“Hunter … Good … Thanks, Dawn.” He tapped the END CALL button and looked at Katie. “Dawn has confirmed the meet.”
Katie pushed a button on her microphone. “Curt?”
“Standing by.”
“Open it up.”
“Will do.”
Curt trotted back to the gazebo. He tugged the tarps and down they came, one section at a time. Curt laid them on top of one another and rolled the pile into a bulky ball. Two minutes after he began, he was finished and out of sight.
“Curt, I’m going quiet.”
“Got it.”
Katie flipped a switch and turned another dial. “Can you hear me, Curt?”
There was no reply.
“Detective Brownley?”
“Loud and clear.”
Katie continued her checks.
“Daryl?”
“I’m good.”
I couldn’t see Daryl. Or Griff when she checked in with him. Or Officer Meade, a tall ice-blonde I’d met before.
The cameraman used a remote to activate the video camera and leaned into the viewfinder to tweak the alignment.
Ellis sat at the table, rightwise now, crossing his long legs, his left ankle resting on his right thigh. His eyes were fixed on the gazebo.
Katie kept her eyes on her equipment.
I leaned in close to Ellis. “How was dinner last night?”
He smiled but didn’t move his eyes. “Perfect. Thanks.”
Ellis picked up the earbuds, then turned to Katie. “Do you have regular headphones?”
Katie reached under her chair and came up with a set of over-the-ear headphones.
“You just happen to have them ready to go?”
“I have two additional pairs available, too. And two more pairs of earbuds. Triple redundancy, a good cop’s best friend.” Katie slid a switch embedded in the headset band to the ON marker and handed them over.
Ellis slid the earbuds toward me. “You okay with earbuds?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I lowered my voice. “You’re being awfully nice to me.”
“I’d rather have you in sight than in trouble.”
I eased the earbuds into place. “I never get in trouble.”
“Of course you don’t.”
At one minute to five, Dawn, wearing jeans and a navy-blue windbreaker, strolled along a cross path. The photographer raised his camera and started taking pictures, the clicks a steady staccato beat. Dawn climbed the gazebo steps and stood in the center. After a few seconds, she walked to the far railing and leaned against a column, her back to us. The photographer continued snapping.
At three minutes after five, a woman wearing oversized sunglasses and a black canvas floppy hat that blocked most of her face walked slowly toward the gazebo, looking every which way. She carried a large padded envelope, just the right size to safely transport the Japanese woodblock print.
Dawn spotted her and smiled, a 1,000-watter. “Pat!”
I could hear the south in that one word.
“Andi?”
“That’s me, happy as a lark, and rarin’ to go.”
The woman calling herself Pat climbed onto the gazebo. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
Pat patted the envelope. “Here’s the print.”
Dawn clapped like a schoolgirl. “Yay!”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Dawn was one heck of an actress.
Dawn peeked inside, squealed with delight, and slid the plastic-encased print out of the envelope.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous, Pat. Look at the colors. They’re even bolder than I’d expected. Where did you get it?”
“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. The previous owner wants confidentiality.”
“Really? I’d sure like to know.”
“Sorry. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“No harm in asking, right?” Dawn tilted her head, faux-thinking, then smiled. “Sold!” She reached into her purse and extracted a large plain white envelope. “Here’s the cash.”
Before the woman calling herself Pat had time to do more than open the flap, Detective Brownley and three police officers charged the gazebo. Dawn leapt off the platform, landing in a squat on the grass. She jogged out of the way. Pat tried to follow, but before she reached the edge, all three officers surrounded her.
“No!” she screamed.
Griff grasped her arms from behind her and held her fast. I wished they’d turn her around so we could see her face.
Detective Brownley, wearing plastic gloves, grabbed the white envelope containing the cash. “We need you to come with us to the station.”
The woman thrashed in all directions, struggling to get away. “No! No! No!”
