Three_Deception Love Murder

by K. J. McGillick

  “Emma, you look stunning! Without having to turn in my man card I must tell you that color on you is a knockout,” he said raking his eyes over my body.

  “And it doesn’t hurt it about covers her butt, right?” Aunt Mary added from a large chair in front of the TV after she devoured her burger as if she was a starved and beaten prisoner of war.

  Cillian laughed, and I felt my chest flush red with embarrassment. Thank God no one could see me because I could imagine my ears were turning red.

  “That is untrue, this dress comes practically to my knees. We need to get your glasses adjusted,” I said with an attitude. Well, not really, but it did not just cover my bottom. With her Coke-bottle eyeglasses, certainly she could see I was appropriately dressed.

  “Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that if you must. Just don’t bend over to pick anything up,” Aunt Mary said, her eyes never leaving the television. “And you. If all you noticed was the color of that wisp of material Emma is wearing then you have no man card to turn in. Not to worry.”

  “I’m not engaging in this discussion, Aunt Mary. We are leaving. Do you need anything before I go or do you want me to bring anything back?” I asked.

  “A hot man and a hip flask filled with tequila,” she responded. She gave Cillian the once-over for effect, and it worked because he laughed harder than I have ever noted before.

  “I’ll get right on that,” I said.

  “You do that and bring back somebody exotic looking. I’m expanding my horizons,” Mary ordered with a wink.

  “Jesus. Way too much information. I’m leaving,” I said shutting the door to the madness that inhabited Mary’s mind.

  We strolled to the elevator. The glass enclosed lift took us five stories down, and then we were out of the hotel. Walking to the market area along the congested streets was wildly entertaining. Not as crazy as New York, but almost. From facial expressions, you could sense happiness but people appeared guarded traversing the streets. Who could blame anyone for being on edge? The July 4th terror attacks a few years ago were still fresh in everybody’s mind.

  This street market seemed to have no beginning point or end, and busy indoor and street vendor eateries entertained large crowds out for a fun time. Department stores and boutiques, as well as kiosk shopping, offered merchandise I never knew existed. We grabbed some Greek food from a street vendor and topped it off with Wicked Good cupcakes. It took a while, but we found a building with full steps to sit and eat our meal. I was captivated, well gawking actually at his ability to eat without spilling anything. He offered without prompting, “Years of experience on the D.C. train.” Washington D.C. The seat of power, glamour, and intrigue.

  “So, Emma Louise Collier. Tell me something about yourself,” he said.

  “I don’t want to throw a wet blanket on this incredible night. I am sure you have an extensive FBI dossier on me, so what more can I tell you?” I offered as I shifted position to face him.

  “A file is only statistical data spit out on paper that goes in a file cabinet or thrown in a desk drawer. Not information that digs deep inside and reveals you as an individual,” he prompted.

  “What do you want to know? I’m an open book. We have worked closely together for what seems forever. There are no surprises remaining on my end,” I answered, but maybe that wasn’t true since he had never seen me devour a cupcake with gusto.

  “What are your plans for the future? Let’s narrow that down to a workable time frame. Do you have a five-year plan?” he asked as he gathered the remnants of our meal and placed it in the large bag.

  “Oh God. That’s a gaping wound right now. I have no conception where my life will be in one month, much less five years. I convinced myself I had a future with Jude. The Jude he wanted me to see, the non-Jude Jude. The deceiver and thief Jude he kept tucked away.”

  I continued, “I always saw myself with two kids, the family dog and a cat. Lucy and Sigmund fit that description. I dreamed of a cozy family life which involved me and an SUV going to ballet lessons, and baseball. Possibly soccer, maybe music lessons, but no football—that sport has way too many injuries. But Jude had different ideas for the future. Or our non-future that he kept to himself. Namely no children and no permanent family for him. Now that I know his lifestyle, it’s easy to figure out why he could never conceive of having a family.”

