Three_Deception Love Murder

by K. J. McGillick

  “That would be great. And we’ll get a list together before the search.” Now he had my attention.

  “We’ve been working this case from a number of perspectives. We’re confident he’s moving stolen objects from burglaries, not just here, but across the US. There were six pieces stolen from a house in the Hamptons recently. We were convinced we had everything covered to make an arrest, but in the end, we couldn’t place them in his hands. Somehow, he is hiding them or moving them quicker than we can get a warrant to search anywhere under probable cause. We likewise believe he might be forging paintings and faking documentation for authentication to sell abroad, but again, can never put the product in his hands. I won’t bore you further. But yeah, we’ve been looking at receiving, possession, and transporting of stolen property on this clown. We’ve also opened a line of investigation. He may have branched out into accepting an art commission from a museum or church to restore and when he finishes with it, switches the original out for a copy. A church in Italy sent an inquiry through their art minister about a possible transposition, so you bet I would like an opportunity to see what he has in the studio,” I said.

  “Okay, I have the monitoring company arriving at seven thirty to deactivate the alarm. I need to do a walk-through with Dr. Collier and observe her responses to what we find there. I haven’t ruled her out as a suspect in his missing person case. She spoke to a family law attorney to terminate the domestic partnership. Under their agreement she walks away with what she brought in or accumulated on her own unless some shark can convince a judge she is entitled to more. She says she knows nothing about his business deals or transactions. But the two paintings in her house give me a knot in my stomach that as an art professor she hasn’t smelled something fishy about those two canvases. She said she’s never been inside White’s studio, but believed it has an upstairs and below ground area which is correct. From what can be seen on the blueprints and schematics, it’s a working studio upstairs and a large vaulted area below. The security company claims they secure both the outside system and the vault so we should be able to get into both,” Marino said.

  “I have worked with Emma for nearly a year. You can take it to the bank she is telling you the truth and she has had no role in this.” I inhaled and let it out slowly. “Emma has no idea Jackson and I are FBI, so can you take her out of there before we show up to do our investigation? I would prefer to keep our cover intact until our chief tells us what to look at after I give the information about the car showing up. I’m not even confident there will be much to deal with on our end if he’s disappeared. With White gone there isn’t much to be watching,” I suggested.

  “I’ll do my best to keep your cover if that’s what you prefer,” he replied. “But you’re aware I can’t offer any guarantees.”

  “Understood, and thank you for the call. See you soon,” I said and we disconnected.

  Jackson remained on the edge of the mattress. Running his hands through his hair he said, “Whoa. This has the potential to be huge, this search could blow our case wide open.”

  “Jackson. My head. I have a splitting headache. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Could you let Thad know what’s going on? This way he can have a team ready to process the place if we come across something,” I said.

  “Shit, Cill, you are such a lightweight. You had like six shots. Those girls had more than you. I had my sights on a couple that would have looked nice to wake up with. And here I sit delivering coffee to you.” He smirked.

  “Count your blessings. All you might have gotten from our companions last night is a disease, or stabbed in your sleep and rolled for money. I don’t want to preach but the metal from the piercings in that group could set off a metal detector.”

  “Those are my people, man. Did you catch the chick with the pink-gold body glitter, and tiny gold scrap of material she called a dress?” he laughed.

  “Right. Get the hell out of here. Get dressed, Casanova. I’m hitting the shower so unless you choose to see something that will make you weep with envy, you better get going.”

  “Bite me,” he responded shaking his head and flipping me off.

  “Tempting offer, but no,” I responded.

  I stood up to head off to the shower assuming he was finished. Apparently not.

  “What’s the plan if she’s there when we roll up?” he asked.

  “That’s a problem I don’t have a clear solution to yet. I am going to meditate upon that while I am in the shower. Maybe the hot water beating against my head will encourage my brain cells to fire up,” I replied.

  “You are aware it will be quite the clusterfuck if she finds out before you get ahead of this, right?” Shaking his head and taking another swig from his coffee he hung around for an answer I didn’t have. All I could offer was a shrug.

  I left Jackson to stew over it while I took my coffee with me to the bathroom knowing I wouldn’t come up with a satisfactory strategy. I only hoped Emma would not be there when we got there.

  Emma

  AS I WAITED FOR EVERYONE to arrive, I struggled to recall moments in the farm-style kitchen I would miss when I left. There wouldn’t be very many. There had been no lively and memorable parties with friends, and most definitely no wild and careless sex on the sturdy farm table.

  Alexi arrived first. She clarified the purpose of the search warrant and what they could search. Strangers breaching his guarded sanctum would have Jude rolling in his grave if he was dead. If he was alive and hiding out someplace, then screw him, he deserves what was about to take place.

  Next to arrive were Detectives Marino and Chavez looking solemn and concerned. A slight nod and fleeting grin, primarily out of courtesy, were all Chavez granted. We went into the dining room where Alexi and Aunt Mary were engaged in what seemed to be a conspiratorial conversation. All discussion died away as we walked into the room and the detectives took a seat. Yep, something was up with those two. Alexi smiled at the detectives, then turned her attention back to her computer.

