“Quite all right,” Young said, smiling and standing with me.
“Thank you for your help.”
“Shall I walk you out?” he asked.
“No, I’ll see myself out. Oh, one more thing. Out of curiosity, who is Andrew Dyer?”
Lindgren shot a look at Young.
“He’s an associate of mine,” Young said lightly. “He stays here from time to time.” Then he grinned. “It’s open-door.”
14
Shortly after leaving Lindgren and Young’s place, I noticed my tail was back. I wasn’t sure how the driver had gotten on me again, but for the moment it didn’t matter. I took Trilby to Timberline then drove north to the police station. This time I parked and went inside. I almost waved as the Cadillac cruised by, but I managed to refrain.
“We can do this all day, buddy,” I said to myself as I watched the car drive past.
I spoke with the woman manning the front desk and waited while she called Ellmann. Normally Ellmann gives the okay to this person to send me up. Today, she announced Ellmann would be right down and I was to wait. It may have simply been because the place was a zoo between the FBI and the task force, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because Ellmann didn’t want me to catch a glimpse of whatever he was working on, whatever it was he didn’t want me to know.
Ten minutes later, Ellmann appeared in the lobby. I noticed several chunks of hair were standing up. I worried for him, because it was only early afternoon.
“I’m glad you’re here. I left a message on your phone.”
“I haven’t checked my messages since I called you at lunch. What’s up?”
“My sister keeps calling me. She says she’s going crazy and needs to get out of the house. I told her I was stuck here. She wondered if you could come get her and maybe take her shopping.”
“I don’t shop.” With rare exception. I used to shop Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue. Now I think forty bucks is a steep price for a pair of shoes. Funny how things change.
“I know. But I was thinking maybe you two could do something together. Plus, I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you were with someone with a phone, and I had a way of getting ahold of you.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I always worry about you.”
That meant no.
No big deal. I’d figure it out eventually. I always do.
“Right. You know, I’ve got work to do today. I only have sixteen more hours to find Dillon.”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Okay, then, why don’t you take her with you? I would really appreciate it if you’d do this. It would be for me.”
I did a mental sigh.
“You know what?” I said. “I just remembered there’s a sale at DSW this weekend I wanted to check out.”
I had no idea if DSW was having a sale, and if they were, I had no desire to check it out.
I could see the relief in him as a small measure of stress was lifted from his shoulders.
“Thank you.”
I told him I’d take care of it then left.
I didn’t see any Cadillacs lurking in the parking lot, but I did keep my eyes peeled. Whoever it was following me seemed to have a knack for finding me. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I thought it probably wasn’t good.
I drove south on Timberline to Ellmann’s neighborhood. I pulled into the driveway, and before I could turn off the engine, the front door opened and Natalie hurried out. She walked to the passenger side, ripped the door open, and jumped in.
“I see Alex finally got ahold of you,” she said.
I leaned back in the seat and looked at her. Today she was dressed in a really cute paisley sundress, and her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. She was certainly a pretty woman.
“Yes, he told me how you’ve been pestering him all day. Now you’re going to pester me instead. He’s stressed out enough as it is with this task force.”
“I want to go shopping.”
“That’s great,” I said, backing out of the driveway. “I want to find my FTA. Since I’m driving, that’s what we’re going to do.”
“And what’s an FTA?”
“It means ‘failure to appear.’ It’s the term we use for people out on bail who miss their court appearances.”
“So that’s what you do all day? You drive around looking for people who missed court?”
“I suppose if you simplified it, yes, that’s what I do. It’s more complicated than that, though.”
“You know, this isn’t turning out to be much of a trip.”
“Ellmann told both you and your father he would be tied up with this task force thing as soon as he knew you were coming. If you guys came anyway, that’s on you.”
“His name is Alex. Why do you call him Ellmann?”
I rolled my eyes. Honestly, I tried to stop it, but it got away from me before I could.
