Eddie and I drove separately. We’d tried to keep carpooling after the wedding, but since I’d moved and had different duties, it hadn’t worked very well, so we took our own vehicles now. We’d managed to preserve our three-times-weekly running routine, although it took a major effort sometimes. Jeff ran with us on days when he wasn’t on duty at the fire station, and we took a few minutes to pray together on those days. That was something new for all of us, and we grew closer because of it.
I didn’t even get to my desk before the latest crime was dumped in my lap. Terry Lemieux, the day patrol sergeant, called to me as I went through the foyer to the stairway.
“The chief told me to tell you as soon as you got in,” he said. “There was a burglary early this morning in Rosemont.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “An art theft.” A run-of-the-mill burglary wouldn’t have been steered to my unit.
“That’s right.” Terry handed me a copy of a night shift patrolman’s report. I took the file with me to the third floor and read it twice, then called Mike.
“You want me to take this art theft case in Rosemont?” I asked.
“Well, it’s what we’ve been waiting for. Another burglary within the city limits, same M.O.”
“Does Ron Legere know?”
“I’ll tell him.”
I said, “Okay, I’ll touch base with Ron after we do some preliminary work.”
I sent Nate to the courthouse for a hearing on his last case and kept Eddie with me on the art theft. Arnie and Clyde were meeting with the district attorney at nine, and I briefed them on the new theft before they left.
“We may be getting somewhere,” I told Eddie as I worked at my computer. “One of the paintings stolen last night was by the same artist as one stolen two weeks ago. Maybe these thieves have a customer who admires Lance Redwall.”
“Lance Redwall? Yeah, I saw the name, but I’d never heard of him before this case,” Eddie said.
“He’s building a reputation in the art world. His landscapes are selling for four to six grand. He’s been painting for ten or fifteen years, and his recent works are better than the early ones, but even the early ones are commanding big prices now.”
“How do you know all this?” Eddie asked.
“Hey, I’m a cop.”
“So am I. You can’t snow me.”
I smiled. “I’ve been reading up on all the artists whose works we know were stolen in the area recently.”
“Is this artist local?”
“Nope. Lives in New Jersey. But this painting was purchased through a gallery on Market Street.”
“Where was the other one bought—the Redwall that was stolen two weeks ago?”
I checked my computer file on the art thefts. “An art auction in Boston three years ago.”
“So, if the thieves are learning who’s got art, they’ve been keeping track for a long time. Or looking at old records.”
“Word of mouth would be more like it,” I said. “If they all came from the same source, the records would make sense but…”
“Do art collectors brag about it?” Eddie asked. “I thought they kept their mouths shut for security.”
“I dunno. Maybe they tell their friends. People they trust.”
“Their art dealer,” said Eddie.
“That’s true. There could be a dealer masterminding this thing.” I sat back, mulling it over. “Hey! Where would you go if you wanted to chitchat about art and up-and-coming artists?”
“A gallery, I guess. A show for one of these artists on the list.”
“Or…?”
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Come at it a different way, Eddie. Let’s say you wanted to learn about archery or flying or stamp collecting. Where would you go?”
“The library?”
“To meet people with the same interest.”
“An online chat room?”
“I was thinking real face time.”
“A club,” he said.
“Bingo.”
“Is there an art club in town?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” I turned back to the computer.
He left me alone, and I immersed myself in local organizations, via the chamber of commerce website.
“Got it,” I told Eddie ten minutes later.
“What, the art club?”
“Yes. I just talked to the vice president. They only meet once a month, though.”
“And the next meeting is…”
“October eleventh. They meet the second Monday of the month.”
“So, you’re going to join?”
“Correction. We are going to join.”
“Undercover as art lovers?” Eddie asked.
“You got it.”
“I’d better do some homework.”
“Yes, you’d better.” I gave him a list of local artists and the name of a woman from Connecticut who would be the guest speaker at the next Portland Visual Arts Society meeting. “See what you can find out about this artist, Mandi Plunkett. She’ll be speaking on layering acrylics, and demonstrating her technique. I want to know what she paints and what her work sells for and who buys it.”
“How do I find out all that?”
“Internet, library, whatever works. Give me a report before you leave tonight.”
“Oh, brother.” Eddie had not done well on term papers in school.
I stood up and reached for my jacket. “Let’s go visit the house that was burglarized last night and interview the owner. You can do your homework this afternoon.”
Eddie and I drove to Rosemont in my SUV. Ralph Carter had not yet gone to the local insurance agency where he worked. A couple of crime scene techs were dusting for fingerprints in his living room, and I sent Eddie to talk to the patrolmen who had interviewed the nearest neighbors, to see if they’d seen or heard anything unusual in the night.
Carter sat down with me in the dining room. His wife brought us coffee and then headed out for an appointment at the hair salon.
“It was about three a.m.,” Carter told me. “A noise woke me up. I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t one of our house’s regular sounds.”
