“I don’t know if I’d have the stomach for it,” he said. “My own kids are in the right age group.”
“I know. People who do that kind of work have to have periodic psychological exams. It’s a very difficult field.”
“So, what do I do? Warn this girl? I can’t blow my cover in the chat room.”
“No, don’t do that. You have several options. You can ask her to e-mail you. That’s the way the molesters do it. When she does, e-mail back and tell her you’re a cop and you’re concerned about her safety. Or you could call her school and have a chat with the principal. Or call Winslow Police and ask them to go to the school and talk to the principal, maybe speak at an assembly and warn the kids how easy it is for a molester to track them down.”
“But then we wouldn’t have warned her personally, and we wouldn’t know for sure she got the message.”
“True. Why don’t you spend a little more time in the chat room and see if she’ll e-mail you?”
*****
Eddie came to the house for Abby at six-thirty, bringing a small bouquet of wildflowers.
“Men don’t buy flowers if it’s not a real date,” Jennifer whispered to me.
Abby had slept most of the day and dressed for the evening in plum-colored pants and a white tailored blouse. She put her hair up on the back of her head.
Jennifer dressed differently and braided her hair, “So people won’t notice we look sort of alike,” she told me, which struck me as sweetly naïve. She wore a plaid jumper over a black turtleneck. She looked like a high school girl, and I felt like the B.M.O.C., taking the head cheerleader out for milkshakes.
We left about five minutes after Eddie and Abby, and they were already seated in the meeting when we arrived. A few people introduced themselves to us and asked us if we painted. I said, “No, but we’re interested in art and artists.”
Mandi Plunkett gave a rather amazing demonstration with acrylics. Jennifer said, “She makes it look so simple. I almost believe I could do that!”
I smiled at her. “Get some paints and try it.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure that I’d be very disappointed. Things never turn out the way I think they should.”
“Your cross stitching is coming along. I like that moose picture you’re making.”
“It’s supposed to be a horse,” she said. “That’s a fox hunting scene.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The club president gave an assignment to the members. “Using any medium,” she said, “paint a view from a porch, including the railing.”
The members would bring their efforts the next month and display them and criticize each other’s work.
“Sounds like fun,” I said.
“Sounds masochistic to me,” Jennifer replied. She hated putting herself out there to be criticized, which might be why she chose the computer field. No one ever wonders who designed the program.
I looked around at the assortment of people in the crowd. “It’s a funny sort of club, no dues or anything. Just show up and you’re in. I guess we’re members now.”
“Do you think they keep a membership list?” Jennifer asked. “That might be helpful to you.”
The crowd broke up into buzzing clusters as members and guests discussed the demonstration and other art-related topics. I managed to catch the president for a moment and ask her if they had a membership list.
“We have a mailing list,” she said. “Would you like to be on it? We send a newsletter once a month. Sign up with your e-mail, or if you want it postal, it’s five dollars or twelve stamps for a year’s worth.”
I gave her Jennifer’s e-mail.
“Do you ever give out the mailing list?” I asked.
“Occasionally we sell it, to raise money for the club. Only art-related businesses and organizations.”
“Like what?”
“Magazines, art supply companies, museums. We sold it about a dozen times last year.”
I drew her to one side and said, “Ma’am, I’m a police officer.” I opened my jacket and exposed my badge for an instant, and her eyes grew large. “The Portland P.D. would very much like to have a copy of your mailing list. We’re investigating a burglary ring, and several collectors have had artworks stolen recently.”
“Of course,” she said. “You think—oh, dear. I’ve heard about a couple of thefts. I do hope we haven’t been indiscreet.”
“Criminals will take advantage of everything,” I said. “The club may want to reconsider selling its mailing list.” I gave her my business card, and she promised to send me a copy of the list the next day, and the names of the businesses and organizations that had bought the list. I went back to Jennifer, who was listening to a middle-aged man expound on his oil paintings. She looked a little relieved when I reached her side, and he definitely looked disappointed.
Eddie and Abby, across the room, were talking animatedly with four other people, one of them Mandi Plunkett. Abby was really sparkling, and Eddie was watching her, smiling a little, and punctuating the conversation with apparently witty comments, as the others laughed whenever he opened his mouth.
“Quite a pair,” I said to Jennifer, and she looked at them.
“Do you think…?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. He was talking about taking Leeanne out.”
We mingled during refreshments and struck up a conversation with a sixtyish amateur artist, Lucille Goodale, and a gallery owner, Nicholas Dore. Dore was the owner Joey had researched that day. He talked freely about the art market, and on impulse I said, “Mr. Dore, we’ve got an old J. M. W. Turner print I’d like to have valued. It’s been hanging around for a long time. Could we bring it to you for an appraisal?”
“Certainly.”
Jennifer wasn’t quite looking at me. I said, “Perhaps my wife and I could bring it to your gallery tomorrow.”
“Anytime between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m.,” he said.
I nodded, and we moved away.
“Are we lying?” she whispered.
“No. It’s hanging in Mike’s office. I never said I owned it. The department’s had it at least twenty-five years, and Mike said I could use it. Feel like working with me tomorrow?”
