Three_Deception Love Murder

by K. J. McGillick

  “El, if you aren’t too drunk to hand me my computer, could you please hand it over,” Jackson requested.

  “Bite me, Jax,” she said as she reached over to retrieve his computer. She was lucky not to fall from the chair when she handed it to him.

  “Maybe later.” He smirked as he brought the computer to life and tapped away.

  “Enough foreplay, you two,” Aunt Mary said, and Jackson smiled.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “You will know in a minute,” he said. “Well, well. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.”

  “What?” I asked

  “Now don’t make too much of this but I am playing your what-if game. Let’s start with who. Jude White. Where? Fiumicino airport in Rome. When? Eight times in the last six months. The how, flights from the US to Rome. Why? Anyone’s guess. Getting into black market antiquities by going to Rome and Greece and Turkey in the area, or scoping out the Vatican for another reason? Illegal antiquities coming through Turkey or Greece to Italy and he moves them from there, or as Mary says, is working with the Vatican. Perhaps getting stolen art from his inside man,” Jackson added.

  “You damn people need to put me on your payroll,” Aunt Mary said pleased with herself.

  “Okay, this doesn’t help us with our case here. It tangles this up way more and adds a bigger international overlay which might involve UNESCO and the UN. Now we are hit with even more of the what-ifs. What if they had just started to get these people on board and were building up a network? What if it was going well and another in the group wanted in or them out? What if it wasn’t working well or too well? What if it is all about antiquities and moving them? What if they were moving their whole operation overseas, and that’s why Sopia became expendable?” Jackson said.

  “Or, what if Jude was going to fly solo without Roselov? What if he and Sopia are both dead, but Jude’s body hasn’t turned up yet?” I asked although that theory was not on my top ten.

  The room was silent.

  “Well, I like that scenario the best because that will end our involvement. Except for the paintings authenticated by Emma coming back to bite her, they would be finished here. There is no more studio to set up and use to paint the forgeries. There are no more petty thefts of stolen art. Europe would be Roselov’s playground, and he could close the studio or keep it open as a middle man. But I need to rein you people in and refocus.”

  “Our job was to bust up this network, recover whatever stolen objects we could, and close down the money laundering opportunity. An arrest would be best, but even without it, we completed our job, especially on your end, Cillian. When Diana surfaces—if she’s not somewhere dead from burns—no one will arrest her. There was no intent to defraud on her part. Perhaps she figures the streets are safer than foster care. We have no idea where White is, and his name is all over the falsified provenance. But like Emma, Roselov can claim he had no knowledge of the scam. The freeport was in White’s name; we found the bank accounts under Emma’s. Our leads are all dried up.”

  “If they are working a new angle now using the IOR, it becomes a problem for the EU and breaking down Roselov’s gallery is a Met issue. Let’s face it, we are at the end of our road here,” Jackson said closing his computer.

  “What about Jude? Where is he? And Roselov, he gets away without repercussion? And not to sound selfish and self-serving, but what about me? Am I going to be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life? Will the Russian Mob worry I know too much and come after me?” Emma asked.

  “Well, there are several roads to take. One would be witness protection. Another would be to change your name legally under court seal. We could help you change all your educational degrees and start over under a new name. We will contact the people we can from the trail we uncovered, and let them know that they own forgeries and you had no part in it. Please don’t take this as sounding callous, but your time at the university had ended. You were being forced to make a change anyway, so now you are offered another choice,” Jackson said drumming his fingers rhythmically.

  “We should consult Agnes,” Eloise said, having trouble moving her numb lips.

  “Who’s Agnes? Is she a financial counselor?” I asked obviously out of the loop.

  “Hardly. Please don’t go there,” Emma huffed out.

  “She’s a tarot card reader and psychic,” Eloise said and pointed her finger at nowhere in particular on the table.

  “Oh, now you have stepped in it. Move away from this quickly,” Emma warned as she stood to get a glass of water.