  Detective Marino, especially rude this morning, gave a slight chin lift to Alexi and pushed the search warrant across the kitchen table toward her. This display of bad behavior caused a staredown between them, both waiting for the other to look away first.

  Unable to bear it any longer, Detective Chavez announced, “Alexi and Nick were formerly married,” as an explanation for the chilly atmosphere in the room.

  Aunt Mary and I at the same time said, “Ah,” as if that explained all the world’s puzzles.

  Alexi picked the document up as she continued to stare at Marino. She dropped her eyes to review it, made notes, and when finished pushed it away as if it was some offensive exhibit.

  “This is bullshit, Nick,” she noted as she sat back and crossed her arms. Placing her right leg over her left knee, she prepared herself for an argument. The room was silent, but the invisible electric current snapped between the two.

  “The judge didn’t seem to think so, Alexi,” he responded as he rested back in his chair. He wasn’t backing down.

  “So, put your cards on the table. What are you searching for precisely?” she asked touching the paper.

  “It’s all there in black and white,” he responded.

  “No. This document here authorizes you to go on a fishing expedition.” She didn’t mince words.

  “Well, we are primarily looking for the canvases he picked up from the gallery. We don’t know if they are in there. Assuming they are will help with the timeline of his whereabouts. And I might mention you don’t represent him, so I’m only being nice acknowledging your questions,” he responded with a lazy grin.

  She huffed an unintelligible reply. Obviously, they had done this dance before probably during their former marriage as well as professionally. Neither seemed willing or able to hold back their animosity toward the other.

  The doorbell rang. Detective Chavez jumped at the opportunity to answer the door to let the security technician in. More like to escape the countdo
wn toward an argument to rival word war part two.

  Introductions were made, and Marino gave a copy of the court order to the tech. The tech also handed a copy of the schematics of Jude’s outbuilding to Chavez. The technician took a moment to describe the security of the building, and how he planned to gain entry. He sounded as if he didn’t anticipate any problems. Chavez asked about the subterranean vault, and then discussed how he planned to circumvent the control panel.

  Marino rolled up the schematics, and instructed us to wait. This did not sit well with Sherlock Holmes. No matter how serious a menace she was, Aunt Mary was determined to be a part of every step of this hunt.

  After twenty minutes elapsed, Chavez invited us to join the group at the studio. I thought they would have entered it and searched it before we arrived but they waited for us and showed us where to sign in on the evidence ledger. Detective Marino and Chavez were the first to enter the structure. They performed a sweep checking for any safety issues. The videographer followed them to record the start of the search, and continued filming during the search. Aunt Mary, Alexi, and I waited at the door.

  “Ladies, we have carried out a preliminary walk-through. There are canvases in the building as well as brushes, rollers, paints, and jars all over the place. You can move around, but don’t touch anything. Everything must remain as it is,” he advised. “There is protective footwear at the doorway for you to put on over your shoes and please pick up a pair of latex gloves from the box. When you leave, there will be a container to put them in that must be recorded and logged in as evidence.”

  We walked into an enormous open area filled with clutter. The disorder and disarray surprised me. Jude insisted on order in his life, and he always had complete control over his environment. He never permitted drinks, food, or our dog Lucy in his $100,000 Mercedes. Using coasters on the stone kitchen surfaces was mandatory. One might suggest the man was a compulsive neat freak which was true. The chaos within this building reflected a person with haphazard tendencies and an unruly mind, and that was not Jude White.

  “Wait, what’s going on here? Seriously, I know Jude. He would never step foot in here much less work here. It’s . . . it’s . . .” I could not finish my thought much less verbalize it.

  Detective Marino moved into my personal space. He was so close I could smell his aftershave and count the beard hairs on his face.

  Leaning in even closer, he engaged my eyes and quietly repeated my observation in a quiet almost angry tone. “It’s what, Dr. Collier? Is this the reflection of a man you lived with two years and you don’t know at all?”

  I was in a hazy mist of uncertainty, unable to focus, when I suddenly detected Alexi next to me. “Move back, Nick. Now.” With his eyes still fastened on mine, she sternly repeated once more. “Now.”

  With that, he moved back about two feet unaffected by her interruption.

  “Well, this room is ridiculous. Jude was not an artist who painted, at most he restored and conserved paintings. These paintings can’t be his, but he would not let anybody in this building other than him. He used this place as his refuge. But this . . . this . . .” I was so astonished, I still could not finish a thought.

  He purchased and sold paintings and dealt with the occasional restoration. But the restoration or conservation pieces were infrequent. He claimed he objected to the odor of paints and worked on a restoration only for the added income. Apparently, he was in high demand because of how conscientious he was about his work. He said he even turned work away. Museums here and in Europe sought his services, but there were no restoration projects here. Only half-completed paintings.

  “I’m not an art expert, but take a glance around this room. Take a long hard look, what do you see? Ten canvases look familiar wouldn’t you say? Did these famous artists rise from the dead and decide to show up here to carry on their work? I don’t know for certain who they are, but I’ve been to enough museums to recognize they are seriously famous names.” Agitation rolled off Marino as he spoke.