She was smiling now. “That’s one of my fantasies.”
“Really? Maybe I should send you to the Academy.”
“That man doesn’t know you’re a police officer.”
“If he asks me what I do for a living, I’ll tell him. If he doesn’t…” I shrugged.
We passed fairly close to Eddie and Abby, and I heard Abby say, “I’m a nurse, actually. I work at Maine Medical.”
“And you, sir?” an elderly woman said to Eddie.
“I work for the city, ma’am.”
“Ooh, City Hall?”
“No, my office is on Middle Street.”
Jennifer darted a glance at me and whispered, “Should we laugh or be upset?”
“I think he’s doing okay.”
We met several more painting enthusiasts, and one man gushed over the bargain he’d gotten at a Boston auction a few weeks before. I didn’t recognize the name of the artist, but he’d paid ‘only’ eight thousand for his Barrington original.
“Ever see a Redwall at auctions?” I asked, trying to use the innocent look I’d drilled into Eddie.
“Not often. They’re climbing in value, though. Are you a Redwall fan?”
“His work is interesting.” I tried to recall details from the photos the owner of the recently stolen one had shown me. “A bit stylized, but—”
“Exactly,” the man exclaimed. “But very powerful images.”
“Yes. I’ve been watching the prices lately.”
“Well, if you’re thinking of buying one, the Alexi gallery will have several of his paintings on display soon. You probably know about it.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
He gave me the details of the exhibit, and I jotted it down in my pocket notebook.
“Is anyone
here from the Alexi tonight?” I thought that was Nate’s assigned gallery.
“No, I don’t think so. Sometimes Roger Blaisdell is here, but not tonight.”
Eddie and Abby were making their way toward the door. Abby needed to get home in time to change into her uniform and get over to the hospital. We chatted a few minutes longer, and we found a woman who gave instruction in oils and watercolors.
“Take a class,” I told Jennifer. “You’d enjoy it.”
“No, I don’t think so. Not now.”
When we got home, Eddie was gone and Abby was in the kitchen fixing herself a snack before going to work. The flowers from Eddie were in a crystal vase on the table.
“Did you have a good time?” Jennifer asked her.
Abby’s blue eyes widened. “It was really exciting, wasn’t it, being sort of undercover?”
Jennifer laughed. “Yes, but it was strange. I love mysteries, but I never realized how close open inquiry can be to deceit, when you’re trying to get information.”
Abby said, “Eddie was very good at it. He said he got several good tips for the case. I didn’t realize how smart he is.”
“Eddie’s very quick,” I said.
She nodded. “He picked right up on things people said, and he knew what to ask. And he’s so funny!”
I looked at Jennifer. She had the what-can-I-tell-you look.
“I don’t know, Abby,” she said. “I kept worrying that I’d say the wrong thing and blow Harvey’s cover.”
Abby was about to leave for the hospital when the phone rang. Jennifer answered it and handed it to her sister.
“Oh, Charlie! Hi! I’m sorry, we went to an art club meeting tonight. No, I’m just about to leave for work.”
Jennifer drew me into the study and around to the living room, where we couldn’t hear. “Don’t you want to know if Charlie’s suit has any hope?” I asked.
“She’ll tell us.” Jennifer reached to turn on a lamp, but I pulled her against me and kissed her in the near darkness.
“I enjoyed working with you tonight. Sorry if your scruples were uneasy.”
She laughed. “Silly. It was fun. Really. But I wouldn’t make a good cop. Or a gambler, or anything else where you have to keep a straight face.”
“Go to the art show with me.”
“What, the Redwall exhibit?”
“Yes. It will be more formal. I need a gorgeous woman to take with me.”
“You wearing a tux?”
“No, but my suit from London.”
“How about taking one of the female officers?”
I frowned at her. “I hope you’re joking.”
“I am. I wouldn’t let you go out with another woman, even in the line of duty.”
“Couldn’t trust me?”
“Of course I could trust you. It’s them I’m worried about. If some of them saw you dressed up like that, they’d throw themselves at you.”
It wasn’t true, but I didn’t argue. “Wear your green dress,” I said, preparing to kiss her again.
“Jennifer, where are you?” Abby called. “I’m leaving now.”
Jennifer pulled away and went out to say goodbye to Abby. When we went into the bedroom a couple of minutes later, she switched the light on. “Poor Charlie,” she said.
“She turned him down?”
“Afraid so.”
“Because of Eddie? Or Greg?”
“Who knows?” She pulled her jumper off over her head and hung it in the closet.
“I think Eddie scored some points tonight,” I said.
“But did he want to? Eddie’s charming all the time. Do you think he was really coming on to Abby?”
“Those flowers.” I lined up the creases on my pants and snapped the wooden hanger over the cuffs.
“That’s right. Flowers are semi-serious, aren’t they?”
“I never saw him give a girl flowers before. Doesn’t mean he never did.”
She said, “The first time you sent me flowers…”
I’d only met her twice, but I knew, even then. I reached over and pulled the covered elastic from the bottom of her braid. “I remember.”
