Valley of Shadows

by Steven Cooper

  “Love the judge, whoever he is,” Mills says.

  “She,” Powell corrects him. “Judge Louise Leary.”

  “Love Louise,” Mills says. “Now let’s get some techs to meet us over there.”

  Which explains why he’s back on the phone with Roni Gates, who agrees to meet them at Carmichael and Finn. “Bring someone who knows how to pop a lock without damaging it,” he tells her.

  “We’re experts, Alex. Don’t worry.”

  About an hour later, the team meets in Scottsdale, a few blocks away from the gallery. Preston and Powell have joined him to execute the warrant. Myers stayed behind, still knee-deep with the cyber forensics team. Mills watches as the young Roni Gates emerges from her van, accompanied by one of her colleagues. There’s a dry breeze in the air, mildly comforting, but not enough to cool them off. “If anyone makes a scene,” Mills tells the others, “it’s not going to be us. It will likely be one of the owners. But we’re going to execute this thing as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.”

  He scans the circle of faces, and the team unanimously nods around him.

  The receptionist says Jacqueline Carmichael has stepped out to lunch. Ideally, Mills would like the owner there, but senses that, faced with a search, Carmichael would be the explosive type, the way she always seems to be brewing a couple ounces of crazy just below the surface. “That’s okay,” Mills tells the receptionist. “Ms. Carmichael doesn’t have to be here to execute the warrant.”

  “But Mr. Finn is out of the country,” the woman says. “Only those two can get you into the Canning vault. No one else has the code. We can get you into the back hallways, but not into the vault itself.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, then, please call Ms. Carmichael and ask her to return,” Mills says. “We’ll be waiting in the gallery.”

  The team, five of them including Mills, circulate through the main gallery feigning interest in the objects on display. He’s asked the others to keep an eye out for any anomalies that beckon for inspection.

  “The thing is,” Preston says, “unless you live in an art gallery, how do you know an anomaly when you see one?”

  Mills gives a quick laugh. “Like anywhere else, Uncle Ken, you just look for things that don’t make sense.”

  Preston gestures to the exhibits with a sardonic smile.

  “I know,” Mills says. “I don’t understand any of this. Especially not the modern stuff.”

  Powell overhears him. “Yeah, but you love your literature. That’s already above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Mills shakes his head and turns to a sculpture in the center of the adjoining room. Three white orbs, one atop the other, stand like a snowman. The Arizona flag is wrapped around its neck, like an ascot. A sign on the floor reads: Buttplug, A Salute to Former Maricopa County Sheriff Clayman Tarpo. Mills doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe, but he laughs and he can’t control it, and the others, beckoned by curiosity, join him, and it’s a feast of laughter. Tarpo was an asshole, is an asshole, now aspires to be an asshole in the U.S. Senate. And now this human asshole has a buttplug named personally for him; the poetic justice deserves a Pulitzer, if poems get that kind of thing. Then all the revelry is sadly interrupted by the voice of Jacqueline Carmichael, who peppers the feast of laughter with her cries of disbelief. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she cries. “This can’t be happening.”

  Mills turns and she’s breathing in his face. “Hello, Ms. Carmichael. Sorry to disturb your lunch.”

  “My lunch?” the woman says, her eyes saucers of indignation. “You’re disturbing my life. Can I see you for a moment in private, please, Detective?”

  “We have a warrant to search the place, ma’am,” he tells her without budging.

  “What for?”

  “You are entitled to read the warrant, ma’am.”

  “The whole place, or just Viveca’s vault?”

  “There are no restrictions from the judge.”

  She turns on her heels. “Give me just one second to call my lawyer,” she screeches as she walks away.

  Mills shakes his head at her retreat, then follows her and finds her in her office, where she’s pacing with a phone to one ear. “I see. I see. Okay. Please do,” she says to the person on the other end. Then she hangs up.

  “I didn’t ask you to come back here, Detective.”

  “Look, I have a warrant to execute on this place. It’s legal.”