  Jackson and I both looked at Emma stunned, and waited for an explanation as to why she consulted a mystic.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that, this is all on Eloise. She drags me along to these things,” Emma said. “I didn’t want any part of that night. It was supposed to be a dinner and movie night, and I got hijacked.”

  “Yeah, but look what she said. She told you that Jude was lost to you, implied he was good as dead with that whole murder of crows thing. She told you to watch out for a foreigner, a wealthy foreigner from a land of castles. Well, Roselov is rich, and he lives in London, and England has castles. So, what more do you want? She drew you a picture. Connected the dots. She told you to accept Jude as a loss and move on. Now we just need the Sphinx man, and the end will be here. And don’t forget about that snake chasing something, I can’t remember what. We need to get more information and see how this ends or where we should look for guidance,” Eloise said, her lips were moving but eyes closed.

  “Christ,” Jackson huffed. “You are not having another drink, and we are not going to consult any psychics. Now I will see if we can pitch something to Roselov while he is here on our soil. If not, and he leaves, then we need to roll up our tents and leave,” Jackson said.

  “So, all the people he buys body parts from and bilks out of money, nothing happens to him?” Emma asked. “There is no punishment?”

  “Emma, the black market for organs has become sophisticated and hard to stop because it mostly occurs overseas. We used to be the mecca, but now it is honed to a lucrative business plan.

  “Refugees want to leave and find a new home, so the price for them to be smuggled out is a kidney. They take them to Egypt, remove the kidney, and send them onto their new life with a few bucks in their hands. People want to donate eggs from their ovary, that’s not illegal. We can’t stop everything.

  “Like I said, we did what we came to do, and that is to end this cell, so to speak. Do I believe there were or are others involved? Of course, the actual thieves break and enter. But they are more state jurisdiction, and they will find another person to fence their stuff. It would take a while to groom another girl or boy to take Diana’s place. We confiscated their seed money. What more can we do? We have other fish to fry. Our top goal is to bankrupt Hezbollah, ISIS, and Hamas and all the splinter terrorist groups. We are working to keep money from their hands so they can’t manufacture or buy weapons of mass destruction,” Jackson said and twisted behind him to grab an apple from the basket on the counter.

  “He’s right, Emma. From my part, we are done. The stolen paintings are recovered and the forgery studio has been shut down. Jackson’s part of this operation is broader. He’s got drug cartels to worry about and stemming other tides,” I said.

  “Is there nothing more to be done? Are my only options to keep my name and walk around with a target on my back or go into witness protection? Possibly never use my training again and work at a Piggly Wiggly? Or change my name and start over fresh, but still not be able to work in the art field?” she asked in a resigned tone.

  “In a word, yes. But I have a plan in the works to try to catch Roselov in our net, and I would need your help. However, that still won’t change a thing,” Jackson said.

  “This card reader, did she see a happily ever after?” Aunt Mary asked.

  Emma blew out a frustrated breath and said, “Out of all this, that’s all you took away from the conversation,
Aunt Mary?”

  “And?” Aunt Mary pressed.

  “She spoke of a man I should trust who lives in the light and has something to do with art. And said something about a Middle Eastern person being involved in a mystery,” Emma said clearly not buying this line of thought.

  “Are we done here with the hoodoo voodoo?” Jackson said as he stood and stretched. “I need to talk to Thad and Sam and see if I can present our plan to Emma. If not, it’s my opinion we are done and need to move on in other directions.”

  “Well, Emma’s probably tired. I certainly am. How about a little relaxation time?” I said. “And I would tell Eloise to relax, but she just snoozed off right there. Mary, perhaps you’d like a nap?”

  “Is that an offer to share your bed?” She winked.

  “Aunt Mary, for the love of God,” Emma said.

  “Hey, at my age I am open to any offer,” she said. “And he is an art person who is a painter of light, or lives in the light, or works in the light—whatever that card reader said,” Aunt Mary finished.

