by Lotta Smith
According to her, she had more than a handful of suspects in Jackson Frederick Orchard’s murder case. Determined to solve the case before she left the NYPD for good, Jamie talked to every possible contact Jackie had—including but not limited to her parents in Union City, neighbors, and the fellow actors and stakeholders of the production she was working on. Ryan Francine, one of the choreographers, triggered Jamie Alabaster’s radar for suspects.
The moment Jamie talked to Ryan, she knew something wasn’t right with him. The middle-aged, quiet man was cooperative, but every bit of his behavior seemed to be faked. All she had against him was her gut instinct that this man was hiding something, but there was no plausible reason to take him into custody.
Jamie also mentioned that Jackie wasn’t the first assault victim in the neighborhood near Pier 26. Before she was stabbed to death, three people—two women and a transgender woman—were wounded by being slashed with a sharp blade. The unit Jamie belonged to considered that the series of random assaults were committed by the same culprit, but following Jackie’s murder, no similar cases were reported.
Jamie had every intention to keep on digging around Ryan Francine furthermore; however, the choreographer died from a traffic accident.
When I asked Jamie the address of where Ryan Francine’s deadly car wreck took place, she told me without consulting anything—not even a memo pad. However, she also mentioned that Brian Powers couldn’t detect Ryan’s ghost. He might have already departed to a better place, which was outrageously unfair, but it was possible.
As we discussed the matter of Jackie’s murder case, the ghost didn’t pop up to state her opinion. I didn’t know whether she was secretly listening in or if she wasn’t really there, but I welcomed having a lead.
I drove around FDR Drive on the east side of Manhattan while coming my way to Madison to see if I’d be able to find the dead choreographer’s ghost. Though I drove extra slow near the crash site, I couldn’t find the ghost.
I wanted to do something for Jackie. During my relationship with her, I had witnessed several dead people departing to a better place following a closure of their deaths. Still, Jackie was tied to this world where few people could communicate with her, and I assumed the reason to be the lack of closure. Closure or at least something to comfort her would make a great birthday present for Jackie.
As I thought about it, my phone vibrated.
“Hey, how’s Jackie’s snooping going?” It was Rick, calling from his condo.
“So far, no progress. She hasn’t come back yet,” I replied. “How are you doing? Is everything all right?”
“Except that I’m dying of boredom, I’m fine. Thanks for abandoning me,” he complained.
“You’ll thank me later. Sit still and keep your leg elevated. Don’t forget your leg’s still swollen,” I warned.
“Thanks a lot for reminding what I had been trying to forget.” He responded with a snort. “Hey, I’m growing tired of watching NASCAR races. Who could have expected that?”
“Don’t worry, you still have HBO and YouTube. Look at the bright side. Tomorrow, you’re going to graduate from the splint to a boot, which allows you to move around more. By the way, what would you like for lunch? I’ll pick up something on the way home.”
The moment I said that, he cheered up. “Hmm… I’d like a quiche Lorraine and a pistachio tart from Le Pain Quotidien. The place is just three blocks away from your location.”
“Okay. Consider it done.”
“Good. And I’m glad to hear that you regard my place as your home,” he said nonchalantly.
“What?” I blushed. “Well, I mean, that was a figure of speech. But your home is quite nice, and…,” I babbled. Okay, so I liked his vast, gorgeous bathroom with the blue marble bathtub, the shower with both normal and mist showerheads, and a steam sauna. I liked having the toilets isolated from other parts of the bathroom. Also, he didn’t have torture rooms. Still, staying at Rick’s place was just a temporary living arrangement, and I was baffled with myself for casually mentioning his place as home. I was saved by Jackie, who cleared her throat by my side. “Oh, Jackie’s back.”
“Uh-huh. I’m listening,” he said. I could almost see him grinning ear to ear. “Talk to her and keep me in the loop. Don’t even think about disconnecting.”
“Hey there, Mandy!” Just like usual, Jackie was energetic and flamboyant. “You can continue your romantic conversation with Rick.” She winked.
“Tell me about what you saw at Scarpetta Silverman’s apartment,” I said, ignoring the ghost’s remark and posing as if making a new call.