  “Aren’t I entitled to have a lawyer here?”

  “I just let you call your lawyer.”

  “He wasn’t in. That was an assistant.”

  “If you’re asking if we’re required to have your lawyer here, the answer is no.”

  She winces audibly. “What if I refuse to let you into the vault?” “I’ll have you arrested.”

  “But I’m a good girl!”

  Mills does a double take. A good girl? He’s reasonably sorry to see a sophisticated, intelligent businesswoman, when threatened by authority, devolve to a sixteen-year-old debutante. “Let’s begin in the Canning vault. Maybe that’s all we’ll need to see.”

  She drops her head, leads him out of the office. He calls the team to join him and, as they gather, Jacqueline Carmichael puts the code in to enter the first hallway. Security lights come on as they meander through the maze, a small mission of footsteps hitting the concrete floor. Another code, another hallway. And finally, the vault. The gallery owner enters first, flips on the lighting. Mills detects a kind of hushed admiration and awe among those who have not been in the vault before. He lets it steep. Normally he’d immediately say, “let’s get to work,” but the first impression of the collection back here, art posing in a macabre purgatory, speaks to the stakes. Jacqueline clears her throat, but Mills ignores her. Instead, he stares into the dull orange lights and watches as they form halos, and remembers never to forget for whom he investigates. Then he steps forward and turns to the others. He lets out a heavy sigh, intentionally, hoping to work Jacqueline’s last nerve. As committed as he is to the victims, he is that apathetic to those who’d thwart his work.

  “Okay,” he drawls, “I’d like everything in this vault dusted to see if we have recent prints. Do the chest and the padlock first, because after that’s processed we’re breaking in.”

  “Oh no you’re not,” shouts a shrill Jacqueline Carmichael. “You didn’t say a word about breaking into anything!”

  “But I did say the warrant gave me no restrictions,” Mills reminds her.

  She steps forward and points a finger in his face. “I’m sure it doesn’t allow you to damage possessions in my gallery.”

  “Actually,” he says, very gently moving her finger back to a neutral place, “the warrant affidavit specifically grants me permission to disengage the lock. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “If you break that lock, who says you can’t break the hand off a sculpture?”

  “So that’s what happened to the Venus de Milo,” Powell says.

  “No one is breaking any sculptures,” he assures Jacqueline, flashing Powell a beseeching look. “Now, please . . .”

  The techs have already started. Preston and Powell are snapping pictures, taking notes. The gallery owner huffs and puffs in the corner. Let her fucking sulk, he thinks; she doesn’t have breast cancer. That he knows of. He steps into the hallway and calls his wife. “You okay?” “Yeah. I guess.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “Just concentrate on your work. Not me.”

  He laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kelly.”

  “The judge was great,” she says. “He kept the trial in recess ’til tomorrow. I’ve been home ever since.”

  “Doing what? Worrying?”

  “Laundry. Your t-shirts stink, by the way.”

  “It’s very hot out, as you might have noticed.”

  “And I’m going over some financial aid stuff with Trevor . . .” “Shit. I thought we finished that.”

&
nbsp; She laughs. “It never ends. And I thought the football scholarship would cover more than it does.”

  “Let me do it. You don’t need that on your plate right now.” “We’ll talk later,” she says. “Love you.”

  Back in the vault, Roni says there seem to be fresh prints on the chest.

  “Seriously? I didn’t dare even hope for that.”

  “Well, we haven’t found much else, but we still have a ways to go.” “Before you continue, I’d like Pablo to do the honor and pick the lock.”

  “No prob,” she says with a smile. “You hear that, Pablocito? We need you and your tweezers.”

