ELEVEN
I didn’t play hide and seek with the sun as I drove back to Long Island. There was no fooling myself or anyone else for that matter about where I was headed or how this would end. Until meeting Nathan Martyr, it hadn’t really occurred to me that there were people who actually had a rooting interest in Sashi Bluntstone’s death. I’d met some repulsive human beings in my life, but none more so than Martyr. Being around him made me want to be able to molt like a snake and shed any piece of me that touched him. Yet, hours later, after I’d taken Jimmy Palumbo out for steak and paid him two hundred bucks in cash, after I showered and laid sleeplessly in my bed, I realized Martyr had done me a favor. Anyone who opens your eyes is doing you a favor. It was one thing when Lenya at the Brill Gallery mentioned the correlation between death and the value of art. It was something else when that junkie piece of shit gave me the lesson.
Martyr planted a seed in my head and it had blossomed overnight. Although I was still operating under the premise that Sashi Bluntstone had been abducted by a predator, possibly one of the resentful and twisted wack jobs who visited Martyr’s website or the others like it, I could no longer ignore the chance that she had been taken out of sheer greed. Sure, I thought Max and Candy were hiding something from me, but I didn’t really think they had somehow manufactured the disappearance to drive up the value of Sashi’s work. Yes, they too would surely benefit financially from Sashi’s death, at least in the short term, but neither Max nor Candy struck me as a criminal mastermind. Nor could I believe either of them was that cold-blooded. Candy couldn’t even hide her affair from her husband and Max’s grief was too real. Okay, maybe I was too close to Candy and maybe I was being naive, but it was the cops’ job to be objective and unsentimental, not mine.
I’d put in a call to McKenna and we’d agreed to talk at some point during the day, though he refused to be pinned down about timing. That was fine by me. He couldn’t accuse me of keeping information from him if we couldn’t manage to reconnect. Even if we did, I planned on being as vague as possible. I hadn’t been on the job for decades and I was now pretty much just a civilian, but old resentments persist.
I spent my entire ten years as a cop in the bag, in uniform. Uniforms do the grunt work. It’s their lives that get put on the line with every traffic stop, with every domestic violence call, but at crime scenes they’re afterthoughts, blue window dressing there to string up the yellow tape and to say, “Please stand back.” Even now it eats at me that I was treated as a stalking horse, that I was the first one through the door to find the body of a woman beaten to death or the rag doll body of a baby dangling head first from its crib, but that I was shut out completely once the detectives had taken my statement. McKenna had been fair with me up to a point and I wasn’t going to do anything to risk Sashi’s life. Beyond that, however, regardless of the promises I made to him, that was as far as I was willing to go. This case was as much mine now as his.
Then my phone rang and the load on my shoulders lightened.
“Moe? Is that you?” asked the raspy voice on the other end of the line.
“Mary Lambert, how did you get this number?”
“I have my ways.”
“Apparently.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? Not at all. So you got back for the conference call all right?”
“Your directions were perfect. I found my way just fine. Thanks again.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
There was a hesitant silence and then, “I hope this doesn’t put you off, but I haven’t really been able to concentrate since yesterday.”
“You’ve popped into my thoughts once or twice yourself,” I confessed.
“Do you think we could have dinner tonight? Until you say yes, I’ll be worthless to my employer and our clients.”
Now I hesitated. I wanted to say yes, to stop the car and pump my fist, but I couldn’t help but think about Sashi Bluntstone locked up in a dark, musty room, scared to death, waiting to be sodomized again or, worse, her cold body rotting under a pile of moldering leaves by the side of a highway somewhere. On the other hand, unless a major break fell into my lap, there would be no value in my sitting home alone in my condo. Mary misread my hesitation.
“I knew I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry. Please for-”
“It’s not that. Believe me, it’s not that at all, but I can’t explain right now. Can I give you an enthusiastic but tentative yes?”
“I’ll take it.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“That’s perfect.” Her voice smiled. “Bye, Moe Prager.”
“Bye, Mary Lambert.”