“Would you rather I call him something stupid like ‘doodlebug’ or ‘pumpkin cheeks’ or ‘muffin pie?’ His name’s Ellmann. All of his coworkers call him Ellmann. All his friends call him Ellmann. He calls himself Ellmann. The only people it seems to bother are my therapist, who reads way too much into things sometimes; my archnemesis, whose opinion doesn’t count based on principle alone; and you, but I think you just dislike me and would find something else to be bothered about if I called him something you approved of.”
She was quiet for a few minutes as I headed back to the McKinnon house.
I pulled to a stop at a red light and glanced over at her. I saw she was staring at the scar on my thigh, visible when I was wearing shorts and sitting. It was healing well, but it was still pretty red and ugly looking. Not nearly so ugly as my shoulder, but ugly all the same.
“What happened?” she asked, catching me looking at her.
“Uh, gunshot wound.”
“You were shot?”
That’s how you get gunshot wounds.
“Yep.”
I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t explain I’ve been shot more than once. And I certainly didn’t tell her I’ve done some shooting of my own.
We rumbled on in silence for several minutes.
“Would you have lunch with your gardener?” I asked after a while.
She shrugged. “Depends.”
“Really? On what?”
“A lot of things. If our relationship came first and our roles second, yes. If we didn’t really have a relationship outside our roles, then no, probably not. Why?”
I shook my head. “Just one of many things that doesn’t make sense to me.”
When we arrived back at the McKinnons’ place, the garage door was shut. The yard work had been completed. I parked at the curb and pocketed the keys.
“You can wait here or come along,” I said, getting out.
Natalie got out of the truck and met me on the sidewalk, then she followed me to the door. I rang the bell and stepped back. She looked bored by the time the door was answered, which was probably only thirty seconds later.
“Mrs. McKinnon,” I said. “Sorry to bother you again. I just have a couple more things to ask you and your husband.”
Mrs. McKinnon looked from me to Natalie, whom she’d never seen before.
“Oh, this is Natalie. Uh, she’s an associate of mine,” I explained, saying whatever I thought would ease Mrs. McKinnon’s suspicious and cautious mind.
This must have been satisfactory because she invited us in. Her husband was on the sofa watching TV.
“Honey, that investigator is back,” she said.
I considered that I might need to get new cards. They seemed to confuse everyone about what I really do.
Mr. McKinnon muted the TV then got up. He greeted me and then Natalie. Natalie began moving through the room, studying each painting hanging on the wall, as if this were nothing more than a trip to the art museum.
“You said you fired House and Home because you had a lot of trouble with them. What sort of trouble w
ere you having?”
“Oh, gosh,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets.
Mrs. McKinnon looked angry at the memories.
“It was always something,” she began. “They would come late or have to change appointments at the last minute. When they did come, I sometimes couldn’t tell if things had been cleaned. Not like when the Clean Sweep girls come; no, you know they’ve been here. Also, I found quite a few things broken. I also had a diamond necklace go missing. At the time, I thought I’d misplaced it, but now I’m sure it was stolen. We also had a painting stolen. That’s when I fired them. I’m just sure one or more of those girls had something to do with it.”
“When was the painting stolen?” I asked.
“Last April.”
“Can you tell me more about the painting?”
“It was an impressionist piece by a French painter named François Brouis,” Mr. McKinnon said. “It was one of his earliest works.”
“This is also Brouis,” Natalie said from behind him, pointing to a canvas hanging on the wall of the living room. “Only this one is much later. His White Period, I’d say.”
McKinnon beamed and walked over to stand beside her, staring up lovingly at the painting.
“That’s right,” he said. “Are you a collector?”
“No, I’m actually an artist. I love impressionism. I’ve studied Brouis, but I’ve never seen anything in person. This is an honor.”
I took a long look at the painting. It looked like a woman sitting at a table under an umbrella sipping coffee and watching two young boys chase each other in the nearby grass. The entire image seemed slightly blurry. But to each his own.