  Pablo Cruz, the other tech, approaches brandishing the necessary tool. Preston shoots video and, in less than five minutes, the padlock slips off and dunks on the floor. “Nice,” Mills tells the tech. Then, donning plastic gloves, he approaches the mysterious box. He kneels before the chest and flips the latch downward; it lowers with a rusty creak. Preston shoots video over his shoulder as Mills lifts the top, it, too, creaking with the aches and pains of age. At first the bin looks empty, a black rectangle of nothing. But he lowers his hands and feels around. In the lower left corner of the box, Mills’s fingers stumble upon an object, something wrapped in burlap or cloth. He can’t see because his own shadow is hampering the view. He shifts on his knees. He won’t lift the object, whatever it is, until he knows it won’t break in his hands. He shifts again so his own figure doesn’t block the light, and he can see a small fabric sack clasped closed by a rope. He lets his fingers listen for cracking, snapping, breaking. And nothing. The content of the sack feels solid enough to lift. He takes it by two hands, each end by the fingers, and raises it from the chest. Then he pivots and places the discovery on the floor.

  “Still shooting?” he asks Preston.

  “Of course.”

  “The light in here sucks,” Mills says.

  “I’m adjusting fine for the light.”

  Mills unties the thin rope at the neck of the sack. He slips his hand inside and feels for the object. It’s sturdy, thick, heavy, but relatively flat. He slides his hand out with the object resting partly in his palm. He shifts again, to allow for light. He’s looking at a key. A big key, to be sure, but a key. He’s holding a large, vintage skeleton key. In this light, it looks antique bronze with an intricate head.

  “That’s an old key,” Preston says.

  “Or something posing as an old key,” Mills says.

  Roni has come close, hovering for the big reveal. “I can get it analyzed,” she tells them.

  “You’re a key expert?” he asks her.

  “I’m an expert in something different every day,” she says. “Actually, I know a guy.”

  “A guy?”

  “We come across a lot of keys in our work, Alex.”

  “Great,” he says. “But let’s bag it and get it entered into evidence. I’ll worry about the analysis later.”

  “Analysis?” Preston asks. “I’ll give you an analysis: the woman associates a key with her Dali. Maybe that key is supposed to open this chest. So we break open the chest and what do we find? We find a key. It’s the universe fucking with us, Mills. What more analysis do you need?”

  Mills laughs. “You make a good point. But if you’re right about one thing leading us to another, in a universe-is-fucking-with-us kind of way, then we need to know where this key leads us next. I want to focus on that first, before we worry about how old the key is.”

  “But Alex, the origin of the key could be the thing that tells us where or what it leads to,” Roni says. “You know that.”

  He nods. “You’re right. I do know that. I concede. My head’s not quite in it. Yes, of course. All of the above. Maybe the design of the head is proprietary. That would be a huge clue, no? So, again, let’s start with bagging the damn thing and taking it in as evidence.”

  He hears the click of heels in stereo, one sharpened stiletto in each ear. “Take what in as evidence, Detective?” Jacqueline asks.

  He pivots. “This,” he says, pointing to the skeleton key.

  She shakes her head. “No. No. You can’t remove anything from the property. I can’t allow you to do this. All of this is trusted to me.”

  “I see you don’t understand how warrants work,” Mills says, “and I don’t have time to give you a crash course, but suffice it to say that a warrant is specifically issued to gather evidence.” He points to the key. “Evidence. We’re gathering it.”

  The demure debutante returns to her pout. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “We’re not doing this to you, Jacqueline,” he says. “We’re doing this for Viveca Canning.”

  Remember to never forget. That’s about the only thing that gets him through right now with a wife at home fending off a disaster. He turns to Preston and Powell. “While these guys finish up dusting in here, let’s go check and make sure there isn’t anything else on the premises that we need to inventory.”

  They follow him into the hallway, the gallery owner on their heels. “I can’t be two places at once,” she calls to them. “I can’t be in the Canning vault and following you around at the same time.”

  “Then choose one,” Mills calls to her without turning.

  Unfortunately, she chooses to follow them. Mills asks her to name the owner of each and every vault, up and down each hallway. At first, she refuses citing client confidentiality, claiming that she has “an actual confidentiality agreement” with each of her clients. Mills gently disavows her of her notion and explains that the law supersedes any agreements she might have with her clients and that the warrant preempts her objections by assuming confidential material might be taken as evidence. “That’s it, Jacqueline. Search Warrant 101 is over. Let’s go vault by vault and you tell me who owns the contents inside.”