“What a killjoy.” Jackie shrugged but started anyway. “Guess what? This lady’s apartment was soooo sad. It’s on the penthouse level of that mid-rise building over there, and some features—like long, magnificent corridors—were lovely, and she has a totally awesome shoe closet. Still, she had only a handful of shoes. And the walls were free of paintings, despite the outlines of picture frames still visible. Oh, and the chandelier was a cheap knockoff. You know what these things say about her?”
“She’s moving or just sold her stuff,” I said, pressing the cell phone to my ear, pretending to be having a phone conversation.
“She’s not moving, but yeah, she sold most of her belongings.” Jackie gave me a thumbs-up. “The hidden vault in her bedroom was empty as well. It was sad.”
“Excuse me?” I let out a high-pitched exclamation. Thank God I was in New York where no one gave a damn about others. I lowered my voice. “What about the sculpture? Does she have it?”
“She has it in her living room.” Jackie made a face. “I’m impressed with her audacity. Who could have thought she’d have the stolen sculpture displayed? Not even an attempt at hiding it. She was getting phone calls from debt collectors while I was visiting her. If I were her, I’d sell that property and downsize. I’d sell the sculpture as well because it seems to have brought bad luck. Except it’s not easy to sell off a supposedly stolen item unless you have the right connections.”
“So, Mandy, does she have the sculpture or what?” Rick asked from the other end of the line.
“She has it in her living room,” I informed him, along with a brief summary of her apartment’s condition, which prompted Rick to whistle.
“Can you say karma?” he muttered.
“Karma? What do you mean?” I asked.
“She obtained the sculpture using an utterly sneaky measure, and voilà! Ten months after the heist, her wealth seems to be sneaking out of her possession. If it’s not karma, I don’t know what it is.”
“I see.” I couldn’t agree more.
* * *
Later that day, I was inside Scarpetta Silverman’s posh yet deserted apartment.
I was standing behind Agent Woo, carrying a leather attaché case. I was playing the part as his assistant. He was using the alias Oswald Liu, a black-market art broker.
“I am shocked.” Oswald Liu sighed.
“What do you mean, Mr. Liu?” Scarpetta asked, furrowing her eyebrows. Unlike many rich ex-wife types in their early sixties, she had wrinkles on her forehead when she frowned. Perhaps the last session of Botox had run out. “Don’t tell me that Matthew, my old dirtbag of an ex-husband, switched it before presenting it at that gallery.”
“No, Mrs. Silverman. I am shocked to find this early work by Marsena Sissel. This piece is small, yet it represents the whole essence of his art. It’s energetic, avant-garde, yet at the same time more beautiful than anything in the world.” Agent Woo posing as the art broker Liu sounded emotional.
“It’s Ms., not Mrs.,” she corrected curtly.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Ms. Silverman.”
“Fine. Now that we have clarified the authenticity of the art, let’s talk about business.” Scarpetta raised her chin. Her place was devoid of nice, beautiful, and expensive items that were usually spotted at upscale residences on Madison, and according to Agent Woo, her bank account was almost empty. Still, her perfect posture and t
he way she spoke hadn’t lost their authority. “You have previously offered ten million for this piece, but it has sentimental value for me. So I’d appreciate it if you add my nostalgia to the initial offering price.”
“I’d love to, but—” Liu smiled apologetically “—Scarpetta Silverman, you are under arrest for possession of stolen property.”
“What?” Before it dawned on her what happened, Agent Woo had her handcuffed and recited her rights.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Meyer,” Agent Woo said, “and Jackie.”
“Anytime,” I replied.
“You’re very welcome! Except she didn’t try to hide the sculpture and I didn’t need to look for it.” Jackie waved at Agent Woo.
* * *
“Here’s to you guys, Agent Rowling, Ms. Meyer. Thanks to your assistance, we were able to recover the sculpture. In addition, Scarpetta Silverman is currently in our custody. I appreciate your cooperation very much. Thank you.”
On the early evening of that same day, Agent Woo was saluting to us with his glass of iced coffee. He was sitting at the coffee table in Rick’s living room, which had been working as a makeshift office.
