by Ken Brigham
“Sherlock Shane,” Pat Harmony boomed as Shane wheeled himself through the doorway that opened directly from the short alleyway into the barroom. “Sunnuvabitch…son-of-a-bitch!”
The old cop grabbed for his cane that he had propped against a liquor cabinet and maneuvered himself out from behind the bar and across the room. He bent over and embraced Shane so vigorously that Shane’s wheelchair started to roll backward and Harmony almost fell into the detective’s lap.
“Whoa, Nellie,” Harmony yelled, Keith Jackson-like, as he regained his footing and rebalanced himself with the cane. “Welcome back to Wall Street, Shane,” draping an arm across Shane’s shoulder. “Been too long…too damn long, my friend.”
Shane had forgotten Pat Harmony’s tendency to over-exuberance and was taken aback by the vigor of the old policeman’s greeting. He rescued the bottle of sherry from his lap and held it up to Harmony, hoping to distract the ex-cop from his apparent need for physical contact. It was not that Shane was opposed to physical contact where appropriate and consensual, but this situation didn’t meet those criteria.
“Thank you, my man,” Shane said. “The sherry, here’s my special sherry as promised. I trust you will treat it with care.”
“That particular spot in the cupboard is still unoccupied. I’ll put it there under lock and key and reserve it only for you or whoever you say.” Harmony held the bottle up and examined the label. “Is this stuff legal?” he asked.
“I think it would be unwise of you to insist on an answer to that question, my man,” Shane smiled broadly. “You can never tell when the gendarmes will come calling with potentially embarrassing questions concerning the wine’s provenance.”
“I aim to keep on good terms with the law, my friend. But whatever you say,” Harmony chuckled. “I’ll treat it carefully.”
“See that you do,” Shane replied. “See that you do.”
Shane gently extricated himself from the grasp of the old cop and wheeled over to the bar. He sat for a few minutes remembering his history there. He had mostly tried not to ponder that history, his life before the accident. He wondered as he sat there whether this was such a good idea. Could it be that he was kidding himself and was about to attempt something that was patently futile? Was he hoping that by renewing the trappings of his old life as Sherlock Shane, that long-dormant persona would miraculously emerge, genie-like, from his broken body?
Pat Harmony, leaning heavily on his cane, hobbled back to his post behind the bar. He appeared to sense that Shane was pondering the place, maybe remembering, and so he didn’t say anything for a while. He stashed the bottle of sherry in the cupboard that really had been empty since back in the day.
“So, how about it, my friend?” Harmony finally said. “Just say the word and we’ll resurrect your Wall Street office. That spot at the end of the bar’s never been put to such good use since those days. Don’t worry about the wheelchair. I’ll take out a stool and put in a platform with a ramp so you can just wheel right up to the bar and do your thing. Anytime you want. Your place. Might even make a plaque or something to mark the spot. Love to have you back, Shane. I’d love that. Old times.”
Shane wheeled himself across to the end of the bar and sat there quietly. Mind wheels churning, both inviting and steeling him against a flood of memories of his life when his legs worked right. Old times. Gone for good.
It was early in the afternoon, before Pat Harmony usually opened the place, but he had left the door unlocked and a man came in, walked to the bar, sat down and surveyed the situation without saying anything. Both Shane and Pat Harmony looked at him, wondering.
A stranger to both of them. Probably a stranger to town. He just had that look. Like he was comfortable enough anywhere but this wasn’t familiar territory and so he was comfortable enough but still tentative. Casing the joint. Taking his measure of the place and the two people before deciding on a course of action.
“This where the cops hang out?” the stranger said.
“Some do,” said Pat Harmony. “Like a drink? A little early but we can handle it.”
“So where are they…the cops?” the stranger said. “Out chasing after people who’re killing off your local artists? Stupid idea, you know. You southerners,” he continued, “just can’t help self-inflicting wounds. Just keep doing it. But an artist? Them’s unencumbered bucks, my friend. Golden goose. Dead? Not good for this town…any town.”
“Uh, mister,” Pat said, more than a little annoyed at this guy’s tone, “are you looking for an audience or do you want a drink? As you can see there’s not much of an audience here, but we do have booze. You a Yankee?”
An antiquated term, even for Pat Harmony, but the visitor’s tone sent him dredging in the further reaches of that lingering North-South dichotomy, a territory not often explored but not completely unfamiliar. There when the occasion called for it.
“If you mean do I hail from north of the Mason-Dixon Line, I plead guilty. If, as I suspect, your pejorative term means something more than that, you’ve probably got the wrong label.”
“I presume,” Shane had quietly wheeled over toward where the stranger sat and parked, unnoticed, behind him, “you refer to the late Bechman Fitzwallington. Are you an acquaintance?”
Surprised, the unexpected visitor pivoted the barstool around to face Shane. Shane noted the man’s receding hairline and the dark ravines sculpted beneath his eyes, bottomless half-moons no doubt etched there by some serious life experiences. His nose was too large for his narrow face and sharp chin. His mouth was small and its default position was slightly open, like a door left slightly ajar, exposing the tips of opposing rows of perfectly spaced and well-aligned but very small yellowish teeth. He wore a nicely pressed but inexpensive dark suit, no pocket square, and a black tie with turquoise stripes tied in a Windsor knot that was loosened over the unbuttoned collar of a white shirt with magenta pinstripes. Shoes. Comfortable shoes of a man who was prepared to walk a lot. Cop shoes. Stylishly brown. Tarted up a bit, but still cop shoes.