“How much is the painting worth?” I asked.
McKinnon turned back to me. “About five million, depending. A French museum once offered me eight.”
Eight million dollars for some blurry smears?
“What about this one?” I asked, indicating the one still hanging on the wall. “How much is it worth?”
“This one is worth about three million.”
“Why the difference in price?” I asked. Art isn’t my thing.
“This piece is much better known and from a much more productive period for the artist.”
“Okay, so whoever stole the painting knew it was the more valuable of the two,” I said, summing up aloud.
“Yes,” McKinnon said.
“Is this piece new to you, Mr. McKinnon?” I asked, referring to the painting on the wall.
“No, why?”
“I’m wondering why the person who broke into your house only bothered to take one. They’re both very valuable. If the thief was already in the house, why not take both?”
It was obvious this was a question neither of them had thought about.
“Brouis is an artist favored by a very select group of people,” Natalie said. “See, he broke a lot of the rules of impressionism. Some think he was a genius, a visionary. But a much larger group thinks his work is trash. In order for a seller to get the best price on work like his, he would already have to have a buyer lined up. There is no way you’d get the same kind of money selling it on the open market, even the black market.
“That’s why so many art thefts are commissioned. Someone looking for a particular piece will hire someone to retrieve it. If that were the case here, as I suspect it was, the thief would have only been interested in the one piece. The other art in the house would have gone largely unnoticed.”
I was surprised to hear all of this from Natalie. The McKinnons appeared surprised to hear it at all. But then I suppose no one likes to think they’ve been targeted. Somehow it isn’t so scary if you’re the victim of a random, meaningless crime.
“All right,” I said, thinking. “If the theft was commissioned, as you suggest, the person paying would have had to know Mr. McKinnon had the piece. Who would know something like that?”
She shrugged. “The art community is very large, and at the same time very small. The true collectors know where their favorite pieces are, even if they’re held in private collections like this one. As he said, a French museum offered to buy the piece. Because he turned down its incredibly generous offer, I’m assuming he didn’t reach out to them. That means someone at the museum would have known where the piece was. And that person wouldn’t be the only one. This won’t be the best way to narrow down your suspect pool.”
I was disappointed. That had been my exact goal.
“Had anyone outside the museum expressed interest in the painting?” I asked the couple.
Mrs. McKinnon deferred to her husband. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Like she said, the community is a small one. I’ve had other collectors, other museums contact me about all the pieces I have. Most want to know if I’ll sell. Others want to come and see them. The interest in the Brouis was not unusual.”
“It isn’t unusual for someone to call and ask if they could come see one of your paintings?” I asked.
Both the McKinnons and Natalie shook their heads.
“True collectors,” Natalie said, “appreciate the art. Just to see one of these paintings in person, up close, is the most exciting, genuine experience. Most of the time, that’s all a collector wants.”
Mr. McKinnon was nodding in agreement.
I really don’t understand the art world.
“Okay,” I said. “This has been very helpful. Thank you both very much.”
“Would you like to see the rest before you leave?” McKinnon asked.
I would have passed. Natalie, however, was halfway up the stairs, deep in conversation with Mr. McKinnon, before I could form a response.
__________
Mrs. McKinnon and I sat in the kitchen drinking milk and eating Oreos while we waited for the art tour to end. Mrs. McKinnon wasn’t as passionate about art as her husband was, apparently. But she did ask me if I was going to get the painting back. I wanted to tell her yes, I wanted to be able to right this wrong, to right all the wrongs in the world, but I knew the chances of that happening were highly unlikely, and I told her so. She didn’t seem surprised, but she had been just a tiny bit hopeful my answer would have been different.
When Natalie was finally ready to go, we said our goodbyes and thank-yous and got back in the truck. I drove west to Eric Dunn’s house, watching the mirrors closely for silver Cadillacs. I saw none. When we got to Dunn’s place, I noticed the Camaro was not in the driveway and hoped he was home.