“Always glad to help.” Rick saluted back with his glass. He wanted to have some champagne, but I served sparkling water, convincing him that it was the same bubbly drink but was better than drinking alcohol during the inflammatory phase of an injury. “Still, I didn’t expect the woman to jump into your trap so quickly.”
“I know,” Agent Woo agreed. “When I called her, posing as an art brokerage agent and an old friend of her dead acquaintance, I was just trying to get to know her to determine my next approach, but she opened up after realizing I wasn’t a debt collector.”
“She sounds trusting for a white-collar criminal. Perhaps that’s what cost her her own lifesavings,” Rick commented.
“Does she have Alzheimer’s or something?” I said.
“That’s possible.” Agent Woo nodded. “She hasn’t even bothered to lawyer up, and sometimes she doesn’t make sense.”
As Jackie suggested, Ms. Silverman’s finances were a total disaster. In spite of winning a hefty amount in the divorce settlement from her ex-husband, she was broke. Most of her money was drained away following a series of investments that were more appropriately termed as gambling.
“By the way, when did you realize she was the one who arranged the heist?” Agent Woo asked.
“When I learned about the owner of the stolen sculpture,” Rick said nonchalantly. “According to a source, Scarpetta Silverman was in the middle of a nasty divorce with Matthew Ross, her ex-hubby. At that time, they were fighting over the ownership of the sculpture. Both parties were lawyered up and fought like hell. Except Matthew didn’t want the sculpture at all. In fact, he hated it regardless of the price tag.”
“Excuse me?” I exclaimed. “Why did he fight for a sculpture he hated?”
“He attempted to use it as leverage,” Agent Woo chimed in. “At first, he fought for the sculpture, making the soon-to-be ex-wife desperately want that piece of art. So by pretending he too wanted that sculpture, he was going to use the item to negotiate. Like, ‘Okay, I’ll give up the sculpture as my thank-you gift for you, Scarpetta, if you give me what I want.’”
“Right.” Rick chuckled. “Not to mention he could subtract five million from the divorce settlement by giving the sculpture to Scarpetta. Art has a significant value to those who want it desperately, but others prefer to hang on to their cash. Matthew Ross definitely preferred cash to art.”
I rolled my eyes.
“We talked to him as well,” Agent Woo said. “He was surprised when Scarpetta said she wanted to rent out the sculpture to be exhibited at Leonardo’s, but when he heard his soon-to-be ex-wife expressed her interest in exhibiting that piece so the public could appreciate it, his opinion toward Scarpetta softened somewhat. Except he wasn’t aware of her sneaky plan. By the way, we got Connor Avery’s confession as well.”
“The security guard at the gallery?” I said. “Wow, I’m impressed with your quick work.”
“Thank you.” Agent Woo beamed. “He’s already disclosed the name of the robber who assaulted him and Ellie Hochman at the exhibition room.”
Connor Avery was indeed a part of the heist, hired by Scarpetta. His job was to disable the security cameras and pose as a victim at the time of the robbery.
“In addition, you were right about the mode of heist,” Agent Woo added. “The pedestal table mounting the sculpture had a secret storage in the middle. According to Avery, the man who knocked them out hid the sculpture inside the pedestal. That’s why no video footage caught the stolen item being carried out of the gallery. How did you figure that out?”
“One of my crazy aunts had a similar item,” Rick said. “So I called Leonardo’s owner, and it turned out Scarpetta purchased the pedestal.”
“I can’t believe the sculpture never left the exhibition room that day.” Taking a look at the photograph of the gallery, I sighed. I had previously seen the photograph and regarded the pedestal as nothing but a no-frills podium for the artwork. “Besides that, how could this ordinary pedestal score a hundred grand?”
“Welcome to the world of contemporary art!” Rick and Agent Woo said in unison.
Agent Woo went on. “By the way, Scarpetta told us her motive for the heist. She wanted to punish her soon-to-be ex-hubby by taking away something he wanted. For Matthew, the sculpture was just a tool of leverage to lessen his divorce settlement, but Scarpetta didn’t notice that. During their fifteen years of marriage, he constantly cheated on his wife. She loathed his series of his mistresses, but not more than Matthew Ross himself, who took away the one and only thing she wanted: quality time with her husband. She wanted to make her point by letting Matthew know what it was like to be deprived of something.”