The Junction Gallery was open this time and I strolled in like a curious passerby. I don’t know, regardless of what Wallace Rusk and the Nathan Martyrs of the world had to say, I liked Sashi’s paintings. They were vibrant and whimsical and free of the constraints of European schools of thought and unconscious processes and whatever other rules the “serious” art world wanted to accuse her of breaking. If this was heresy, sign me up. Wouldn’t be the first time I was on that side of things.
The Junction Gallery wasn’t anything like the Brill. The Brill, in its stark whiteness, was nearly devoid of a sense of commerce. And with the junkie’s crap on display, it was downright anti-capitalist. The Junction Gallery, on the other hand, with its exposed brick walls, neon signs, colorful brochures and flyers, Kenny G soundtrack, and small DVD/CD and framed poster section, felt more like a Disney Store at the mall. Of course nearly all of the original paintings, framed prints, and DVDs were either produced by or were about Sashi Bluntstone. The only missing items were stuffed Sashi dolls.
There were six other people in the gallery with me. A young Japanese couple seemed to be engaged in a serious debate over the aesthetics of a Sashi painting that featured bright orange swirls, bold black streaks, and layers of yellow drips. An elderly couple just walked the gallery shaking their heads as they hesitated briefly by each painting. I wasn’t sure if their head shaking was commentary on the paintings themselves or on Sashi Bluntstone’s fate. In a corner by another of the paintings-this one predominantly textured shades of green and blue-stood the two remaining souls. She was a woman in her late fifties, thinset and lock-jawed, who looked like she just stepped out of a Talbot’s window display. She was so WASPy I thought I might have to check for wings beneath her tweed blazer. At her left shoulder was a tall, athletic man of forty with longish, slicked-back salt and pepper hair. Dressed in pine green corduroy pants over trail boots, a light green flannel shirt, and sweater vest, he struck me as an L.L. Bean man. By process of elimination, I pegged him as Randy Junction. I ambled casually over to where I could catch something of their conversation. As soon as he opened his mouth, he confirmed not only his identity, but the woman’s as well.
“Come on, Sonia,” he said, “you know the market for Sashi’s stuff is back through the roof. Don’t come in here and try and cut me off at the knees. We’ve been doing business with each other too long for that.”
“Thirty is as high as I’m going to go for this.”
He laughed, but not because he was really amused. “Sonia, Sonia, Sonia… I happen to know you paid fifty last year for ‘Red Waves’ to that collector in Ojai.”
“That was last year, Randy.”
“And this isn’t ‘Red Waves.’ ‘Lime Ocean Blue’ is the real thing and the subtlety of it shows Sashi was maturing as an artist.”
Randy Junction’s “was” stuck in my craw. They were talking about Sashi Bluntstone as if she were already dead and they were picking over the prime cuts of her carcass. I could have smacked him and kicked Sonia Barrows-Willingham in the ass. I chose to bide my time instead. Martyr was right: the vultures were circling, darkening the sky, ready to cash in on Sashi’s death. And while I wasn’t ready to write Martyr any love letters or apologies, he suddenly seemed less detestable somehow. At least his loathing and cynicism were on display for the wor
ld to see, not hidden in whispers in the corner of a low-rent art gallery.
“All right, Randy. Forty.”
Junction couldn’t have hidden his smile with an iron mask. “Forty-five.” His heart wasn’t in it, but he figured it was worth a try.
“Forty.” Sonia reached into her million dollar handbag and pulled out her checkbook and Mont Blanc. “Shall I start writing or walking?”
“Writing, of course.”
There would have been some advantage to surprising them and confronting them in public, but surprise can be overrated. I wanted a little more information before I went after them and I wanted them separately. Besides, I’d overheard their conversation and they could no more retreat from it tomorrow or the next day as they could today. Junction would have her money and she would have the painting and they could both rot in hell.
“Here’s your check,” she said, tearing it off and handing it to him. She didn’t look particularly pleased, but she looked like the type of woman who never seemed particularly pleased about anything. She probably blinked when she orgasmed… if she orgasmed.
“Thank you, Sonia. Your paintings will be delivered tomorrow as always.”