Having had such a good time at the last stop, Natalie didn’t even think about passing on this one. She was out of the truck and halfway to the door by the time I caught up. I rang the bell and waited, not sure the door would be answered. But two minutes later, Dunn did appear.
“Ah, the girl who likes muscle cars,” he said, stepping out onto the porch. “And the girl my client just pressed formal charges against. You shouldn’t be here.”
Natalie shot me a look, heavy with judgment. It seemed her opinion of me, which had started off on a bad foot, was veering off in an entirely backward direction now.
“I just have a few more questions,” I said to Dunn. “Speaking of, where is your car? I didn’t think you’d be home.”
He shrugged. “A friend of mine borrowed it to run to the store. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you really must go. And next time we speak, you should have an attorney present.”
“I’m not here as a defendant. I’m here as a bond enforcement agent. I’m looking for a fugitive, and so long as our conversation maintains that focus, you can, and should, speak to me. I only have a few questions.”
He studied me for a beat, a faint smile playing over his mouth.
“Well,” he said, smiling openly now. “Anything I can do to help.”
“You said you don’t have any house staff, but do you use any kind of service company regularly? Maybe a cleaning company or a lawn service?”
He shook his head. “I have a woman who does the clea
ning, but she’s not with a company. She and her daughter do private work, and they’ve been with our family for years. I do the yard work; I like getting my hands dirty.” He smiled again.
I pulled out the new photo of Dillon. “What about this woman? Have you seen her before?”
He took the photo and studied it.
“Is this the same woman? I can hardly tell.”
“Do you recognize her?”
“Mmm, I’m not sure.”
He was lying. As he just reminded me, he was Jeremiah Vandreen’s attorney. Danielle Dillon had beaten the crap out of Vandreen. I’d done the same thing, and he’d recognized me. How was it he didn’t recognize someone else charged with a crime against his client?
I took the photo back.
“I can see you have some art in your home,” I said, looking over his shoulder to the display case I’d seen on my last trip. Natalie shifted on the porch so she could get a better look. “I’m wondering if any of your art has ever been stolen.”
“Oh, my gosh!” Natalie said, bolting forward past Dunn into his house.
“Hey, wait a minute!” he called, turning and following her in.
I hurried in after them both.
“Is that a Russian decorative egg?” Natalie asked, rushing up to the case and peering inside, her nose inches from the glass.
“You’re familiar with them?” he asked, the same surprise and appreciation in his voice as I’d heard in Mr. McKinnon’s.
“Yes, they’re extremely rare, and absolutely beautiful.”
They were looking at a small egg-shaped thing propped up on a gold stand, about three inches at its tallest point. It was gold, covered in intricate designs and inlaid with dozens of gems, among them rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and several others I couldn’t name but that looked pretty.
“This one was supposed to have been crafted for the wife of the last czar of Russia,” Dunn said. “There is none like it.”
“Wow,” Natalie said. “You know, I heard Caroline Marks had a Russian egg in her collection.”
“I’ve heard that rumor, too,” Dunn said. “Unfortunately, I was never able to see her collection for myself.”
Natalie stared at the egg for a while longer then stood upright and took in the other items in the case. Now that I was closer, I could see I’d been right about the collection being eclectic. Even my layman eye could see these items must have been from cultures as differed as Africa, China, and Europe. Natalie walked to the left and stopped. She was particularly interested a pair of jade sculptures. Well, not sculptures so much as rectangular slabs of jade with carvings on them. They were each about eight or ten inches in height, and they reminded me a lot of the erotic carvings on the exteriors of Indian temples I’d seen in books and on TV. (I really like to watch documentaries on the History Channel.) Each sculpture depicted a man and a woman in an intimate position. Natalie stood and pointed at the jade pieces as she turned to look at Dunn.
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 18