  “So is Thomas Kinkade. I’m going to unpack my bags, take a bath and lie down,” Emma said.

  “Let’s talk later after I talk to Thad and Sam,” Jackson said.

  “Works for me,” I responded.

  We all moved to our respective parts of the house, Lucy followed me to my room, and Sigmund followed Emma. I hope Emma made it to her room with the son of Satan on her heels.

  Emma

  WHEN I HAD AGREED TO move in with Jude, I always imagined it would end in marriage with a full house of happy, loving people. My imagination had the house filled with family, happy, boisterous children, and their friends, not FBI agents, and people scared for their lives.

  Why was I targeted for this scheme by Jude? How did I let it happen and evolve? Someone as dull and tedious as me would never be enough for someone as charismatic and attractive as Jude. Why did I not recognize when things had spiraled into this abyss? Why did I exist in a state of tunnel vision?

  As I lay in bed thinking this over, Aunt Mary interrupted my thoughts. “Can I come in?” she asked still dressed in her granny-style pajamas.

  “Of course,” I said. “I could use some company because my thoughts are pretty morose.”

  She lowered herself to the edge of my mattress, and we leaned into each other. “Penny for your thoughts,” she whispered touching her forehead to mine.

  “I was just trying to piece together everything to figure out why me. And what is the end game?” I was honest. A perusal of Mary’s white hair and thick black glasses reminded me she was elderly and didn’t need this darkness in her life. Sure, she was all about the drama, but this went way beyond the typical drama she ever experienced.

  “These last six months have been so bleak it’s been hard to crawl out of bed. As my stress built, it led to anger and finally to a depression. It had been so bad at times that I imagined the sludge was engulfing me encasing my body. My lungs no longer expanded fully and I had trouble breathing with ease. Jude transferred and projected his mood swings on me as if his unhappiness and change must be my fault. It’s been a year since we had sex, and eight months since he started sleeping in another room or his studio. I didn’t realize it was his moral compass swinging as he tried to figure out a way to complete his operation. His verbal barbs had become more frequent and were sharper, causing me to walk on eggshells.

  “Why me? Was I so pathetic and desperate I chose not to perceive the reality of the man in front of me? I have no self-esteem left, and much like the witch in the Wizard of Oz I’m melting slowly into a puddle. I may need to change my identity. My entire life is changed forever. I wanted a family and children and my happily ever after, and what happened? This nonchalant callous criminal sashayed into my life, and now if I look into the abyss, the abyss looks back at me. Who will want me now when all this comes out? No one will want to hear the whole story. I’ll just be a label on a fake and painted in with their scam. What will be Jude and Roselov’s comeuppance?”

  “Emma, I love you with all my heart, and you are such a soft-hearted person. Your mother, God rest her soul, had her share of mental health issues. Not to mention ice ran through her veins. She did not grace you with a loving touch or teach you about self-respect which most people had growing up. She beat you down emotionally, and all that baggage stuck with you. Your dad, my baby brother, was a weak man. He was unable to stand up to her abuse and threw you to the wolves to save himself,” she said with mild bitterness bubbling to the surface. “You had your share of a bad start in life, and that bastard saw a weakness and exploited it. There will be no redemption for Jude. Never doubt yourself. Cillian loves you, and you may not recognize it yet, but you love him. If you can let yourself open your heart, you will find your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And God help us all, but I bet that crazy-ass Eloise and Jackson get together after this as well. And I wish on them three hellion boys.” Her eyes twinkled with humor.

  Embracing me in her cocoon of warmth was the comfort my mind and heart needed. In her arms, nothing could ever go wrong.

  “Tell me what to do, Aunt Mary,” I whispered as she rubbed my back.