Paintings? When Sonia Barrows-Willingham left, I watched Junction place little red “sold” stickers on the white description placards next to three of Sashi’s paintings. Randy Junction was practically floating as he walked from painting to painting with his red stickers. I thought I’d use his good mood to my advantage.
“Excuse me, are you the gallery owner?”
“I am indeed. Randolph Junction. How may I assist you?”
“I’m not much for art myself,” I said. “One bunch of glops and drips is much like any other to me, but I’m an investor. I’ve got a nice portfolio, but that’s not the thing that gets me going. No, I like investing in things: diamonds, stamps, wine… I got a tip from a friend that I should check out some of this kid’s stuff.”
I thought Junction was going to ring like an old-fashioned cash register. “Your friend has a good eye.”
“My friend is color-blind and knows less about art than I do. What he knows is money and investments. So sell me, Junction.”
“All right, you seem like a man who wants to cut to the chase. The fact is that if you had walked in here a month ago, you could have bought every original in this gallery for about a hundred grand. Today, you couldn’t buy any three of them for that little.”
“Why’s that?”
For the first time since I entered, Randy Junction was off balance. He didn’t answer right away and nervously brushed his palms against each other.
“Don’t clam up on me now. I know the kid is missing,” I prodded.
“Well… look, if she doesn’t turn up,” his voice cracked, “the value will go sky high.”
“Okay, I appreciate your honesty. Have you got a card and some literature?”
Junction obliged, but he didn’t try to close me. There was no sales pitch with the handshake, no, “Maybe you want to buy one now, because if they find her body this evening…”
I gave him some credit for that, but not much. I told him we’d speak again soon and we would. Only the next time, it would be on my terms, terms he was bound not to like.
Someday I’d get Max and Candy home together, but it wasn’t going to be today. Today it was Max’s turn to be gone when I showed up and that was probably a good thing, because the time had come for me to explain about my needing Sashi’s last painting. But just before the thought was translated into nerve impulses and then into muscle commands to move my tongue and lips, I was struck by a second notion. It was something that was kicking around in my head since the night before. It occurred to me that I might not give a shit if Sashi or her late dog Cara or the UPS man actually did her paintings, but it might matter to someone else, someone who might be very pissed off if they found out, or someone who might have an interest in keeping the secret. Dead men tell no tales nor do little dead girls.
Candy seemed to be sliding down the hill lubricated by grief. The faint signs of optimism I’d seen in her face and heard in her voice were gone. Her eyes were red on red and the makeup she’d managed for her lover was nowhere in sight. Max may have gotten there before her, but she was catching up. Who knows what set her off, what finally made her take a stark look at the reality of things? Was it something Randy Junction whispered in her ear as he put himself inside her? Was it that I hadn’t been able to magically deliver her daughter to her in a matter of days? Or was it simply that she could read the calendar and there was no more fight left in her? Sometimes the why doesn’t matter in the face of what is.
“What is it Mr. Pra-Moe?”
“I found a source who might give me an opening. It’s the first real lead I have.”
But the grief had taken hold, so not even the hope I was offering, as faint and vague as it was, did much to lift Candy up.
“Might,” she said, “you said might.”
“My source wants his palms greased.”
Her eyes got wide. “Money?”
“No, honey. If it was as simple as money, I could take care of that. He wants paintings, four of Sashi’s paintings.”
She stared at me blankly as if I’d just spoken to her in a language she’d never heard before. Then she said, “Paintings?”
“Four: one from her early period, one from a few years back, a more recent one, and the one down in the basement… the last one she was working on.”
“Moe, I… we don’t have… I have to talk to Max about it.”
“Candy, I know this is hard for you, but I think we’ve got a real shot here to make some headway.”
“But we don’t have any of Sashi’s stuff anymore. I-”
I grabbed Candy’s forearm to get her full attention. “Listen to me. Go to Junction and go to Sonia Barrows-Willingham if you have to, but get those paintings for me by tomorrow.”
“How do you know about Sonia?”
“I used to be a PI, remember? That’s why you went to Sarah to come to me.”