  First, the edges of my sight started narrowing with blackness, and then my mind followed as I tried to focus. I realized Marino was trying to convey something, but my mind was a total blank.

  Looking into this man’s eyes, a human lie detector, I realized he was taking an optical pulse assessing if I had been telling him the truth. I wasn’t clear how to respond, so I looked to Aunt Mary as I invariably did when I needed strength. She moved toward me quickly, and her small arm encircled me.

  Turning toward me, she softly confided, “I think what he is pointing out is dickhead’s studio was being used to produce forged paintings. Now you need to pull yourself together. Take everything in, and pay attention to what you see. We can discuss it afterward. You have done nothing wrong. If you need to go outside for a breather to gather your thoughts, we can do that for a few minutes.”

  Alexi stepped toward Mary and silently moved us apart from Detective Marino so we could speak privately. “Nick, I believe Emma wants a moment for her brain to catch up with her eyes. We have no information about this studio.”

  I heard her continue. “Perhaps he was allowing somebody to use the place to practice and develop painting skills. Or someone hired him to duplicate a painting. Correct me if I’m wrong, Nick, but unless it was expressly done to deceive, there is no crime. Ladies, let’s allow the detectives to do their job, and we can put the pieces together when we have a firm understanding of the facts. Okay?” Alexi suggested.

  “Detective Marino,” I said as I bent over, placing my hands on my bent knees. “I promise if something criminal was going on here I had no inkling. This was obviously done for financial gain. My relationship with money is this: I work hard, look for bargains at the dollar store, and overpay my taxes. I have no criminal record. I’ve never had a speeding or parking ticket. A rule follower, that’s me.”

  “The dock. That’s how he did it. That’s how he moved them without anyone seeing what was going on. Private property, no search warrant, pretty clever,” Aunt Mary mused far ahead of us in the thinking process. Stepping toward the picture window she tried to crack the shutter to point outside.

  “What do you know about this?” Marino nodded to the area as Chavez opened the shutter.

  “Look, sour puss. Let’s get real. After Jude or someone working for him forged a painting, he had to pass them to someone. It seems it would be easy enough to carry them out the door to the dock where his Russian friends were waiting,” she said. Then shrugged as if this was the only conclusion.

  “Mary, stop right now. No more conjecture or speculation,” Alexi said as she held up her pointer finger to halt further discussion.

  “Russians? What Russians?” Marino’s head jerked back as he asked.

  “Nick, turn your head and look at me. I represent both these ladies and will deal with questions for them but in an appropriate place. Yesterday, Mary relayed information to me. Agent Thomas had stepped out, so I placed a call to him. We can pick up where we left off on the discussion we conducted then. I am waiting for him to return my call. We are finished discussing anything further until we are all together and I can share my information with Agent Thomas,” Alexi said.

  “Right now, this is part of my investigation so you can tell me everything she knows. Now,” he shot back and headed toward Aunt Mary.

  “Absolutely not. I will place another call to Agent Thomas. We can deal with this all at once in a proper place after safeguards and protections are in place.” Alexi swiped the back of her hand through the air indicating she was done.

  “Lex, I’ve got Agent Thomas on speed dial so permit me,” he said with a tone of derision, and in a flash, he was outside placing a call.

  Alexi instructed us to stay silent and wait for Detective Marino to return. Several minutes passed before he walked back inside. He informed us Agent Thomas was on his way.

  Now that I was permitted to move through the studio, I took full advantage. It was impossible to accept that this place was ow
ned by a man I shared a home with for two years. The longer I looked around, the darker places it took my mind.

  I stopped in front of each easel and studied each canvas. Nothing short of an artistic genius was capable of such a masterful reproduction of the various artists’ works. The technical style was precise and flawless. The colors were perfect. This person had infused their heart and soul into these canvases, effortlessly channeling the essence of each artist. I could feel the emotion of the artist as I read the brushstrokes, some slow and gentle, some frenetic.

  The fake Picasso was the one nearest to completion. I started with that one. I stepped around to the back of the easel and visually examined the old wooden frame appearing to be of European origin. That was something you would expect. Next, I noted there were stamps affixed to the frame and canvas reflecting it had passed through galleries in London and Paris during the early twentieth century. However, that was impossible as this was obviously an unfinished painting and not by Picasso. So, the stamps were fakes to fool someone into believing at some point the painting would be passed off as an original. I’m sure the other paintings reflected the same lies.

  I walked across the expansive room, to his workstation which consisted of a long table attached to the wall with thick black brackets. Copies of various auction house catalogue raissonés for well-known artists and art textbooks were strewn carelessly across it. In the right desk corner, there appeared to be high-quality digital photographs of paintings, apparently taken at museums and blown up to be used for reference. Lined up against the wall, suspended in a metal holder were eight rubber stamps with gallery information. The black ink was still tacky on three indicating recent use. Heavy linen paper listed previous owners in German. The paper was typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. And finally, neatly stacked letters from people attesting to ownership sat ready for use beside the Picasso painting.