Three_Deception Love Murder

by K. J. McGillick

  Mary considered for a few minutes. “My first negotiation is a cup of coffee before I start.”

  Alexi looked at me for direction. “She’s only allowed one per day because it raises her blood pressure, but I’ll bend this one time. Decaf if you have it.”

  “Unacceptable. One of those regular Keurig hazelnuts with creamer and sugar,” she ordered.

  I got up to comply, and Alexi took the seat next to her.

  “Okay, talk.” Alexi tapped her computer to life to record any pertinent notes.

  “As I have been telling everyone for years and no one listens, my story remains the same. Maybe now someone will take me seriously and not think my mind is altered. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I get up and sit on the little balcony outside my bedroom.” She stopped and looked pointedly at me for her coffee. “There have been nights when I saw men—usually just one man—row up to the dock. Sometimes he would get out and tie the boat to the post and help Jude load packages onto a boat. Rarely, a man would sit on the bench on the dock. When no one showed up, he’d wait about ten minutes, then leave.”

  Now, that is crazy. I would’ve heard people out there making noise.

  “Can you be more specific about the packages? Were they large or small, flat or round?” Alexi pressed.

  “Well, the best time to watch for them was during a full moon. Somebody rows up to the dock, lets a few minutes pass, then the dickhead would come out with a long round tube. It looks like an architect tube for blueprints, or the tubes navigators use, but long. On rare occasions, I’d see a big square case like the cases an art student would carry their pictures in, you know like a portfolio. Jude would hand it to whoever was in the boat, they’d converse in Russian a bit, and then the canoe would row away,” she said. “Now, sometimes if the package was very big and flat, they used a different boat. But the boat was always small and very rarely did it have an outboard motor.”

  “You’re sure they spoke Russian?” Alexi wanted to know.

  “Потому что я изучал его с Rosetta Stone. Translation, I studied it with Rosetta Stone. I’m bored at the place I stay, and I have to keep my mind sharp. Plus, my grandmother was Ukrainian and never spoke a word of English. I listened to Ukrainian for twenty-five years. They are similar, so it was easy to pick up if you have an ear for the language.” Aunt Mary sipped her coffee as if this was an obvious explanation.

  There was silence. Dead Silence.

  “What did they say?” a stunned Alexi asked.

  “I was too far away to hear everything, but I am positive it had something to do with paintings and how to transport them. Jude would talk about some pouch which made no sense, and maybe I didn’t interpret it correctly. The one old guy constantly referred to дым which sounds to me like Dym or Dim and all I could figure in Russian means smoke,” she said.

  I looked over at Alexi and said, “Well, you can roll a canvas and put it in a tube. But I’m not sure about the cloak and dagger part.”

  “It might be stolen, forged or a fake. Who knows? We have to share this with the FBI,” Alexi said.

  “How did we go from Jude transporting tubes to him being on a terrorist watch list?” I asked.

  “Art is currency and can be exchanged more easily than cash. You can move artwork around without registering it and there is no art regulation system that tracks the cash involved. It can be sold privately, traded privately, sold publicly, or used for collateral, and all this makes it easy to launder money for terrorists. There is no definitive value assigned to art. It’s worth what someone wants to pay for it. The art market is opaque and people with money are able to do business in secret. It’s a perfect recipe for crime,” Alexi said.

  “Still muddy,” I said. I didn’t understand the connection.

  “Let’s use a terrorist organization you have heard about like Hamas. Hamas, through generous donations in various countries associated with terror, has to park those funds somewhere, and someone wants to buy weapons. The challenge becomes how to get six million in cash donations from Hamas to the arms dealer to buy the weapons. What do they do? Launder the money through art.

