Three_Deception Love Murder

by K. J. McGillick

  “And that would be bad why?” Asking but knowing the answer already.

  “Because we should check out the auction house and see if your painting is on display. And for such a special occasion I must wine and dine you properly in the city of romance,” he said.

  “Well, when you put it that way, hurry up and get changed. Let’s talk for a while at the cafe and then amble down to the auction house. And if you play your cards right tonight, I might succumb to your romantic charms,” I promised. He brushed my lips with a kiss and left. Shortly after, a soft rap on the adjourning door alerted me to open mine. Our doors now opened slightly but still separated just like our hearts.

  When I heard him enter the shower, I used that opportunity to call Aunt Mary and Eloise to let them both know I had arrived safely. I explained that I needed to keep the call short, and I was pleasantly surprised that Aunt Mary agreed. Eloise, on the other hand, wanted to share the details of her love-hate relationship with Jackson at two dollars a minute, and since this involved underwear on the floor I decided to splurge and listen.

  As promised, a half hour later a knock at my door produced Cillian displaying a mischievous smile and smelling of citrus. He had used his time in the shower to prepare to take on Paris. Not one of his golden-brown hairs was out of place, and his blue eyes that should be red-rimmed from traveling for a day were bright and happy.

  “Ready?” he asked

  “I was born ready. That’s possibly a slight exaggeration,” I said and shrugged. He reached for my hand, and we wandered to a sidewalk cafe with a small amount of outdoor seating. Surprisingly, we were the only ones there and were quickly seated. A sharply dressed waiter soon took my order of apple crepes and Cillian’s chicken salad sandwich.

  He opened the conversation. “To answer your questions. Who is to say what turned White from decent to evil? Was he ever a normal and good person? Was it nature or nurture, greed, or is he an excitement junkie? I’m leaving that to the BAU team to profile. I just try to read people when I meet them. Since I’ve never met him except on paper, I have no idea what makes him tick.”

  “I get that, and it’s true. Who knows his motives? Greed is universal, yet few people use their ill-gotten gains to fund terror activities or wars of mass destruction. What are your thoughts?” I asked cramming the crepe-filled deliciousness in my mouth the waiter had just dropped at our table. Manners be damned.

  “Roselov is, of course, the leader and coordinator of the group or cell. White was an active participant, don’t get me wrong, but he was not the brains of the operation. His carelessness may have led to Sopia’s death and his disappearance. Dmitri resembles the Russian word that Mary heard spoken on the deck. Dym—he is smoke. I don’t know what White did with all his money, maybe we never will. There are just too many havens to hide it. And these people are like whack-a-mole. Even if we jail Roselov, there will be another there to take his place.”

  I nodded in agreement and a ball of anger formed in my chest.

  “Although still the most unregulated industry which makes it ripe for crime, it is harder to move the artwork around. As of 2015, the European Union and Switzerland started closing loopholes. Now we are waiting for Asia to follow. Because forgers have gotten so clever it is harder to assure authenticity,” he said.

  “How so?” I asked

  “Experts no longer want to put their names to art to authenticate it because it ends in too many lawsuits. Finding you and having access to you and your name was a gold mine. We don’t know if Sopia ever met with the people that bought the paintings you allegedly authenticated, or if Roselov was the only front man anyone ever met. But if there were a lineup for identification, they probably would identify you from having met her. So, in a nutshell, if you are a high-risk taker the risk is worth the reward,” he explained.

  “That still does not tell me why he did this and where all this money goes?” I said.

  “Who knows, because who knows the man behind the mask? Take your pick from the top four reasons people engage in risky things. Ego, greed, politics or adrenaline rush. Maybe someone was blackmailing him, I have no idea, but not on the top of my list. Tomorrow when the painting sells, the financial institution will be marked for deposit, and we have safeguards in place to block any transfer. Also, we will capture information about the buyer and its next destination. It might turn out to be an anonymous buyer using an agent who then sends it to a freeport, but even that’s a start,” he said.