I nodded with perfect understanding. I’d been living in my house for almost three months, and I was still getting used to its sighs and groans.
“I went out into the hallway and turned on a light,” Carter said. “I heard someone running away. When I got to the kitchen, the back door was wide open.”
“I know you made an initial report,” I said, “but could you please tell me what was taken?”
He exhaled heavily. “The biggest thing was the Redwall painting. It was a gift from my wife’s parents.” He shook his head. “The biggest pain was the computer, though. Not only did we lose a lot of files, but the thieves now have a ton of personal information about us.”
“I’m sorry.” People know they should back up everything externally, but they forget. They know they shouldn’t leave sensitive information on the hard drive, but they do. I think it’s because we’re lazy by nature.
“What else?” I asked.
“The printer, a video camera, and a CD player. The TV and DVD player were sitting in the middle of the living room floor. There was also a family photo in a sterling silver frame worth a few hundred bucks. We can get a copy of the picture from the studio, but my wife was more upset about that than anything else. But the computer—I’d only had that one eight months.”
“How much was the painting worth?”
“My in-laws paid six grand for it. That was the most expensive item.”
I nodded. “We’ll do everything we can to get your stuff back. The electronics will probably be sold quickly to a fence, but the thieves may have stolen the painting for a particular collector. It might be harder to trace, because it won’t go on the open market.”
I got a few more details from him, and a photo of the stolen painting. They had a laptop that had escap
ed the theft because his wife had taken it into the bedroom the night before, and I advised him to get on it and change all his passwords immediately. I went into the next room, where the techs were packing up their gear. They reported that the thieves had apparently worn gloves, because they didn’t get any prints except the owners’, not even off the TV and DVD player they had obviously handled. I promised Mr. Carter to get back to him soon and went outside to collect Eddie.
*****
That night Abby sat with us in the sunroom, watching an old Fred Astaire movie. She’d slept all day and was alert for the evening. Jennifer was still eating lightly, but seemed to be doing well.
“So, what are you guys naming the baby?” Abby asked when the movie was over.
“Anything but Harvey,” said Jennifer. “That’s as far as we’ve gotten.”
“Well, as the little chub’s aunt, I think I should have a vote.”
“Any suggestions?” I asked.
“Well, there’s George for Dad. What was your father’s name?”
“Neil.”
“That’s not bad.”
“I don’t like it,” said Jennifer. “How about Alan?” Alan was my middle name.
“Doesn’t go with Larson,” I said. “Alliteration or something. I don’t know why my mother named me that.”
“Why did she name you Harvey?” asked Abby.
“I think when she was pregnant she kept seeing this giant rabbit.”
Abby laughed. “Oh, right. I should have known.”
“It was her father’s name,” I said. “Harvey Connor.”
“Name him Connor,” said Abby.
“Connor Larson.” Jennifer nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a possibility.”
“Let’s keep thinking,” I said.
When Abby left for work, Jennifer and I settled down for the night. I was almost asleep when a thought hit me.
“Why don’t you like Neil?”
“Hmm?” she was nearly asleep.
I rolled over. “Why don’t you like the name Neil?”
She opened her eyes. There was enough moonlight that I could see them gleaming.
“Did you want to name him that?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just curious as to why you don’t.”
“Oh, you know, associations. Like that kid that beat you up in sixth grade.”
“It was third grade, and his name was Elmer. You wouldn’t want to name our son Elmer, would you? Regardless of bullies, I mean.”
“Guess not.”
“Well?”
She didn’t answer right away, and that was like waving a red cape at me. “It was him, wasn’t it?” I said.
No answer.
“Jenny, tell me.”
“Yes, it was him, but it’s not important. Just forget it, okay, Harvey?” She was earnest, pleading.
“Oh, boy. I can’t now.” I flopped back on my pillow.
“Well, I had, and I think you should. We’ve dealt with this.”
I said, “I know, but I didn’t know his name was Neil.”
“It’s not a problem. Please don’t stay awake thinking about it.”
I stared at the ceiling, where moonlight bounced off the tilted dresser mirror and made a ball of light above us.
Jennifer’s breath was even and soft, but my heart was pounding. She had told me all about it before we were married. Well, not all about it. She’d never mentioned his name. In my mind, I kept seeing a man—a young man whom she had once trusted—grabbing her satiny braid and pulling her to the floor.
I knew I was going to be tired the next day, and I decided to take her advice and forget it, but I couldn’t. I rolled over and forced myself to think about other things. Mentally, I went over all the paintings that had been stolen, and the artists. I planned out the assignments for each of my men to carry out the next day. But Neil kept leaping out at me with a sneer on his face, which was pretty strange when I didn’t even know what he looked like.
I push the light button on my watch. One a.m. I stared at the gray rectangle of the window.