  I stopped and pondered my future for a moment. “I thought my job status was secure. In a mere two months, I won’t have one. In the not too distant future, I’ll have no house either, because the government is taking measures to seize it as part of a forfeiture process for his crimes from what Alexi disclosed before we left earlier today. She’s negotiating to let me stay until my contract at school expires. But the good news is, I won’t be kicked out immediately by Jude once I serve him the domestic partnership termination papers. I will entertain other questions if we could avoid indigestion-producing ones,” I said.

  “Okay. Then choose one thing you want me to know about you,” he said giving me his full attention.

  “I am pea green with envy that the person painting those forgeries has so much artistic talent, but I’m angry he used it for such a wicked purpose. I love art, but I cannot create art. People assume I am a right-brained hippie-dippy because I am involved with the art world. But they don’t consider it’s my left-brain logic that governs my desire for the history of art, thus my love of art history. I would love to be free enough to let go and create, never paying attention to how somebody judges my creation. That would be something dear to me because I respond way too seriously to criticism and people’s opinions,” I said.

  “Emma, you are an accomplished, funny, caring woman. I wager if you decided you wanted to create something special, I have no doubt you could. You need to spread your wings and trust you can fly,” he said as he threw the bag into the garbage receptacle with one shot.

  “Well, I’ll take that bet. When we get home, I will dispel that fanciful notion, which trust me I have entertained myself. In my office proof exists on a canvas so hideous it will hurt your eyes to look upon it. And I can’t take responsibility if it leaves you traumatized,” I said. I knew this to be true unfortunately. Jude had said so on the few occasions I’d tried my hand at painting. “In fact, I suggest taking Advil before you even try to look at it.”

  “Certainly not. Is there anything more unusual than Picasso? And what is Pollock but a splatter of house paint on a large piece of canvas? Splatters and drips placed on a canvas and a masterpiece is born named Number 33. As you can tell, I am not an enthusiast of modern art. I believe Steve Wynn put his elbow through that one-hundred-thirty-million-dollar Picasso painting The Dream as a Freudian slip. But that’s just my humble opinion because that painting is disturbing,” he positively stated shaking his head.

  “Such irreverence for genius,” I laughed. “Well, the shopkeepers look like they are closing things up around here. How about we begin walking back to the hotel? And I promise when we return to Maine, I will show you the hideous blight on the art world I created,” I said. His lips tipped up in a smile, and he took my hand as we strolled back to the hotel.

  We sauntered through the lobby back to the mirrored elevator bank. We ascended to the fifth floor arm in arm. I did not want the night and the fun to end. I had soured over the last year into a fuddy duddy, and tonight my wild child had been allowed to see the light of day.

  As we reached the door, I turned and slipped the plastic card in the slot. As I shifted to say goodnight, his lips moved down on mine. A light, feathery kiss turned fervent. I returned that kiss eagerly. As his mouth worshiped mine, I eagerly responded when his tongue reached the seam of my lips and entered slowly, thoughtfully.

  A mild ache settled in my chest. Desire. Need. I wanted so much more than a good-night kiss. The conflict of my feelings for Cillian faded away, and all I craved was his touch.

  About to surrender to my desire, his passionate kisses left my swollen lips. A kiss to the forehead a
nd help with the plastic card had me on the other side of the door wondering what the hell just happened.

  Cillian

  BREAKFAST WAS A LITTLE AWKWARD after the good-night kiss, but there was an energy between us that was nothing short of obvious. I felt that pull as if we belonged together and the connection was infinite. We were forging an unbreakable bond.

  Our appreciation of fine art and museums highlighted our day. Studying, analyzing, and responding to all the art Boston offered, we shared our impressions.

  Unfortunately, our short stay in Boston was coming to an end and we were ready to start back to Maine.

  Under protest, Mary went back to her assisted-care facility. Emma assured her she would pick her up the following weekend. Mary asked us to promise to keep her in the loop. She wanted us to feed her information to assuage her sleuthing urges, but it was never going to happen. I didn’t share that with her.