  “So, I hope you won’t hold this against me. But I overheard you tell Jackson that you thought Jude might have been taking steps to back out of this operation. Does it make me a weak person to hope he had come to his senses? Or am I just looking to justify my feelings that maybe there was a time he cared?”

  “This is speculation, but I believe that Roselov has found another way to turn a profit with less risk and was slowly moving off this operation to something else. But it was more sinister if you can call it that, or just evil. White may have stumbled across that information and started to branch out into other areas of his own. If the wrong people found out that Jude was bailing, it might have put Roselov at risk if something else was at play. But something was happening,” Cillian replied as he folded and tossed his napkin on the table. “Something big is coming, and we can’t get a handle on it. It’s like watching an octopus escape through a tiny hole. I feel it deep down that White was in the middle of something, and without the something he has, there can be no forward movement.”

  “Are you saying Jude may have been trying to leave the operation, and that could have gotten him killed?” I asked. I watched him pull out his phone and read a text, then he threw his phone on the table and scrubbed his face with his hands.

  “Roselov couriered the documents to your house, and Jackson spent the night following every trail through every rabbit hole, and it led nowhere. It was a red herring and an exercise in futility. So, what Roselov’s play was, we don’t know,” he said. “What I want is for you to feel confident that we will help you clean up this mess and start over.”

  “Cillian, I am just so overwhelmed with everything I am not sure I want to start over again in the art world. Maybe I should reinvent myself and take another path. All the underworld filth makes me feel I am a guardian of culture, but the art world’s focus seems to have shifted to investing in art to make money. These people don’t appreciate the art they buy so why buy it? And if forty percent of art out there is thought to be fake, what am I guarding? What has happened to our cultural history? Art tells the history of a civilization and these war mongers have tainted our history. My needs are simple, and maybe I need to start living a minimalist life,” I said.

  “Emma, you are tired, depressed, and have hit a brick wall. Let me help you. You can lean on me, and then decide.” He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on my lips, and I reciprocated.

  “Thank you for everything,” I replied and pecked him on the lips again.

  “Now let’s head over to the auction house and act like potential buyers. We can also check out what is on sale tomorrow.” He rubbed my knee and then leaned back to get his wallet to pay the bill.

  Never off duty, he continuously scanned the area for potential threats. Walking the few blocks to the auction house hand in hand I listened to his lame jokes and reminded myself there was still a reason to laugh.

  We stood in front of the understated stone building with the elegant black awning and paused for a moment. No one would guess that billions of dollars were housed inside in the form of pigments of color on a canvas. Cillian opened the glass door with the gold handle, and a greeter directed us to the showing area. The paintings so reverently displayed included Miro, Kandinsky, Picasso, and Giacometti. And there was our little Matisse forgery greeting us as we entered salon 263. With the exception of the labels next to the paintings and placards listing the artist and price instead of the artist and a blurb about the painting, you would swear you were in a museum. Chagall, Kandinsky, and Giac
ometti were prepared and ready for an all-out bidding war. Each had the potential to bring a hundred or more million dollars. How could this happen, when would the art bubble burst?

  Cillian leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I’ve got my magnifying glass with me. Want to check for Diana’s signature?” Taking the small glass from him, I leaned in and there it was—the Chinese symbol for eternity.

  “I always love coming to these things and have since I was a young man. I’d come with my mother. We could never afford any of what was for sale. But the day before an auction like today it was like going to a museum. But an actual auction, well nothing gets the blood pumping like all those zeros thrown around,” he said. “We are finished here. How about we do something cheesy and fun and ride the hop-on-hop-off bus like we did in Boston? We can jump on right up the street.”

  As we stood there deciding what to do, a dark-haired man in his forties of Arab descent sidled up next to us. “This is a lovely piece. It embodies his desire that his art be a mixture of balance, of purity and serenity, devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter. Are you thinking of placing a bid?”