“Except she failed,” Rick muttered.
“Yeah.” Agent Woo nodded. “The funny thing is, Matthew Ross has hired top-notch lawyers as a defense team for his ex-wife. Scarpetta is cooperating with us about the case to fulfill her obligation in a plea bargain arranged by her lawyers.”
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, I was in the kitchen, beating eggs to make omelets for two. Sausages were dancing in boiled water, and the bread was in the oven. I was on a roll with a decent breakfast on the way.
I was getting more and more accustomed to Rick’s upscale condo. Following my stay during the previous days, I found myself wondering if I could tolerate the crowded, noisy living arrangement at my parents’ townhouse in Queens. I knew there was no place like home, but I couldn’t resist the charm of 5,000 square feet of space with lots of extra rooms, bathrooms, and the state-of-the-art library.
I looked around to see if everything was in order. Nothing seemed to be wrong, but something was missing.
Something was bugging me, like I had unfinished business.
As I stopped beating the eggs, deep in thought, Rick hobbled in. “Morning, Mandy.”
“Good morning, Rick. How are you?” I asked on autopilot.
“Great.” He made his way to the barstool closest to me at the counter. I caught the scent of clean linen as he came near me in washed-out baggy jeans and a T-shirt. Leaning the crutches against the counter, he raised an eyebrow. “Is everything all right?”
“I think everything should be good. Still, something’s not right… like something’s missing, or I’ve forgotten about something,” I said, serving him coffee.
“Mandy, if you’re thinking about the Ellie Hochman case, just forget it,” he said, taking a sip of hazelnut-flavored coffee.
“Ellie Hochman! Oh my God, I had totally forgotten about her until now.” I almost dropped the bowl of eggs, but I managed to place it on the counter.
Rick grimaced. “Shit, I shouldn’t have mentioned that name.”
“So, Rick, what do we do about her?” I said eagerly. “After all, she had nothing to do with the heist.”
“W
e’ll do nothing about her.” He shrugged. “Our case with the White Collar Crime Unit is over.”
“Excuse me? We’re talking about a murder case.”
“Hello? That bitchy ghost tried to kill you,” Rick pointed out, lifting up his right leg. “Oh, don’t forget about this, too. Good thing I’m finally getting a boot instead of these mummy-like bandages.”
“I get your point, but still, getting murdered is stressful. It’s no wonder she lost her head. We need to catch her killer,” I insisted. “At the last meeting, she obviously recalled who killed her, but she got agitated and threw a temper tantrum.”
“A temper tantrum? A psycho-induced hurricane is a better description.” He harrumphed. “We won’t have further involvement with the case. No one asked us to solve that murder.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He crossed his arms. “Let the NYPD handle it. They may or may not catch the killer, and the apartment will stay haunted, but those are not our problems.”
“Rick’s sooo right!” Jackie chimed in, popping up from out of nowhere. “That woman’s a psycho.”
“Jackie, I thought you were on my side,” I mumbled.
“What did she say?” Rick nudged me with his elbow.
“She told me you’re right,” I replied begrudgingly.
“Of course, I am. I’m always right,” he boasted.
“I really hate it when you act like an arrogant, egocentric jerk,” I retorted.
“An arrogant, egocentric jerk? You’re talking about someone else.” He snorted.
“Rick, I saw you closing cases that were not even yours, and your case-closure rate is slightly higher than 100 percent because of your lack of respect toward bureaucracy. Why bring it down now?”
“Because I care for you, and I don’t want that cranky ghost to hurt you.” He took my arm, pulling me close to him. “Do you have any idea how scared I was when I saw you choking?” He looked me straight in the eyes.
“I was shaken, too, when you were injured,” I muttered, inhaling the scent of his aftershave—mostly citrus, with a hint of sandalwood. We were so close to each other. Looking at his beautifully sculpted face, I noticed his brown hair styled in the just-out-of-bed look accentuated his mesmerizing green eyes.