Chapter 5
Tuesday, September 28
Eddie had made a decent effort on his report, and I read every word. The art club’s speaker, Mandi Plunkett, was renowned in the comparatively new medium of acrylics. Serious painters traditionally used oils, but acrylics had become accepted and appreciated over the last three or four decades. The fact that they dried fast was a boon to painters.
At the club meeting, she would demonstrate techniques that were possible only with acrylics. She did shows several times a year, and her works were on display at four prestigious galleries down the East Coast. One was hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. She had spent the summer in Maine, at her cottage in Harpswell, and would go back to Connecticut the day after the club meeting. Eddie was bored stiff by his assignment. I gave him an A- for content and a C for mechanics.
I went through several cups of coffee, fighting drowsiness. Online, I used my law enforcement exchange software for profiles of art thieves. They were somewhat rare, especially in New England. None of the M.O.’s seemed to quite fit that of the local thieves.
I signed up for several newsletters and began to receive notices of art shows and auctions throughout New England. I glanced through the brochures and online ads, but as I worked, Neil was always in the back of my mind, and the pain he had caused Jennifer rankled there.
At noon I drove home, stopping at a bookstore first. When I got to the house, Jennifer was sitting at her computer in shorts and a knit shirt, working on adjustments to her program for John Macomber.
She stood up. “Hi! I thought you weren’t coming home. You didn’t call.”
I put my arm around her and walked into the living room with her. “I’m sorry. I thought it would save time to just come. I was busy all morning. You okay?”
“Yes. Abby’s sleeping. I don’t have lunch ready.”
“That’s all right. Sit.” She sat on the sofa, and I sat down beside her and looked at her, not sure where to begin.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What is it?” She put her hands on mine, and a little frown creased her forehead between her eyebrows.
“It’s about last night. And Neil.”
She looked down at the rug. “I wish that didn’t bother you. You helped me get over it. It’s past.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny. Will you forgive me?”
“Forgive you what?”
I sighed and pulled my hands away from hers.
“I hate that guy.” I shook my head. “I think I hated him when you first told me about him, but I let it go. I was just so glad that you were all right, and that you were with me, not some creep like him. But last night, I just couldn’t quit thinking about it. Before that, to me he was the man who had hurt you. He’d never had a name before, in my mind. Did it have to be Neil?”
I could feel the tears coming, and that made me mad. I stood up and walked across the room and stood looking out the window at the front yard. The leaves were half turned to red on the maple in Bud and Janice’s yard.
I heard her come softly across the rug. Her hands came around my waist, just above my belt. I didn’t move. She leaned against my back. Finally, I turned around.
“What can we do?” she asked, looking up at me.
I drew her to me, and her hands went under my jacket and around me.
“Jenny, I can’t stand to think about it.”
“Then don’t. I don’t.” We stood there, not saying anything. After a while, she said softly, “Nothing happened.”
“Yes, it did.”
“No. I was stupid, and he was a jerk, and it ended.”
“He hurt you.”
“Not really. He scared me badly, and I got a few bruises, but I got away from him that night, and I never saw him again. It could have been a lot worse, baby, but I’m fine.”
“It bothered you for years.”
; “It hasn’t lately. Not since I told you. You helped me not let it hold me back.”
My chest ached, and for some reason I couldn’t accept what she was saying. “His name was Neil,” I said, too loudly. “My father’s name.”
“Yes.” She rubbed my back a little, then tucked her left hand under the strap of my shoulder holster, where her four fingers just fit, taking up the slack. “Had you thought of naming our baby Neil?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t think about it now. Not ever. He took something away from us. He upset you so badly, you still have an aversion to his name.”
“I can get past it now.” Her soft voice calmed me. “And your dad meant so much to you. If you want to use his name, it’s okay, Harvey.”
“No, I can’t. Not now.” I took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. What would that scum think if he ever heard she’d named her first baby Neil?
She brought her right hand around to my chest and closed it around my badge. “Do you want to pursue it now? It’s been three years.”
“That’s not too long,” I said.
“But it is a long time, and it would be my word against his. For what? Terrorizing?”
“Attempted rape. Assault. You had bruises.”
“No witnesses.”
“You said there was someone who helped you.”
She scrunched up her face. “I don’t even know that guy’s name. He came running when I screamed, and he kept Neil busy while I ran. That’s all I know.”
“Tell me Neil’s last name.”
She hesitated. “Can’t we leave it to God?”
“Jenny.”
“I know you’d find him. You’re too competent not to. Harvey, this is not right. You’ve got to let go of it.”
I sighed. “You can say he didn’t hurt you, but he did.”
“A few minutes ago, you asked me to forgive you,” she said. “Have you forgiven yourself?”
I was quiet because I couldn’t say yes. She pulled back and looked at me. I met her eyes for a second, then looked away. She was right. I knew it.
“I’ve got to go back to work,” I said.
“Please don’t go yet. We need to resolve this.”
Found Art (Maine Justice Book 3) Page 6