  “Yes, an exquisite piece,” Cillian answered noncommittally. “Enjoy your viewing.”

  And with that we left the auction hall.

  For the next three hours, we acted like American tourists in Paris for the first time, although it was my sixth and his fourth. Past the Eiffel Tower, the Trocadero, the Invalides, Louvre, d’Orsay, and Concord Square, I let myself fall in love with the Paris Aunt Mary and I had visited. But then remembered the terrorist attacks that happened in the last two years and looked around at each person and wondered could they be the next terrorist?

  As we walked the streets of the seventh arrondissement, we passed boulangeries and cafes that screamed Paris. As we rounded the corner, a typical restaurant marked with a large red awning with white print came into view. Outside there was a menu placed for our perusal to decide if the restaurant had fare you wanted to partake of. But as this was a recommended establishment, we walked past the menu and into the restaurant.

  Over dinner, we exchanged interesting bits of information about our lives and what led us to our love of art. I shared that Aunt Mary had a profound effect on my life and life choices. How excited I would be when Aunt Mary would choose a museum, and we would visit it, just the two of us. I described how Aunt Mary picked out paintings and asked me to make up a story about it based on what I saw and how it made me feel. Thus, my art appreciation was born.

  He told me how his dad was disappointed when he chose art history as a career, and his mother saw him as the next Simon Schama.

  Strolling back to the hotel we both remained quiet, and that sometimes did not fare well for me. I let my mind wander down dark alleys imagining the money Jude had made over the years went to the beheading of men and women, and chemical baths for innocent children. As I spaced out, I looked over the Seine. I envisioned blood spurting from men’s necks and skin peeling from bodies. I’m a capitalist so I can understand money trying to buy happiness. But money to bomb villages in Africa with napalm, or to buy weapons that shot planes from the sky, or to pierce flesh with rapid-firing weapons, that I didn’t understand.

  Trapped in my thoughts, I didn’t realize we had reached our rooms. Cillian said he had a call to make. As Cillian completed the call in his room, I showered and changed thinking the night had ended sooner than I had hoped. As I exited the bathroom in a towel, he entered the room. Both startled and unsure what to do, I took a chance.

  “You going to stand there and do nothing?” I taunted with a lifted chin.

  “Never been one to do nothing,” he returned. Cillian walked closer and reached to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand and then his hand slid down across my knotted towel and slowly undid the knot. I did not resist.

  Tender. A tenderness I craved, and he offered. Scraps of cloth between us were no obstacle and were soon lying in a heap on the floor. Cillian pressed his lips to my ear, whispering promises that spoke of what he was about to do to me. When I asked him what he was waiting for, he dropped to his knees and let his lips plant feathery kisses against my quivering body in all the right places. Arching back slightly as he held my undulating hips, his talented tongue grazed over my sensitive skin, causing pressure to build. Reflexively, I fisted his hair as he gently pushed his two fingers inside me, a rapidly growing pressure that would soon result in an explosion. The orgasm consumed my body like none had before. I could only hope it was a prelude of more to come and Cillian did not disappoint. He lifted my limp body and carefully placed me on the bed where we chased his orgasm together. Again, and again, until he fell into a dead sleep. Sweaty bodies tangled, sheets cast about haplessly. Bliss.

  Sleep should have found me that night with Cillian’s arms around me. But my gut told me he was hiding the vile things that Jude was involved in to spare me any more pain. Little did he know my imagination filled in the blanks.

  Cillian

  AS I WATCHED EMMA’S QUIET, steady breathing, I contemplated when I should tell her about the information we received about White. New information now confirmed his participation in sex trafficking, organ harvesting, and the ammunition found in the warehouse was ready for use. The thought of people drugged to steal their organs, or a ten-year-old sold for sex made my stomach bubble with hot anger. My gut said the information we received was only the tip of the iceberg. And the arsenal he had stock piled in the freeport was just a part of what he had access to. He wasn’t only laundering money, he was now an active participant.

