“Sometimes. Oh, what a nuisance. I don’t know if it’s worth having the pictures, if my niece and I are in danger just having them to look at.”
“Well, ma’am, as I said, these particular burglars are out of commission, but that doesn’t mean no one will ever try it again.”
“Are you sure you and Mrs. Larson are all right? They didn’t harm you, did they?”
“We’re fine. Our house is a mess.”
“Oh?”
“Bullet holes and … well, I’m glad they didn’t come to your house, Mrs. Harder.”
“They shot at you?” Miss Hutchins asked.
“Yes. But we’re fine. Really.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Harder said.
“You two talk it over,” I said. “Be alert. And maybe you should get a bigger dog.”
*****
As I reached home, Terry called me. “Captain, Hubble’s lawyer is with him if you want to talk to him again.”
“I’m at home now, Terry.”
“Suspended?”
“Yeah, you know the drill. Could Eddie come down and talk to him with his lawyer there?”
“I suppose so. Oh, and Captain, I just got Winfield’s report on that bullet from your house.”
I gave Tony mental brownie points for acting so quickly. “What’s the upshot?”
“Winfield says it was fired from the same gun the Westbrook guy was shot with. The one who surprised the burglars, and they took the gun off him and shot him, you know?”
“I get you. Thanks, Terry.” I went in the house, told the contractor I was back, and settled down at my computer again. Eddie had emailed me an update on the work he and Nate had done. Nate had called the art club president and told her he was thinking about buying a painting from the South Portland gallery. She was cagey and told him to check around before he dropped any money there. While she didn’t say anything specific, Nate got the impression the place had a bad reputation.
Eddie had checked out the Dover, New Hampshire gallery. The owner had fired a man a couple of months earlier for taking a stolen painting on consignment. He hadn’t found much on the Boston gallery yet, except that it had changed hands within the last three months. I shot back a detailed message on what he should focus on when he questioned Hubble.
I figured it would be at least half an hour before he reported back to me on the interview with the prisoner, so I made myself pull up my budget figures and do some work on that. I hated it, but it was the kind of task I had to concentrate on, so it was a good distraction for that moment.
When Eddie called again, I realized with satisfaction that I’d accomplished a lot and the budget was close to completion.
“Yeah, Ed?”
“I did what you told me and zeroed in on that list. Harv, you should have seen his face when I told him they were in the wrong house.”
That was worth a grim smile on my end. “Wish I’d been there. What did he say?”
“He blamed it on Foster. Said the person who hired them wrote down the address and a list of the items he wanted stolen. Foster read it wrong. The lawyer wanted to know if we could prove that, and I told him to look at the paper in Foster’s effects. It says 187, but they were inside 137.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“Yeah. Hubble said that Foster told him they wanted a ship picture. They were looking for it at your house and couldn’t find it. But the client had said the homeowner at that address had all the items on the list, including the ship picture. They were starting to think it was a little strange when they couldn’t find anything on the list in your house. They were going to look upstairs when you surprised them.”
“Perfect. You got this all on videotape, right?”
“Yeah. The lawyer told him he didn’t have to say anything, but Hubble was so mad at Foster for messing up like that, he just spilled it.”
“They didn’t know we slept downstairs.”
“That’s right,” Eddie said. “You scared the socks off both of ’em.”
“They scared me, too. If Abby hadn’t been at work, they might have walked into her bedroom while she was sleeping.” I let out a slow breath.
“I’d say God was watching over you,” Eddie said.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, and the Baby Jesus picture?”
“You mean the Murillo?”
“Yeah. Hubble said he thought that was a bonus, because it wasn’t on the list. But Foster didn’t think it was very good.”
“Ha!”
“Hold on,” Eddie said. “Okay, I’m putting you on speaker. Nate’s got something to tell you.”
“What have you got, Nate?” I asked.
“I’ve found something in common for those three art dealers from the business cards.”
“Yes?”
“A guy named Eric Stanley worked for them all at one time or another.”
“Excellent. Jennifer and I met him at the Redwall opening.” I pulled out my pocket notebook and flipped back through it.
“How does he fit into this?” Eddie asked.
“I’m not sure, but he could be the go-between. Foster and Hubble would get their instructions and steal a painting or two and take them to Eric Stanley. Then Eric would sell them to art dealers he knew and take his cut.”
“That makes sense to me,” Eddie said.
“Get hold of the Manchester P.D. and have them pick up Eric Stanley immediately.”
“Will do, boss.” Eddie clicked off.
An hour later, Arnie called me with news that Hubble was ready to plead guilty to breaking and entering. “I’ll go to the D.A.’s office with Eddie,” he said.
“Good. Thanks, Arnie. But he can’t just plead out on this. They shot a Westbrook man in July. Hubble’s not going to just be forgiven that one.”
“He said that wasn’t him.”
“He’s blaming his conveniently dead partner again?”
“Yeah,” Arnie said. “He claims he wasn’t there and that Foster was working with someone else then. A guy named Carey.”
“What happened to that guy?”
“He said Carey got busted in Portsmouth, so Foster took Hubble on. We’ve got the samples for the DNA testing.”