Chapter 13
Tuesday, Oct. 12
Four of my six students had definitely made contact with a youngster in Maine through chat rooms designated for young people.
“These chat rooms are supposed to be safe for kids,” Cheryl said in an injured tone. She had contacted a girl who had revealed her school, street, nickname, and classes.
“Thinking it’s safe makes them less wary,” I said. I gave Cheryl some pointers, and within twenty minutes she knew exactly where the girl lived.
“A man could hang out on the corner after school and watch for her,” she said woefully.
“My kid is in South Portland,” said Joey. “I’m sure of it. It’s a boy, unless it’s a girl masquerading as a boy. He described the place he and his friends go for snacks after school. It’s within two blocks of his elementary school. I could find it.”
“You want to go out there this afternoon?” I asked. “Call South Portland P.D. first if you do, just a courtesy.”
“What do I do when I find him?” Joey asked.
“Don’t approach him. Go for the parents, if they’re around. Tell them how easy it was for you. Let them take it from there.”
He nodded. “I’ll ask Ron if I can do that today. These kids are starting to worry me. They’re so vulnerable.”
Nate said, “I called the principal in Winslow this morning. He said there are two Melissas on the soccer team, but when I told him she hates her red hair, he immediately knew who it was. He’s got a female guidance counselor. He thought she might be the appropriate person to talk to Melissa, and he’ll call her parents. He’ll also talk to the students as a group, without mentioning her, and tell them how dangerous it is to give out personal information over the computer or the phone or anything like that.”
“Good job, Nate,” I said. “I have another assignment for you.”
“More homework? My wife will love this.”
“It’s something I think you’ll find worthwhile. I want you to write an essay about this assignment. I talked to the commissioner of education this morning. The department of ed will print it and send it to every school principal in the state. If they want, they can copy it and send it home to the parents. You can reach thousands of families with it, and alert school administrators and faculty all over Maine.”
Nate looked pleased, and I felt good about it. His reports were always lucid and direct. He might soon be in demand to speak at schools and parent groups. I knew the managing editor at the Portland Press Herald, and I thought he would publish the essay as well, but I didn’t tell Nate that yet.
“How do we reel in the pedophiles?” asked Emily.
“You tell me,” I said.
“Pose as a kid?”
“That’s what you’d have to do. Go into the chat room with a new screen name and see who contacts you. They’ll ask questions, and eventually ask you to e-mail them. Then they can send you private messages, which, believe me, can get pretty disgusting. They count on kids being curious. After a while, they’ll want to set up a meeting, and you can sting them. I’ll warn you, though, the process can be sickening.”
We moved on to the art case. Eddie and I briefed the others on the tips we’d gleaned at the club meeting. I told them Jennifer and I would take the Turner print to Dore’s gallery right after lunch and would attend the Redwall exhibit the next week. Eddie would follow up on some contacts he had made.
We had discovered that if you could talk even a little knowledgeably about art, enthusiasts would generally rhapsodize about their work, their favorite artists, and their collections. Most of those we’d met were not collectors in a big way. Some were poverty stricken, a few were wealthy, but most were middle class hobbyists who enjoyed painting and talking to other artists.
Eddie said, “If they don’t own good art, they’ll tell you who do
es. I mentioned a couple of these Maine artists, and people would say, ‘Oh, so-and-so has one of his watercolors.’ Even if they didn’t talk about what was in their own houses, they told me about everyone else.”
“That’s important,” I said. “The thieves, or the person who hires them, might be locating artworks in that very way. Hang around these art people long at all, and you start learning where the art is.”
I gave them new assignments for checking the location of the works of certain artists, and I had the names of a couple more dealers for them to check out. I also requested background checks on the officers of the art club.
By noon we’d accomplished a lot, and our art files were growing thick. Jennifer came up the stairs looking absolutely stunning. Her hair was in a French twist, and she wore a cranberry tailored jacket and gray pants. Joey and Tony had seen Jennifer before, but not in the power woman mode, and I caught their glances of admiration. Jennifer greeted Cheryl warmly.
I dismissed the class and sent Eddie to the drugstore for some brown wrapping paper. Jennifer and I went up the elevator to the fourth floor. I keyed in the code for Mike’s office suite.
Judith, the secretary, was out to lunch, and I feared I’d missed Mike, too, but he was sitting with his feet up on his desk, talking to Sharon on the phone.
“I’ve gotta run, sweetheart. Mr. and Mrs. Larson just walked in here looking like a million bucks. Well, Jennifer does. Harvey looks like half a grand.”
I was wearing a blazer and the tie that Eddie said gave me panache.
“So, you came to borrow my painting.” Mike swung his feet to the floor.
“Print,” I corrected. I knew he knew and was saying it to annoy me.
“Going undercover, Mrs. Larson?”
“I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid.”
“You’re hiding that baby pretty well.”
Jennifer blushed scarlet. I scowled at Mike.
“How you feeling, poppa?” he asked.
“Good, thank you.”
Found Art (Maine Justice Book 3) Page 15