My first thought was that each of these drawings appeared to have the same balance of simplicity and intricacy Misty had pointed out to me in the Temperance and Wheel of Fortune designs. My second thought was that she would love to own the one with The Fool and The World. I checked the price: $1,500. Sorry, Misty.
The rest of the flash depicted the fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana. Four pages were devoted to the four court cards in each suit, Cups, Pentacles, Swords, and Wands, Page, Knight, Queen, and King. That left four pages for the rest of the Minor Arcana. I did a quick count, finding ten sketches per sheet, one for every card numbered in Roman numerals, I through X. One thing stood out. Whether the sketches were large or small, in full color or black ink, they were meticulous in their detail.
I turned my attention to the only flash that didn’t cover tarot. It was a portrait, more complex than something you’d ink on your body. A portrait of a young Hispanic woman. No shaved head, no diamond chip, but a young Sam Sanchez nonetheless.
“The woman who came here. Did she look like this?”
Baxter surveyed the sketch. “Now that you mention it, yeah, maybe a little, although she was a lot older than this, you know?” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it. I’ve usually got a good eye.”
“It’s easy to miss things when you aren’t looking for them.”
“I guess,” Baxter said, sounding unconvinced. “He was very talented, wasn’t he? Nestor Sanchez. I wonder why he never got more recognition.”
Was? “Probably because he didn’t want it. Not everyone aspires to fame and fortune.” I waited a beat then, “You said Nestor ‘was’ very talented. How do you know he’s dead?”
“I haven’t seen his death certificate, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Tell me about the person who sold these to you. Young? Old? Did he say he knew Nestor Sanchez?”
“Middle-ish aged man. Old enough to have a little gray in his hair. Frankly, he didn’t know much about the flash or Sanchez.”
“You said you bought Nestor’s art. Isn’t it more common for an auction gallery to work on consignment?”
“Yes, and it’s my preference, but I wouldn’
t have gotten these otherwise. I told him he might do better at auction, but he said he needed the cash now, not later.”
The website had listed pricing from $350 to $1,500 per. Using an average of $850, and allowing for some good old-fashioned bartering, Baxter stood to make a little over $11,000. My guess was she’d paid less than half of that. I wanted to ask out of curiosity, but couldn’t justify the question. It did make me wonder why someone would give up a collection like this for $5,000 and change. I was mulling that over when Chantelle spoke up. Until now, she’d been a silent observer.
“Can you tell us when you bought the collection? And who sold it to you?”
“It was three weeks ago Sunday. I remember the date because it was my birthday. He said his name was Brian Cole, that he was in between places.” Baxter laughed. “He called it the Imposer’s World Tour. I got a kick out of that.”
Brian Cole. Brandon Colbeck.
Chantelle already had her phone out, scrolling through her photos. “Does this guy look familiar? Or this one?”
Baxter took the phone and flipped back and forth between the photograph from 1999, clean-shaven Brandon, and scruffy Brandon before handing it back to Chantelle. “The man in the photograph by the water, no. He doesn’t look older than twenty, and he has this innocent look about him Brian Cole might have had once but lost a decade plus ago. The bearded guy in the sketches, however, definitely bears a strong resemblance to the guy who called himself Brian Cole. Who is he? The guy in the sketch?”
“Brandon Colbeck.”
“Your missing man? The one you’ve been hired to find?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been gone since he looked like the young man in the photograph?”
I nodded. “Nineteen years and counting.”
“Wow.” Baxter rocked back on her stiletto heels, and I marveled at her ability to stay upright.
“His family…they just want to know he’s okay.”
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