“Good, because when that DNA match comes back, it’s another B&E charge at the doctor’s office. Then there’s the job in Rosemont, where they stole a Redwall painting the end of September.”
“We told him we’ll charge him with every one of the thefts, even though he wasn’t the one who nearly killed you and Jennifer.”
“You got that right. Is Nate there?”
Arnie put him on the phone.
“Nate, I want you to check on this Carey guy that Hubble says used to work with Ian Foster. Start with Portsmouth P.D., and if they don’t have anything, try New Hampshire State Police.”
“Yes, sir.” I knew Nate would go into action.
*****
When Jennifer woke up after several hours of sleep, I told her about the burglars’ mistake. It seemed to comfort her and take away some of the anxiety to know they hadn’t meant to terrorize us. But then she got to thinking of what they might have done at Mrs. Harder’s house.
The contractor’s truck was still in the driveway, with the sunroom carpet rolled up in the back. When Jennifer saw the hardwood floor, she got excited.
“Wow, I love this. Can we get an area rug?”
“Sure,” I said, glad the stain was pretty much gone.
The contractor was packing up his tools, and I made a quick inspection tour with him.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to sand that joint compound and patch the wallpaper,” he said. “Your insurance should cover all of this.”
I’d found a chicken pie in the freezer and thawed it in the microwave. We sat down to eat with Abby at six. Jennifer did pretty well with the meal, and I was pleased, but there were still dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“Can we sleep downstairs tonight?” she asked.
“Are you sure you wan
t to?”
“I’d rather,” she said quickly.
“Okay. But I think we’d better have a security system installed right away,” I told her.
“A burglar alarm? You said they got the wrong house. No one will bother us now, will they?”
“Jenny, we have things people want to steal. The Murillo print, for instance. I think it’s worth about four thousand dollars.”
“Really?” She and Abby both stared at me.
“Some of the furniture Mr. Bailey left us is valuable, too. They were going to take one of those little tables in the living room, maybe more, and your plate, and all of the electronics. They hadn’t even gotten to my guns.” Besides my Beretta, I had a shotgun and a hunting rifle upstairs in a closet.
“I don’t think I’d like having alarms,” she said. “I’d hate to live like that.”
“So, what do you want to do? Get rid of all the valuables? Buy a guard dog?”
“Please don’t get a dog,” said Abby. She was a cat person.
Jennifer sighed. “We should have just lived in your apartment and not had all this stuff.”
“Jenny, Jenny, you need beautiful things. Besides, even in my apartment I had the computer and the guns. Unfortunately, the way the world is today, we have to take security measures. I never worried too much about it before, but now I’m responsible for you and Abby and the baby.”
“All right,” she said. “Whatever you think would be best.”
I squeezed her hand. “How would you girls like to go out for ice cream?”
“Too cold,” said Abby.
Jennifer smiled. “How about hot cocoa and doughnuts?”
“You got it, gorgeous.” I was getting to be good pals with the personnel at the doughnut shop.
*****
I went to work Tuesday morning. I figured if Mike didn’t ask, I didn’t have to tell him I was there. New Hampshire State Police Detective Ainsley called me the first thing. “We’ve got Eric Stanley, and I have some information for you.”
“He’s talking?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He’s very eager to cut a deal. He’s confessed to accepting stolen property, fraud, check kiting, and embezzlement.”
“Embezzlement?”
“From a former employer. I’ll fax you a complete report later today. Most of it’s New Hampshire stuff, but he was behind several thefts in your area.”
“He hired Foster and Hubble to steal art.”
“Yes, and others. He had crews working for him in several areas.”
“The man we have in custody, James Hubble, says Foster had another guy, name of Carey, working with him, and Carey shot a homeowner in Westbrook, Maine, during a burglary in July. Then Carey was arrested on some other charge in Portsmouth. I’ve got one of my men checking on it, but you may want to look into it.
“I will. Stanley says he met people at the gallery where he worked, and other places. Art shows, openings, auctions. He’d strike up acquaintances with all sorts of artists, dealers, collectors, and find out who had bought expensive pictures. Then he’d send his crews out to steal them.”
“Where did the artworks go?”
“Always out of state. Sometimes as far away as Florida or Ohio. Lately he’d been sending a lot to a fellow in Massachusetts.”
“And you’ve got the name?”
“Yes,” Ainsley said. “We’ve contacted the Lexington P.D. They’re going to the art museum to question the man.”
I raised my chin when I heard that. “Lexington, huh?”
“Yes. That’s where Daniels is.”
The adrenaline shot through me.
Chapter 21
“Did you say Daniels?”
“Right. Neil Daniels,” Ainsley said. “Works at the art museum there. Some kind of assistant curator or something.”
“And this guy was buying stolen paintings?”
“That’s what Eric Stanley claims.”
“Hoo, boy.”
“What?”
“I know that guy.”
“You know him?”
“Well, not personally, but my wife knows him. Went to college with Neil Daniels.”
“Small world,” Ainsley said.
“Getting smaller every day.”
I just sat there at my desk for about twenty minutes, staring at the cartridge display on the wall over Clyde’s desk. It was hard to breathe at first, but I made myself calm down. I thought of several things I might do, but rejected them all.