  Hovering over her as she slept I moved a piece of her hair and placed a kiss on her cheek to wake her.

  “Morning, sleepy head,” I said as I moved from her cheek to her full lips softly at first, but increasing in intensity as I lingered. “Time to get up. We have an auction to attend and the world to save.”

  Her eyes fluttered open and met mine. They crinkled as she smiled. “You are a bit dramatic don’t you think? Taking lessons from Eloise? What time is it?”

  “Almost noon,” I spoke softly in her ear. As she nestled in closer, I stroked her back. “Do you want to shower together or use your own?”

  “Seriously?” she chuckled. “A grown man can barely fit and turn in that tiny stall much less two people. I think I’ll use mine. But I like where you were going.”

  She gave me a smoldering look then pulled me closer and kissed me lazily.

  I rolled from the bed and took a full stretch as Emma’s eyes raked over my body with an appreciative sweep. I watched her as she put my shirt over her curvaceous body and started toward her room. I took her arm and spun her for another quick kiss. “Thirty, my room.”

  “All this flowery romantic jabber is just too much. I’m swooning,” Emma said in a breathy voice followed with a theatrical hand lift to her forehead.

  With twenty minutes to spare we entered the auction house and walked toward the large area where the bidding would soon begin. Looking around the room, this place exuded understated elegance. Bare ecru walls reflected well against the heavy black curtains that outlined the tall and wide French glass windows.

  A hundred or so people had marked their tracks on the thick rug, but it still had that fresh springy feel. Crowds did not amass. This gathering was not a party. This was war. Women who spent time on their appearance carefully maneuvered across the foyer attended by their gentlemen escorts. The women were arm candy, and possibly a distraction to other bidders. Others lingered in the hall behind the closed doors. A well-groomed employee of the auction house gave participants a small round black paddle with white numbering and then escorted them to a reserved seat.

  Tense bidders listened intently. Legs were cross and uncrossed. Some edged forward in their seats. I watched as one woman grabbed the arm of her escort tightly, anticipating the bidding war that was about to start. The art world was so mysterious. If only they knew the corruption that lurked behind it tonight. Hell, perhaps they knew, and that was
why they were here.

  A gentleman stood at the podium next to the painting marked lot seventy-seven. There was a buzz of conversation, but if you listened, nothing of substance conveyed, it was just chatter. Dull conversations continued more as a matter of obligation than anyone interested in what the other said.

  The man with both hands placed on the podium had every woman’s attention. The parchment paper he had carefully tucked inside his red leather folder reflected his prepared presentation. Reyneau Tribet, a man skilled at his trade, could read a room and spin his tale quickly, placing the bidders at ease. In the world of high-stakes art, it wasn’t unusual for auctioneers to be either specialists or collectors. Reyneau himself was a well-respected expert. His enthusiasm and love for his craft infected the entire room which lent itself to quite a performance.

  The microphone came alive and seemed to produce a baritone quality to his voice that had an intoxicating quality. He lulled the masses as they effortlessly watched him flip his hand slightly as he motioned for audience attention and began his conversation with the room.

  “Once the first bid is placed I will ask for higher bids in increments of ten percent over the previous bid placed. For example, if the first bid were for one thousand dollars, I would ask for new bids of one thousand one hundred and so on. Much is often made of the way in which one signals their bids.” He flashed a brief, broad smile at the crowd as he shifted weight from his left leg to the right.

  “Simply raising your paddle until I acknowledge you will be more than adequate. If you feel that I have not acknowledged you, despite your waving of your paddle, contact a member of the staff. No one will fault you if you add a verbal component to your paddle waving.

  “When the bidding has come to an end I will inquire ‘all through?’ and then announce fair warning before the hammer falls.

  “To our newcomers, welcome. The objects that you see are for sale, and as a potential buyer, you should be satisfied with the condition of whatever you intend to purchase. In many, but not all cases, that means picking up and inspecting the object, sitting in a chair, or leafing through the pages of a book.”