“You might consider me an interested party.”
The accent. Probably New York.
“I might. Then again I might consider you someone else altogether.” Shane looked directly into the man’s bland gray eyes. “The coincidence of a suddenly dead artist and the arrival of an ‘interested party’ from elsewhere must surely tweak one’s imagination. Don’t you think?”
“Can we stop this dance?” the stranger said reaching to shake Shane’s hand. “I’m Mace Ricci, New York.”
“Shane Hadley,” smiling and clasping the visitor’s hand just long enough to get an impression of its strength and texture, an informative but decidedly perfunctory gesture, intended not to convey too much.
Pat Harmony reached over the bar as Ricci turned halfway around to address the bartender. They shook hands.
“Pat Harmony,” he said.
“And your interest in the activities of our fair city’s police force?” Shane asked.
“Are you a cop?” Ricci asked, in no hurry to explain himself.
Another unexplanation; they seemed to be accumulating.
“You might consider me an interested party,” Shane said.
“So, interested party,” Ricci smirked, “did somebody bump old BF off or did nature do it for us? Any idea?”
“The more interesting question at the moment is why a stranger would venture all the way from the big city to our modest town to pursue such a question,” Shane answered. “Any idea?”
“Not an original reason,” Ricci said. “Money. You see, my employer has a problem. Bechman Fitzwallington is worth more to him dead than alive, but his value depends heavily on the way he died. Natural causes, good. Murder, not so good. The cops say no murder investigation, but I’m just trying to dig a little deeper. Heard a fella can learn a lot by hanging out at the Wall Street bar. Came early to be sure to get a good seat. Can’t always trust what the cops tell the TV and newspaper guys.”
“And your employer? Something to do with his art?” Shane asked.
“Is there any other reason to be interested in the old guy?”
“I don’t know. Your employer?”
“Are you a cop?”
“Like I said, an interested party,” Shane said. “Explain how the manner of Mr. Fitzwallington’s demise affects his value to your employer.”
“Simple. My employer handles his art in New York. I’m no art expert, but apparently this guy’s art hasn’t been so hot lately and the fact that he died will bump up the art world’s interest for a while. He left some paintings that my employer has reason to believe he can get his hands on, but if there’s a drawn-out murder investigation, your cops will no doubt impound the paintings until the case is resolved. By that time, the art world might well have moved on beyond Fitzwallington to something else. My employer says he needs to get the paintings ASAP. Now that the old guy is dead, the longer they are off the market, the lower the prices. That’s what I’m told, anyway.”
That made sense to Shane. He was pleased to have at least one explanation.
“Who has the paintings now?” Shane asked.
“There’s a daughter,” Ricci said. “A real piece of work. The only heir, as far as I can tell. She’s got a bunch of the old man’s paintings stashed away.”
“Yes,” Shane said, “I know something of the daughter.”
Shane pondered the situation for a bit. Finally, he asked, “What makes you think Fitzwallington might have been murdered?”
“I don’t necessarily think that. But asking around, there seem to be a lot of people who aren’t very disturbed that the old guy cashed it in. Including his daughter and some other artists in town.”
“It sounds as though your employer also had much to gain from his death,” Shane said.
“That’s true,” Ricci responded. “But my employer has never, to my knowledge, set foot in this town and bumping the old guy off was not part of my job description. So maybe motive but no opportunity.”
“It is not difficult for imaginative people to create opportunities,” Shane replied, then gestured toward the bartender. “Pat, perhaps we should sample that bottle of sherry,” and to Mace Ricci, whoever he was. “Would you join us for a glass of wine, Mr. Ricci?”
The wine was poured, glasses clinked, and the odd threesome sat for a while quietly sipping their drinks and thinking separate thoughts.
Probably not the last we’ll see of Mr. Mace Ricci, Shane thought.
Breaking the long silence, Ricci asked Shane, “Are you a cop?”
“Used to be,” Shane replied. “And you?”
“Used to be. Why do you ask?”
“The shoes,” Shane said.
Chapter 8
The same North Nashville zip code, Katya Karpov mused…interesting.
She had approval from the appropriate committees to get additional identifying information on the outliers in her department’s aging brain study, but the data were arriving in dribs and drabs. The first data to arrive were the zip codes of the subjects’ residences. The two downside outliers shared a zip code. Interesting but not that interesting until she had more information. However, they were the only two members of the group of outliers in either direction who shared that zip code. So … maybe. But needed more data before launching a major effort to identify environmental peculiarities in that part of town. That could open a Pandora’s box that Dr. Karpov, for many very practical reasons, preferred to avoid if possible. Keep the possibility in mind but don’t get too excited. For starters, need to wait for final word on the genetics. However, it was always risky to underestimate the power of Mother Nature even if, on occasion, she insisted on exposing her dark side.