It was chilling to watch. A few passersby paused, taking it in, followed by a trickle of people who came off the street. I saw two people holding up their cell phones, video-recording the scene.
The detective dropped the money into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it. She got close to Pat and raised her voice. “Please listen. I can arrest you as a material witness or you can cooperate. We have a search warrant for you, your bag, and your vehicle.”
Pat stopped struggling. “Oh, God!” she whispered, as despair overtook panic.
A patrol car pulled up and double-parked, its blue-and-red dome lights spinning.
Detective Brownley said, “We need to check you for weapons. I’m going to ask Officer Meade to remove your hat and sunglasses, then we’ll check your person.”
Pat stiffened but didn’t object.
Officer Meade snapped on plastic gloves. She pulled the hat straight up and the glasses straight off. She slid her hand under the hat brim and felt all around the crown. She ran her fingers along the glasses’ earpieces.
“Nothing.”
Detective Brownley extracted a jumbo clear plastic evidence bag from her pocket and shook it open. Officer Meade dropped the hat inside. The sunglasses went into a smaller bag.
Officer Meade did a thorough pat-down. Pat wasn’t armed.
Detective Brownley searched the woman’s tote bag. After a moment, she whirled a silver key ring over her head like a cheerleader shaking a pom-pom, then tossed the keys to Officer Meade. “Find the car.”
Officer Meade jogged toward the street, pushing the UNLOCK button on the fob.
Detective Brownley slipped the woman’s tote bag into another evidence bag.
Officer Meade spoke into her collar mic. “We’ve got the car. It’s parked in front of Parlor Ice Cream.”
Detective Brownley told the two other officers, Griff and Daryl, “Take her in.”
The woman began crying as the officers led her down the gazebo steps, her feet dragging. Once they reached the grass, we had her full face, her eyes round with terror.
The woman we’d known as Pat was, as I’d expected, Kimberly Larson, Steve’s secret live-in girlfriend.
As Kimberly shuffled alongside the officers, tears streaming down her cheeks, a thousand pricks of sadness stabbed at me. Kimberly’s face was ashen. Reality was setting in.
The things we do for love.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I sat on the wooden bench in the Rocky Point police station lobby waiting my turn to be interviewed. I’d been there about twenty minutes when Steve entered with Officer Meade.
His hair was disheveled. His polo shirt was half untucked.
Officer Meade nodded at me, then turned to Steve. “Have a seat. It won’t be long.”
Steve sank onto the bench beside me. “Jeez, Josie … do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“I’m not sure about anything. What did you hear?”
“Nothing. The police just showed up with a search warrant, and now they’re crawling all over my condo. Have you seen Kimberly? That detective told me she was here.”
“I think she’s in the back. Is Ryan okay?”
“Yeah, I left him with a neighbor.” He leaned back against the hard bench. “I have a bad fe
eling about this.”
Kimberly hobbled in from the corridor on the right as if she couldn’t lift her feet. Daryl hovered near her elbow. Kimberly’s eyes were puffy and rimmed in red. Her lips were chapped.
Steve shot up, his mouth falling open.
Kimberly saw Steve and moaned, deflating, sinking to her knees as if someone had pulled the plug on a blow-up doll. She keened, a guttural sound of unendurable pain.
Cathy, the admin, leapt up from her desk, her eyes filled with fear. Griff charged out from behind the counter.
As Daryl hoisted Kimberly to her feet, she broke away, hurtling herself toward Steve.
Steve stepped back, gawking.
I swung my feet up onto the bench. I needn’t have worried—she only had eyes for Steve.
Daryl tackled her. Griff held her thrashing legs in place.
Between the two officers, they got her upright and half walked, half dragged her down the corridor on the left, toward the interrogation rooms. She didn’t speak, but her mewlings continued unabated and echoed in my mind long after she was out of sight.
* * *
Detective Brownley came into the lobby and asked Steve to join her. He touched my shoulder as he left, following her down the right-hand corridor.