  “Hamas gathers their donations in one or two banks, say under a charity scheme—step number one. From that one bank or banks, the money is then spread out and transferred to say five other banks which have no issue working with financial institutions that work outside the lines—step two. With that, some money stays in as cash and a large majority is used to purchase things like high-dollar art, boats, or to invest in bogus shell businesses—that is step three. Now they can use the money as part of their activities, and it is clean. They can sell the art or boat for cash or withdraw the money in a wire transfer to another country to buy weapons in the US or elsewhere. At any point along the way, the arms deal can be complete. Art is an untraceable fluid commodity and has become the preferred money laundering scheme. People from all walks of life are involved in the scheme and network. Lawyers, financial advisers, bankers, real estate agents, and art dealers all work for one master which is money,” she explained as she diagrammed the flow.

  It all became clear. “So, if Jude is an associate of the woman with the box in my name, he could have been hoarding money for himself. Or put the money away for someone else to use. Or he held it to pay someone for something?”

  Alexi let the statement hang.

  Aunt Mary set her empty cup on the saucer and proclaimed, “Well, my job here is done. Let’s hit the road.”

  “Not quite, Mary. I am adding your name to the retainer, and I will represent you as well. Stay here, and I will bring it back in for you to sign,” she added.

  Mary declared with a smirk of satisfaction, “My life is now complete. I have been interviewed by a spook and now lawyered up.”

  “Perfect! Just perfect,” I said as I rubbed my churning stomach, which gave no relief.

  Alexi returned. Aunt Mary signed the document and was officially lawyered up.

  “I’ll dig around and make some calls. We’ll be in touch. For now, no snooping, no googling. The group Jude worked with might be surveilling electronic devices. I need your acknowledgment you will leave this to me. I’ll have my investigator poke around in Jude’s background. I have been doing this a very long time, more from the prosecution side than defense, and I will tell you my spine is tingling, and we need to stay ahead of whatever storm is rolling your way,” she said. Her expression was stern, but I got the feeling she was pleading with me.

  Aunt Mary and I agreed to Alexi’s suggestions. I left her office more confused than when I went in. My thought turned back to Eloise, a lawyer herself but my best friend who lived for drama. She will be livid when she finds out I kept her in the dark but I had my marching orders. I had to keep Eloise in the dark. There will be hell to pay for this violation of the sister code.

  The day grew worse when we arrived home to Detective’s Marino and Chavez waiting for us in the driveway.

  I held up a finger asking them to wait as I pressed the button on the car dash to raise the garage door, and then slipped into the bay and parked. Aunt Mary bolted from the car and charged toward the stairs inside the garage that led to the kitchen. The retinal scan had been deactivated by the security company so she pressed in the security code, then raced across the kitchen through the foyer to let the men in. Since she had this under control, I took my time entering. I left my bag on the counter and started a pot of coffee.

  They all stepped inside the kitchen, and Marino quietly announced they had news.

  We took a seat, and he began. “Today we recovered, well Massachusetts believe they have found, Mr. White’s car. Kids found it while they were hiking in a remote spot, not on his route to the gallery or back. The VIN matches, but the car was burned to its hull.”

  “Oh my God!” My body jerked, and my head swam. I was confident I was about to collapse.

  Chavez was up and behind me to calm me in moments. “You okay? You need to sit. You want to take this inside t
o the living room?”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed. We met with Agent Thomas today and I didn’t have lunch. I was just feeling woozy,” I said “Please go on. Was he in the car? Was it an accident?”

  “No, he was not in the car and there was no body found near the car. We can’t confirm if it was an accident. The Massachusetts State Police are investigating to find out what accelerant was used, but nothing has been determined yet,” Marino said as he ran his hand down his right trouser leg. He seemed tense. Something was wrong.

  “What are you holding back?” I wanted to know.

  “There were two bullets embedded in the driver’s seat,” he said. “We are leaving this as an open missing person and coordinating with Massachusetts.”

  “What about the paintings from the gallery?” I asked.

  “We recovered a long tube in the trunk which could transport painting canvases, but it was empty,” he said.

  Aunt Mary glanced my way and spoke, “The coffee better be regular and not some decaf crap. Caffeine charges up the brain cells. You boys will need all the help you can get.”