  “I just don’t know how that’s helpful to your investigation.”

  “The nice thing,” Powell says, rescuing Mills, and it’s about fucking time, “is that you don’t have to worry about that. You just have to tell us what we want to know.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll arrest you with the same handcuffs I would have used the last time you refused to cooperate,” Mills tells her. “But, if it will satisfy your curiosity, let me just say that the names of other art collectors could give us another path to explore. Maybe we find an intersection between Viveca and another collector here. Maybe another collector conspired to steal from her private collection. Doesn’t everybody know everybody in the Phoenix art world?”

  Jacqueline has not lost the art of the patronizing laugh. She offers one now and says, “I don’t know if I’d say that. But, true, it’s a small world.”

  Mills looks at her with genuine compassion for the upheaval he and his team have brought to her gallery. “Look, we aren’t doing anything we don’t absolutely have to do. But it is absolutely critical that we uncover anyone with ties to Viveca Canning. Even if they’re completely innocent ties. Someone might know someone who might know someone, or better yet, something. You get it?”

  She gives him a winsome smile. “I guess I do.”

  And so she leads him from vault to vault, through hallways he had not known before, reciting a list of names like, “Frida Spellman, Garrett and Jessica Wright, the Kennedy family.”

  “Those Kennedys?”

  “No,” she says, moving on. “Henry and Joanna Littleton, Patsy Grace, Sylvia and Merlene Tater, Ricardo del Rio . . .”

  He jots down all the names. None rings a bell. He had not expected any would, necessarily. But he’ll check the databases for all of them.

  “Rosemary Patchett, Fran and Leo Foster, and that’s it,” she says. “Last hallway. Last vault.”

  But he sees one more doorway. “What’s that?”

  She laughs. “Oh, that’s my vault! But you already have my name!” “You have your own collection?”

  “I do. Of course I do.”

  “May we?”

  “May you
what?”

  “May we see?”

  “Oh, God no!” she says. “I’m embarrassed. It’s a mess in there. Nothing’s organized.”

  He scoffs. “Oh come on, now. We’re not art snobs.”

  “Next time,” she says. “Just give me a heads up and I can put things together. Unless, of course, you’re going to threaten me with your warrant . . .”

  “No,” he says with a snicker. “Next time.”

  They return to the Canning vault, where Roni tells him that she’s collected as much potential evidence as she’s going to get. “That is to say, very little,” she tells Mills.

  “Something is better than nothing,” he says.

  “Then we’ve overachieved.”

  And they leave, all of them, parading out of Carmichael and Finn as though they had shopped and found nothing to their discerning tastes. Except for a key.

  23

  He’s sitting at his desk the next morning, about eight-thirty, when Gus calls. He has a billion regrets running through his head, but he answers the phone. Gus says, “Sorry, man.”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “Wasn’t I supposed to swing by yesterday and pick up that book? From the dead lady?”

  “Oh, right. No problem. Yesterday got away from me. Mondays, you know.”

  “I don’t have to be at work ’til 1:30,” Gus tells him. “I can come down to headquarters in about an hour.”

  “You shouldn’t have to come out of your way for this. I’ll bring it to you.”

  “You sure?”

  Mills surveys the room, still sees the regrets. “Oh yeah, I’m sure,” he says, an idea displacing the regrets. “But I just got in. So I need to do a few things. How about 10:30?”

  “Great.”

  “Brew the coffee.”

  “No sweat. French roast or Colombian?”

  “Caffeine,” Mills says and hangs up.

  He checks in with the squad. Myers is still mining data with the cyber experts. Preston and Powell, meanwhile, are obsessed with the skeleton key—for different reasons. Powell is comparing images of antique keys online to photos of the one found in the old chest yesterday.