Moments later, Lydia stepped into the lobby.
She looked better, as if she’d had a long sleep, a hot shower, and a big meal. She marched to the counter without looking left or right, so she didn’t notice me. Cathy asked how she could help her.
“I’m Lydia Shannon. I want to see Chief Ellis.”
“He’s in a meeting right now. I’m his assistant … Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. It’s urgent. I must see him.”
“Have a seat. I’ll give him the message.” Cathy picked up the phone.
Lydia turned, saw me, and approached. She stood in front of me, her displeasure patent in her stance and frigid glare.
“I heard on the news that someone involved with Cal in some kind of art fraud scheme has been detained. Who is it?”
“I haven’t heard anything official.”
“Tell me unofficially.”
“No.” I got up and crossed the room to the Community News Bulletin Board.
Lydia spoke to my back. “Your sanctimony falls on deaf ears.”
I continued reading the announcements and notices until Lydia’s name was called and she followed Detective Brownley down the corridor on the right.
No one came for me until just before seven.
* * *
Ellis and I stood side by side in front of the one-way mirror in the police station’s observation room. Kimberly sat on one side of the long wooden table, staring at her clenched hands. Officer Meade sat in a corner, watching her.
Ellis arched his back, flexing his muscles. “Kimberly isn’t talking.”
“She hasn’t asked for a lawyer?”
“Nope, and she signed the Miranda waiver. If you can get her talking about the woodblock prints, that might be a start.”
“She has a son, Ryan. Steve told me he left him with a neighbor. Is he all right?”
“The neighbors are keeping him overnight. Steve called Kimberly’s parents, and they’re flying in from Dayton in the morning.”
“Poor kid.”
“He has a lot of people who love him.”
“Did you find other woodblock prints when you searched Kimberly’s car or house?”
“No, just the one she had in her possession. We searched her classroom, too. Her principal opened it up for us. Nothing.”
“There has to be evidence that explains her connection to Cal.”
“We have a phone we found in her bag. Katie’s team is working on it now, and another one turned in by Nora. Nora told me you spoke to her, so I can share that she turned over the phone voluntarily. All she’s asking is that we keep her name out of the papers, and I think we might be able to do it. Wes is on board.”
“You got Wes to agree to hold back news?”
“Nora’s involvement isn’t germane to the investigation. It’s gossip.”
“That may be true, but agreeing to sit on a story doesn’t sound like the Wes I know.”
Ellis grinned. “I promised him an exclusive.”
“That explains it. What does Kimberly say about why she has that phone in her purse?”
“Other than commenting that possessing a phone isn’t a crime, nothing.”
“She has a point.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s been a couple of hours. They might have something.” Ellis picked up a wall-mounted phone and punched in four digits. “Katie, where are you with those phones?” Ellis listened for almost a minute. “Okay. I’ll take what you’ve got.”
“Where did the phones come from?”
“Kirby’s, a mom-and-pop electronic store in Elliot, Maine. The buyer purchased four phones, a voice changer, and a laptop in a cash transaction the day Mo was killed and Cal disappeared. The store can’t help us ID the buyer because they only keep their security camera footage for seventy-two hours, and the clerk doesn’t remember a thing about it.”
“I bet Cal bought everything, kept one phone, and gave the others to Kimberly, Nora, and Lydia.”
“I’m with you on that. The question is, where are the computer and voice changer now?”
“What does Lydia say?”
“Nothing. Unlike Kimberly, Lydia did call her attorney, and he instructed her not to answer any questions.”
“Any news on the pipes in the social club?”
“Just another dead end. It was a good lead, and thank you again, but we heard from the property manager that they’re getting ready to update the gas line. We’ve confirmed the delivery with the vendor. All pipes are accounted for, and none contains forensic material. None has been wiped or cleaned in any way.”
Katie stepped into the room and handed Ellis a thick folder.
“Thanks, Katie. Anything I should know that’s not in this printout?”