“Come in,” Katya responded to a gentle rap on her partly open door.
Harold Werth entered her office, carefully examining a familiar spot on the floor in front of her desk.
“I have some data that might interest you, Katya,” her visitor said, the familiar hesitancy in his voice indicating a completely false lack of confidence in what he was about to say; Dr. Werth did not make statements for which he lacked confidence, but he often found it useful to indicate otherwise.
“What have you got, professor?” Katya responded.
“Well,” Werth said, “our analyses are blind, as you know, but…”
“Semi-blind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I presume,” Katya said, “that you are going to give me information on the outliers. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, you knew they were outliers when you did the analyses. You were semi-blind.”
“Semi-blind,” Werth mumbled. “Not an easy concept to comprehend. However, I do have some information on a couple of the outliers that might interest you.”
“And?” Katya was impatient.
“First, we can find nothing in the genetic sequencing data that indicated any consistent difference between your outliers and the rest of the experimental group. One of the subjects in the outlier group has an XYY trisomy, but none of the others so that doesn’t explain anything about the group as a whole.”
“But?”
“But,” Werth smiled, “we are just finishing the DNA methylation studies and there may be something there.”
“Epigenetics!” Karpov exclaimed. “Refuge of the desperate geneticist.”
Katya sometimes thought that the gene guys made the basic assumption that genetics explained everything and so were unable to accept contrary evidence, no matter how convincing. Given that attitude, they had no choice but to invent possible vagaries in the genetic machinery that could explain virtually anything. A variation on the deus ex machina literary device.
“Well, we do have a tendency to explain what can’t be divined from the usual sequencing by looking for other alterations in DNA that could be important. And we know that environmental exposures, toxins and the like, can change how genes function. Methylation is a marker for that.”
“Mother Nature’s dark side?”
“I’m not sure that Mother Nature distinguishes between dark and light. Maybe she just goes about her business. Until we get in the way, which, of course, we commonly do.”
“Whatever,” Katya answered, anxious to hear Werth’s information. “What have you got?”
“Two of your outliers, including the one with the XYY trisomy, show distinct DNA methylation patterns, different from all of the other subjects. The patterns raise the possibility of toxic exposure. We can’t be much more specific than that. A lot of toxins can cause changes like this.”
“Which two?”
“I can give you the study numbers.”
Katya had the table of study numbers and zip codes in front of her and when Werth gave her the study numbers she saw immediately that they matched up to the two subjects who were outliers on the downside. And who shared residential zip codes. The possible environmental exposure plot might be thickening.
“Nothing on the other outliers?” Katya asked.
“Nothing so far anyway,” Werth replied. “We’ll keep looking.”
Keep looking for sure. Katya most wanted to know what was special about the brains of the artists who were upside performers. She thought they were the interesting ones.
Mace Ricci, following the advice of Bruce Therault, his New York employer, had invested a fair amount of time and energy during his brief stay in Nashville establishing what he believed to be a reliable connection with the odd woman who called herself SalomeMe. That was critical if he was to make certain that Therault’s New York gallery got exclusive rights to the remaining Fitzwallington paintings. And that was the job for which he was being paid a moderately obscene sum. He needed to keep that relationship alive and usually either met with SalomeMe or at least talked with her on the phone pretty much every day. He felt okay about how that was going.
However, he had learned, initially from the Fitzwallington daughter and then from some other conne
ctions he had made in the art community, that there was a potential complication. It seemed that a local gallery may have some claims on the paintings and his employer was not at all anxious to share what promised to be a considerable pile of dough with another gallery. Therault wanted all of the paintings and exclusive rights to profit from their sale.
That is why Ricci found himself driving slowly out Eighth Avenue on a Tuesday afternoon in a heavy rainstorm, peering intently at the cross-street signs, trying to locate the street where he understood the AvantArt Gallery was to be found and where, presumably, the gallery proprietor, Athena Golden, awaited his arrival. He had talked with her on the phone and was making every possible effort, despite the sudden rainstorm, to arrive at the gallery exactly at the agreed-upon time. He was close.
Athena Golden had never heard of Mace Ricci and was very surprised to get his call. She was especially surprised to hear that he was in the employ of the New York Gallery that Athena associated only with Blythe Fortune, although she knew that Blythe had a business partner. She made the appointment to meet with this Mace Ricci character reluctantly and as soon as she ended the conversation with Ricci, she emailed Blythe, wishing to verify what this stranger had said and hopefully find out what he was up to. When Ricci entered the AvantArt Gallery, Blythe hadn’t responded.
“Mace Ricci,” the large stranger strode through the door and across the room to where Athena stood, extending his hand.
Athena thought her reluctantly invited guest was a trifle more aggressive than she was used to and it didn’t please her. She also thought that his appearance bore little resemblance to her image of a big city art dealer. He was not just large but also seemed less refined than she would have expected, a notch or two beyond rough around the edges. And he appeared distinctly uncomfortable in the gallery. This was clearly not the kind of place that he was familiar with. His large hand was sweaty as she shook it. Athena needed a reply from Blythe Fortune about this character before taking him seriously. She would just have to listen politely and see what this was about.