  “Pardon?” Chavez questioned with uplifted eyebrows.

  “Detectives, I’ve been punished by God and visited the seventh ring of hell today. If you can get with Agent Thomas, he will fill you in on what we discussed. If you go down this road with Aunt Mary, you better be ready for white rabbits, caterpillars, and Mad Hatters before you figure it out. Talk to Agent Thomas, he will cut to the chase,” I suggested.

  “Got it.” Marino’s lip quirked. It was almost a smile, but not quite.

  “That’s it, ladies. We’ll wander around the perimeter, and be back tomorrow. We have applied for permission to search the house and studio. A local officer will be here tonight to watch over the property and they will start rotating around the clock,” Marino replied.

  “I can permit you to search the studio,” I offered but then remembered about the two questionable paintings on my walls.

  “The law is gray in this part of property law area. Although you live here, you are not a deeded property owner. The studio is a separate structure he uses, and you usually have no access. If we find anything of use and need it for evidence, we have to make sure we gained entrance legally. But thanks for the offer. We can show ourselves out,” he said.

  “Thanks for coming by,” I added.

  I browsed through my email. The only email to note was a notification that the auction house had logged my research request and forwarded it to their legal department.

  Cillian

  NOISE, RINGING. IT WAS SIX o’clock in the morning. Who the hell is calling me this early? I just made it to bed two hours ago, or was it four hours since that last drink. Christ, my brain is ready to blow. Who poured a bucketload of sand in my mouth? More importantly, why is my tongue numb? God, is the bed tilted?

  My lids felt like five-pound stones were sitting on them and I was unable to force my eyes open wider than a slit. What was going on? Why was I blinded by the small amount of daylight penetrating through the shutters?

  I felt for my phone and couldn’t seem to find it by groping around aimlessly. Frantic to end that noise coming from my phone that was piercing my brain like a miniature ice tool, I fumbled around and touched the accept button.

  “O’Reilly,” I mumbled. Someone will suffer death for this and it will be a gradual and agonizing torturous death.

  “Special Agent O’Reilly, this is Detective Nick Marino, Maine police. Good morning. I trust I’m not calling too early.” The voice that came over the line had a pronounced South Boston accent.

  Marino, Marino, Marino. That name was familiar. The answer was somewhere in my numb brain. Wait, right. He was the detective investigating the bank safe deposit box.

  Unable to sit up just yet, I lifted my head to check out my surroundings. Good. At least I had made it to bed, but the how was still to be determined. I could hear Jackson was up already from the sounds coming from the kitchen, or maybe he had never made it to bed.

  Too much tequila last night at the Metro bar, I remember women in scraps of dresses and Jackson kept the booze flowing. If I’m expected to be the older, clearer head, I failed miserably last night. Looking at the state of my sheets, I fought a good fight with them in my few hours of sleep, but lost. Christ, I hope he didn’t bring home some one-night stand. Wait, how did we make it back here? Oh right, there was a cab.

  “Nope, not at all. What’s up?” I replied, but my gut and head protested.

  “Agent Sam Thomas from the FBI has been pursuing a situation that we got drawn into night before last. We were called in on a federal matter that Agent Thomas was handling which involved a woman claiming she may have been a victim of identity theft. As you know identity theft is a Maine state matter so we took the report. When we went out to take the report, we discovered we had a stolen wallet report as well. I believe you know the woman, Emma Collier,” he offered.

  “Right, I am aware,” I answered trying not to puke all over the bed as we spoke.

  “From there it has transformed into a missing person report for her live-in, Jude White,” he went on and I heard a toilet flush and then water running from a faucet from his end.

  “Again, Nick, I’m aware,” I repeated. “Could you give me one second?” I set the phone down to find an Advil.

  Just as I started to get out of bed, Jackson was entering the room with a mug of java, four Advil and a smirk on his face.