“The top sheets are texts and emails from the phones, followed by a list of numbers called.”
Ellis ran his thumb down the lists, thanked her for her quick work, and told her she could go. “There are dozens of calls on both of these phones from one of the missing units. That must be the one Cal used.” He continued reading. “The emails support that, but they’re all from generic addresses and are unsigned.” He placed the documents back in the folder. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Keep it simple. Stick to the print and how she got involved with Cal.”
I followed Ellis ten feet down the hall. We paused at the heavy door that led to Interrogation Room One.
Ellis stood at the head of the table and pointed to a chair across from Kimberly. I nodded at Officer Meade, sitting near the back wall, and sat down. Kimberly didn’t react. A human-sized cage stood off to my right, and I shifted my chair so I wouldn’t see it. Three video cameras were mounted high overhead.
Ellis took a remote from his shirt pocket and aimed it at each video recorder. One by one, pinpricks of red light appeared.
“Ms. Larson, as I’ve explained, we record all interviews. I’ve activated the recorders.” Ellis stated the date, glanced at his watch, and added the time. “You’ll recall that I’m Police Chief Hunter. I’ve asked Josie Prescott to join us. She’s an antiques expert, and I’m hoping she can help me understand the transaction you just participated in. Do you collect Japanese woodblock prints?”
Kimberly didn’t move. I had no sense she heard him.
Ellis nodded at me.
“Kimberly?”
She raised her eyes to my face. She still looked worn and upset, but she didn’t seem panicky. She wasn’t shaking or sniveling or, as far as I could tell, showing any emotion at all.
“As Chief Hunter just explained, the police asked me for help. I can’t believe you did this, Kimberly. I know you wanted to earn more money, but selling fraudulent art is no way to do it.”
Kimberly’s eyebrows pulled together. “What are you talking about? The woodblock print is real.”
“How do you know?”
“I know where it came from.”
“Where?”
Kimberly raised her chin. “You know better than to ask me that.”
“Come on, Kimberly. Let’s talk turkey. If it’s real, why the fake name?”
“I guess you’ve never worked in a top elementary school. You’re supposed to devote every waking moment to the job. If my students’ parents found out I was moonlighting, my principal would never hear the end of it, and neither would I.” She pushed her chair back and stood. We all followed suit. “I don’t want to talk to you about it. I know you mean well, Josie, but all I did was sell a beautiful woodblock print.” Kimberly turned toward Ellis. “I’m leaving.”
“Not quite yet.”
“Then I’ve changed my mind. I want a lawyer.”
“Certainly.”
Ellis announced to a video camera that he was suspending the interrogation, then turned the machines off. Officer Meade escorted Kimberly out to make the call.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You did your best.”
“Now what?”
“I’ll point out to her lawyer the advantages of cooperating with us. He’ll raise a ruckus, and we’ll let her go. We know Cal was involved in fraud, and that she helped him sell the print, but until we can prove intent, we don’t have enough evidence to hold her.”
He walked me to the lobby, thanked me again for helping, and headed back inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
At eight o’clock Friday morning, I stood with my mouth agape. I was staring at one of Trish’s golf club bags, disbelieving what I was seeing.
All the objects we’d bought from the Shannons were in a cordoned-off area of the warehouse awaiting appraisal. I’d brought over two standing work lights and video gear to begin sorting through the objects. Not every piece was worthy of a full appraisal. Each of the three golf bags contained fourteen clubs. From watching an occasional golf game on TV, I knew there was no minimum number of clubs a pro golfer could carry, but the maximum was fourteen. Frank told me Trish hadn’t played golf in twenty years, and from what he said and what I could see, once she’d quit the game, she hadn’t cared for them anymore. The bags weren’t covered, and she’d left them in a non-climate-controlled shed, so I wasn’t surprised to see a layer of dust on the heads. What was stunning, though, was that one of them, a driver, was pristine.
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