  Idle chatter filled our journey back. Our minds were occupied with matters more important and out of our control. Neither of us knew how to approach the subject invading our thoughts. Where was Jude and where did we go from here?

  I was about to change the radio station from country to pop when the dashboard alerted me to an incoming telephone call from Jackson.

  “Jackson, I have you on speaker and Emma is with me. We are ten minutes from her house. Anything I need to know as we roll up?” I asked.

  “Hey, Emma.” Jackson was typing away and a song from Nine Inch Nails was drifting through the background.

  “Jackson,” she returned his greeting.

  “No, you are good to drop her off. However, we have an issue to deal with here. After you drop Emma off, I’ll see you back at the loft,” Jackson remarked.

  “Will do,” I responded and disconnected the telephone.

  “Something I should be aware of at home?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Once I get the information, I’ll call you or swing by if we need to talk. When we arrive, I’ll do a pass inside and outside the house to clear the perimeter. Remember we have cameras inside and out, and you’ve got a sophisticated alarm system that will alert us of anything wrong if that’s what is troubling you. Have you made arrangements for Eloise to drop Lucy off?” I asked.

  “Lucy, right, sorry, I got a text a short time ago from Eloise. She told me she will keep Lucy until tomorrow. Apparently, Lucy is a guy magnet. I realize you guys have me wired up to every satellite circling the earth monitoring the place, but it’s still weird to me. I’m a planner and I don’t live by the seat of my pants. It’s the uncertainty and unpredictability of the whole situation that’s niggling at me. I always felt safe at the house, but now I have found out Tom, Dick, and Harry have been dropping by for years and I had no clue. Every time I look outside, I’m suspicious of the people I see and every activity occurring. I study strangers I encounter, so if I need to describe them to a sketch artist it will be fresh in my mind. And for the love of God, don’t tell Aunt Mary, but I have a pen handy to write license plates on my hand if something looks suspicious. I had nothing to do with this, and even so, I am smack in the thick of things.” She showed me her pen to prove her point.

  This conversation was good. She needed to verbalize her fears.

  “Is Jude dead or alive? Will he return? How should I proceed with dissolving the domestic partnership if we can’t find him? I need closure with him. I want to leave the house, but with my employment coming to an end in two months, is it sensible to sign a lease when I may need to move somewhere across the country? All of this chaos is driving me insane,” her voice escalated and her breathing quickened. The last thing I needed was her having a panic attack. Especially when I didn’t know what we might find when we got to her house.

  “One thing at a time. Give it a few days to decide if you want to move right now. If you do, we can help you find a place that will offer a short-term lease. Until we are sure of what is going on, that might be your best choice. Right now, don’t end the domestic partnership because it might give us a legal leg up if we need you to use it,” I said hoping the topic wouldn’t cause another tailspin.

  “Last night, if Aunt Mary hadn’t been there I would have dragged you into my room and had my way with you. I had some wild thoughts running around in my head,” she blurted out.

  Wow. That one statement was a powder keg that could explode in so many directions.

  “No need to be embarrassed. I felt the same way. I must be careful not to compromise the operation, but I need you to know I feel the same way. My heart is screaming at me to act one way, and my brain is cutting that action short. I will leave that statement open-ended and hope you can read between the lines and wait for me.” Gently taking her hand, I placed a small kiss on the top.

  “Let’s get you settled. I need to meet with Jackson and find out what he has for me. If it’s anything I need to update you about, I promise I will talk about it with you. But either way, I will call you and fill you in on what I can. Deal?” I offered.

  “Works for me.” Her response seemed genuine.

  When we arrived at her house, I dropped her luggage in her room. Every room was checked and cleared. I gave Jackson, or whoever else was manning the cameras a wave and resisted kissing Emma goodbye.

  Fifteen minutes later, I strolled through the steel-gray door of our loft. I walked the few extra steps to toss my jacket on my bed and abandoned my bag, ready to receive my briefing. Jackson was engaged in a phone call, and his fingers were traveling across the computer keyboard.