  “Never mind. My partner Jackson just wandered in. I’m placing you on speaker so you won’t have to repeat yourself. Hang on.” Jackson handed me the drink and pills. He lifted his chin so I mouthed that it was Marino. He followed that with an eyebrow lift. “Go ahead, we are listening.”

  “I talked to Sam this morning, and he said to phone you because you are working an art theft angle in the White case, yeah?” Marino questioned.

  “That would be correct,” I replied. In the background, I watched Jackson doing the move-it-along signal to the voice on the telephone.

  “Yesterday, White’s ride was found in Massachusetts burned to a crisp. We had the vehicle flagged in our system, so when the VIN popped up, Mass let us know. I shot an email out to Sam last night,” he remarked.

  “He hadn’t passed that to us yet,” I replied. Sam would get an earful later for not calling.

  “Mass is processing the crime scene, but we don’t have the source or cause of the fire yet. They did not recover a body in the car or near the car. Pouring rain over the past few days has washed away any traces of footprints or drag marks. Any evidence was wiped out,” he reported.

  “Okay,” I responded. I needed to get up and in the shower. This new development would require attention immediately.

  “They came across two slugs, probably nine mil, in the driver seat. But again, they are still processing the scene and the car. I can’t confirm if there is any DNA on the bullets, or if they were just shot into the seat. But from what the Mass police provided, it looks like the shots were discharged from outside the passenger window,” he suggested.

  “Was it a robbery, or intentional hit? It could even be a fight or road rage that escalated. Or did he put in motion a plan to disappear? Did Agent Thomas say what we are looking at?” I wanted to know.

  “I don’t have the answer to any of those questions. However, that leads me to the reason for my call,” he said. Jackson gave me an upturned palm and head jerk.

  “In the trunk, they discovered a fireproof tube used to transport stuff like blueprints and painting canvases. When they were going over the contents to inventory the car, they opened it and it was empty. From our report we took when he went missing, we knew he met with a gallery owner, so we reached out to him. He said White had picked up six canvases and we think those canvases were in that container. Instead of Massachusetts detectives, we are meeting later to get an exact description of what White picked up and was carrying. We have no idea where the paintings are now or who has
them. Perhaps he has them or dropped them at his studio. Hell, maybe he gave them to somebody else along the way. I thought you might want to join me when I interview the gallery owner. The guy was pretty squirrelly when we spoke the first time. I’m sure he’s hiding something.” I could hear him tapping something on a surface.

  “Yes, I need to be there but I don’t want him to know I am Art Crimes. We’ve had him on our radar, but nothing to sink our teeth into with him,” I told Marino.

  “Okay, we can coordinate,” he suggested. “When I get to the station, I’ll call him and get back with you.”

  “Is that it?” Jackson interposed.

  “I wouldn’t bother you this early for that alone. We had some concerns after being at the White residence the night we took the identity theft report. I think Chavez filled you in on that already. Based on that and a gut feeling, we felt we needed to search the studio. You understand, when you just have that niggling feeling that something isn’t normal? Chavez and I both had it for different reasons,” he stated positively. “Chavez mentioned some of the pieces in the house appeared to be high dollar, like talking eight or nine figures. So, we pulled his house insurance papers to see what was listed on them. Those pieces were not listed as insured. There wasn’t any type of amendment to the original policy. But at that point, we had no probable cause for a search because the items in question weren’t on any stolen property list.”

  “I’ve never been there so I can’t add anything to what you are saying,” I came back.

  “The studio is locked up like Fort Knox with high-caliber surveillance. Anyway, cutting to the chase. Based on him disappearing, his car burned, bullets shot into the seat and the canvases missing from his vehicle, we obtained a warrant to search the studio and house. Perhaps we can find out if he returned them and took off, or help us figure out if somebody stole them from him at some point. I’ve already spoken to the gallery and museum director, so I have a decent timeline started. We got lucky and obtained an expedited search warrant under the missing person case. I phoned Sam and he said that you would want to piggyback a look around the studio and house off our warrant. Do you have a list of particular items you were concerned about?” he asked.