  “Now you are making me out to be the good witch Glinda when she tells Dorothy it has always been within her. It is within you. Only you know what to do. Be strong, face the problem, get a plan, and move heaven and earth to get there. It’s your decision, but I don’t think witness protection is the way to go. Stand up and fight to regain your life and name. Hire a good lawyer, write a book about this, and get out in front of it. Open your heart to Cillian O’Reilly, settle down with him and have the two children you want. Stop trying and fighting so hard. Open up. Come out of your protective armor.”

  “I’m scared of rejection, and that’s why I reject someone before they reject me. I’m lonely, Aunt Mary, and the one person I let slip under my radar has ruined me,” I said as tears slid down my cheeks.

  When I looked up, Cillian was leaning in the doorway studying us. It made my heart clench and my stomach seize in embarrassment. I saw despair, sorrow and hurt written on his face. He was a problem solver, and I knew he felt he had to solve my problem. But I’m the one that walked into this mess, and I had to drag myself out of it.

  He stepped forward into the room.

  “You did nothing wrong here, Emma. A professional liar, a professional criminal targeted you. Your life was infiltrated and betrayed by someone you trusted. He read your strengths and weaknesses and wrote the script before you even understood what the play entailed. We are going to find a way out of this. You are not alone. Granted, there will be several unhappy people when they discover the paintings they bought are fakes, but that’s not on you. I’m steely, and Jackson is ruthless. Neither Jackson nor I will leave you twisting in the wind.” As he spoke he walked to the other side of the bed and sat. He took my head between his hands, and kissed me gently.

  “I’ll leave you two alone for a bit. I can use some rest after I kicked Jackson’s ass all over Maine. It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it. Emma, you know that there is always a guardian angel who sits on your shoulder. Everything will work out,” Aunt Mary said as she rubbed my hand and left.

  “Emma, the people you’ve found yourself involved with are a primed professional criminal organization. I will put money on it that any art expert paid to study them can’t figure out they are fakes just by eyeballing them. Diana is a genius with the brush, and they had a real smooth operation going. Why they killed Sopia, I don’t know or even if it was them that killed her. If it weren’t for the attempted breach at the bank, we would not have been able to access that box. We still don’t know if that was White trying to do an end run to get the contents and run.

  “The funds he gathered may find their way to funding a mission of mass destruction. He built his world on crime and death.

  “Perhaps you helped save someone’s life that was a target to die for their organs or a terror plot by letting us into that bo
x and the freeport,” he said. “You know the story of Picasso’s Guernica. Guernica was a dress rehearsal for the savage destruction to come to the world. And that is my fear. That with White’s help we are about to witness another Guernica. You see a small slice of danger because you don’t have the facts that I have available. What I see is an indictment of an entire global system.”

  “I appreciate everything you are saying to make me feel better. I don’t want to live here anymore. He has my surrender. Can I leave? Where can I go? Who will hire me if I cut and run? Is this over for you and will I see you again?” I asked in rapid-fire not allowing time for an answer.

  “Where to go? I’ve got a lot of contacts in museums and galleries if you want to leave academia. If you want me to use my contacts in D.C., I will make calls. Where to live? If you take a job in D.C., then I would gladly open my three-bedroom condo to you, until you get on your feet. I have known you for six months and if you don’t think I know my feelings toward you then think again. I have had to bide my time until the case closed, but it looks like we have hit the end. We’ve shut down the studio, and stopped the export of the forgeries. The fact that we can’t make an arrest or prosecute someone is disheartening, but we put a large hole in their operation. So why not get some rest and we can make a plan in the morning?”

  “Okay,” I replied. He kissed my nose and then my mouth. He stood, covered me with my blanket and then shut the light off before he left.

  Hours later, sleep still evaded me. Everyone in the house appeared to have found their sleep and peace. The house offered no sound except for silence. There was no movement, not even Lucy or Sigmund, and the security panel flashed that it was engaged. My hand could not locate Lucy, she must have found her way to Cillian’s room. Little traitor. Counting sheep was a crock, running lesson plans did no good, and I even resorted to Chinese massage of my fingers.