  I passed his work station and noticed a young girl’s face was filling up the twenty-six-inch monitor screen. She was no more than fifteen, and from her dramatic, dark makeup and clothes, I hazarded a guess she was an emo type. The attractive girl had short spiky black hair with blue tips on the ends and scattered throughout. A tiny diamond on the right side of her nose and gem studs in her pierced ears revealed an ordinary kid.

  Jackson hit the enter key and a shortcut key on the keyboard and the screen filled with twelve small square pictures. I could make out eye-catching body art on her arm. She had Chinese lettering and an ankh on her forearm. The girl’s attire was solely black, but in every photo, she always wore bright-colored scarves tied around her neck and waist. I couldn’t figure out if these were photos from our surveillance or if we pulled them off social media. Whoever she was, she was an exotic-looking girl with an intense presence.

  “Okay, yeah. He just stepped in. I’ll bring him up to speed. When you finish her text and email dump, let me know. I’ve already looked at her Instagram, Facebook, and Snapchat. Later,” he said and hit print to start printing out what was on the screen.

  I waited for him to finish what he was doing, explain who the girl was, and why I should care.

  He looked at me, waited for my full attention and then spoke. “Meet Diana Chin our master artist.”

  Stunned, I shifted my eyes back to the monitor screen and studied the girl before me. “She’s a kid,” I remarked stepping closer for a more detailed look.

  Jackson arched his back, placing his hands behind his head to stretch and said, “No shit, Sherlock. We picked her up at two a.m. in the studio.”

  “What? Wait. Why was she in the studio? How did she get inside? Who is she? Where is she right now?” I didn’t give him a second to answer my rapid-fire questions.

  “Let’s begin with where she is right now. She’s in custody,” Jackson responded.

  “Give me a minute to grab a beer. Do I need to look at anything on the computer, or can we walk this bombshell into the living room so I can take this sitting down?” I asked not waiting for him to answer.

  “The sofa is fine,” he said to my retreating back. “Meet you in there, and grab me one,” he added and finished what he was doing to transfer the files over.

  I turned on our huge flat-panel television, changed the input so the computer screen would appear via the HDMI cable. Going through this would take a while, so I sat on the leather couch, lean
ed back and put my feet on the coffee table to wait.

  Jackson sat in the oversized chair next to the couch, balancing the wireless keyboard on the arm. “Last night the alarm triggered and the cameras engaged when she walked in the studio. Apparently, she has the access code and key, so she went in without the outside alarm tripping. When we came storming in after her, her friend had started using canvases as weapons when they saw us,” he said taking a long pull from his brew.

  “I’ll bet. What the hell was she doing there?” I asked

  “Evidently, she’s the artist. Can you believe that? Let me fast forward to where you need to be and we’ll work backward. Two guys picked the paintings up from the dock, and we are monitoring them.” Jackson sent their pictures to the screen and pictures of their GPS coordinates.

  “Picked up?” I said. Stunned did not even begin to cover what I was processing.

  “I’ll get to that, but follow me. White has been paying little Ms. Chin five hundred fifty dollars a canvas to paint these fakes. Her story is the paintings are for his rich friends who didn’t want to pay millions for the original, but wanted a copy for personal use to flash around their homes and offices. Those details remain sketchy. She didn’t give a damn why. All she cared about was that she was getting paid big bucks for easy work. I suppose she is like some art prodigy or savant, if such a thing as an art savant exists.

  “She mentioned he gave her high-def photographs and wanted exact replications for particular artworks. Others he showed her the artist’s style and allowed her to get as creative as she wanted. We questioned if she ever replicated the artist’s signature and put it on the finished work. She said no,” he said as he tilted his head with a fleeting thought that disappeared and he continued. “We are in luck she has a crazy good memory and can describe for us in detail everything she’s painted. Plus, the ones she was proud of or felt inspired by, she took and kept photos on the quiet. She saved them on a flash drive, so we have a starting point. That’s the good news. The bad news is she wasn’t aware of the paintings inside the house, only the studio paintings that she created.”