“I don’t know if Sonia-”
“Then tell your boyfriend Junction to kick in the other three paintings.” That got her attention all right. “And no, I didn’t figure that out on my own. Max told me.”
Now it all came out in one awful rush: the tears, the grief, the vomit, the horror and relief of being found out. I got on the floor with her, rocked her, and held her head the way I used to with Sarah when she was sick. Only this kind of sickness, the sickness of a dying marriage and a missing child, wasn’t going to get better in a few days. I cleaned her up and put her into bed.
“I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to get those paintings. Get them any way you have to, Candy.”
Then I kissed her forehead and closed her door behind me. Yeah, I lied to her, but I had a feeling the walls of this house had seen a lot of lying before I ever walked up those front porch steps.
TWELVE
Mary Lambert, flush with pride over having purchased a GPS at her firm’s expense, fairly demanded that she come to my end of Brooklyn for dinner. I wasn’t going to argue with her. The thought of seeing her again gave me that happy nervousness I hadn’t experienced since I’d been with Carmella. Like I said, I was no monk and there had been no shortage of women to warm the other side of my bed, but there hadn’t been any buzz with them beyond the buzz of bitterness. Dating always sucks, but dating in middle age sucks a whole lot worse because everyone involved has baggage, usually in the form of ex-spouses-either dead or divorced. You have no idea how much fun I had explaining that I had one of each. And even when the bitterness quotient was low, dinner conversation usually degenerated into a discussion of kids and grandkids or comparing whole-grain cereals and doses of Lipitor. Then, if dinner was nice enough, if there had been sufficient alcohol consumption, I’d wind up falling into bed with my dinner companion. You want to talk about baggage… Bed is the Broadway stage of baggage. No, don’t turn me over. My husband always forced me in
to that position and even when I liked it I hated it.
I tried the younger woman thing for a while. That was even less successful because then most of the baggage was mine, and mine included a murdered ex-wife whom I still loved, an ex-wife I’m not sure I ever loved but still wanted, and enough secrets to choke the Trojan Horse. Besides, it was nearly impossible to find common ground with women my daughter’s age. And inevitably, within an hour or two, I wound up sounding paternal and/or professorial. I found out soon enough that no one finds it dead sexy when you utter the phrase, “Don’t worry, when you get to my age you’ll understand.” There were times, I confess, I yearned for those whole-grain cereal discussions and photos of the grandkids. Modern pharmacology notwithstanding, there are issues for men of a certain age beyond just staying hard. The nature of desire itself changes with time.
I made three phone calls while I waited for Mary Lambert. I put Jimmy Palumbo on alert that his services might be required in the coming days. He was eager for the work, for the two hundred dollars, and, he said, for another steak dinner. The next call was to Palumbo’s boss at the museum, Wallace Rusk. I didn’t figure to get him in the office, not if his security guard was already home. I left a message anyway. What I needed from him could wait until Candy got me those four paintings. Then I put in the call I was least looking forward to, the one to McKenna. Not that he’d kept his promise either-I’d checked my cell phone all throughout the day-but cops can have funny notions of whose job it is to do what. Hallelujah! I got his voice mail and left a message. I’d have to talk to him sooner or later. Every minute later was better.
I found myself looking out the front window of my condo at the moonlight reflecting off the black waters of Sheepshead Bay and beyond to Manhattan Beach. I’d lived here for a lot of years now. I had intended to move Carmella, Israel, and me into a nice house, but I never got the chance. The marriage started to crumble almost from the second we took our vows. Given that we were business partners, that she was pregnant with another man’s child, and that I was still reeling from Katy’s murder, it was a miracle we lasted fifteen minutes. And Carmella had a rage in her that dated back to a time before her name was Carmella or Melendez, to when she had been abused as a little girl. One time I asked her why she chose to spell her new first name with a double l, a very untraditional spelling for a Spanish speaker. She told me it was a final Fuck you! to her mother who had reacted with shame to the abuse. Talk about baggage… I should have known our marriage was a mistake. She should have known. We did know, both of us knew, but we did it anyway. Sometimes I think our stubbornness in the face of the facts is what defines human behavior.
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