Nate came to me with a computer printout.
“That Carey guy is in the New Hampshire State Prison on an armed robbery charge. Twelve-year sentence. I talked to their warden about the art theft where Hubble says Carey shot the guy. He wasn’t in jail then, and they’ll question him about it.”
“Good.” I was still staring at the cartridges.
He laid the paper on the corner of my desk and went back to his computer.
“Harv, you okay?” Eddie was looking at me from where he sat. He’d turned around in his chair, so his back was to his computer.
“Eddie, I need to be very careful right now to do things right. Something’s come up.”
“Can I help?”
“Come with me.” I got up and went to the interview room, and Eddie followed me. The other men, working at their desks, barely looked up. I sat down at the table where we interviewed suspects. Eddie took a seat opposite. It crossed my mind that I had maneuvered him into the investigating officer’s chair.
I hauled in a painful breath. My chest hurt, and it wasn’t the old injury. “That guy I had Nate do the background check on a few weeks ago—Jennifer’s old boyfriend?”
“I remember,” Eddie said.
I bit my lip. There was no way to ease into it.
“I was just talking to Detective Ainsley of the New Hampshire S.P., and he brought up Daniels’s name. Eric Stanley claims Neil Daniels is buying stolen paintings from him. He could be behind the art burglary ring.”
Eddie’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to tell Jennifer.”
“Do I? I don’t want to upset her. The break-in at our house was quite a shock.”
“But you can’t hide it from her. It will be on the local news because of all the stuff stolen around here. You’ll probably have to tell the press yourself, and she’ll see you on TV.”
That was true.
“But this guy … he’s the one who … and then the burglar, Foster, grabbed her…” I put my head in my hands.
Eddie said softly, “It’s tough, but you’ve got to tell her.”
*****
We did a lot of communicating with New Hampshire and Massachusetts State Police that morning. At eleven-thirty, I called Jennifer and told her I couldn’t make it home for lunch, and I kept at it. I wasn’t avoiding telling her about it; I just wanted to have as much information in hand as possible before I sat down with her.
Eddie went out to the diner with Nate and Arnie, and they brought me back a sandwich. We began to get a trickle of faxes, telling us where stolen items had been sold. Later, because of the information we’d uncovered, authorities started locating more stolen artworks, and a couple of recoveries were reported. The police were able to contact two more owners and tell them some of their belongings had been found. I tried to be patient as it unfolded.
Clyde and Arnie worked on the electronics end of it. They learned through informants where Hubble and Foster had fenced high-end electronics. The cheaper stuff we despaired of ever tracing. The antiques were going to another middle man, the owner of an antique shop in Kittery. Late in the day, Arnie called Kittery P.D. and fill them in. The contact there said he knew the shady antique dealer and would pay him a visit. I faxed him a list of antiques taken in the burglaries we knew Foster had been involved in.
The motorbike surfaced in a shed at Hubble’s brother’s house. It was the address Hubble gave as his own. I had Arnie delegate that to the patrol sergeant, and Aaron O’Heir took a unit to search the place and Foster’s. T
hey didn’t find any stashed loot at Hubble’s, but at Foster’s apartment, they found three TV’s, a DVD player, and seven guns.
The handgun Hubble had carried Monday morning was one reported stolen in another burglary. The list of charges against Hubble was getting longer. I talked to his lawyer, and he called me back an hour later and told me Hubble was ready to talk to O’Heir again. He was adamant that he didn’t want to see me, but he would spill everything he knew in exchange for whatever breaks we could give him.
Ainsley sent me the lengthy report on Eric Stanley’s arrest, including lists of items he’d commissioned the thieves to steal and dealers to whom he had shipped them. I kept my eyes peeled for something on Daniels, but so far there was nothing. Apparently he worked with a variety of clients. Whenever one of them had a market for an artwork, Eric would set up the theft.
Ryan came to the office for a follow-up on that morning’s page-one story, and I told him Eddie was in charge of the art case while I was on suspension. Mike would hit the ceiling if Ryan quoted me in the next morning’s paper. Eddie gave him a rundown on stolen property recovered and a widening circle of arrests, but didn’t mention Daniels.
At three o’clock I called the Lexington, Massachusetts P.D. Neil Daniels was on a business trip. The museum expected him back on Thursday. The police would question him then.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“Uh, let me see … He was going to appraise four paintings the museum is considering purchasing from a private collection. The owner died, and the heirs offered the paintings for sale. The museum gets first refusal, because the deceased loved it so much. Spent a lot of time there.”
“Did the collector live in Massachusetts?”
“I think so, but the paintings were someplace else.”
“Where?”
“Just a second, I’m looking for it.”
I tapped my desk with a pencil.
“Here it is. Cottage in Scarborough, Maine. Someplace called Prout’s Neck. His summer home.”
I sat up straight in my chair. “Let me get this straight. Daniels works for the Lexington Museum of Art. The museum sent him up here to Maine today to look at some paintings in Scarborough. He’s going back Thursday.”
Found Art (Maine Justice Book 3) Page 23