by Ken Brigham
Chapter 23
Shane shut down his computer, nestled back down into the bed, and reached across to feel the solid gentle curve of KiKi’s lower back. Her presence beside him was his rock, his anchor to reality, and his source of the strength he needed to deal with it. He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling and listening to the slow rhythm of his wife’s breathing. But, try as he might, sleep avoided him. Eventually he maneuvered himself out of bed, wheeled up to the kitchen at the front of their flat and brewed a pot of coffee. By the time KiKi appeared, drowsy, somewhat disheveled, and beautiful, Shane was parked near the front windows caressing a cup of coffee and staring distractedly at the flat space before him. KiKi helped herself to a cup of coffee from the kitchen and then walked up to where Shane sat, stood behind him, and caressed his shoulders. He relished the familiar touch of her strong hands. He had always admired her hands. They brought him much pleasure.
“Is knowledge always for the good?” KiKi said, kneading the wiry muscles of his neck and shoulders.
“Well,” Shane responded, “usually better than ignorance, I suppose.”
“Always?”
“Do you mean are there unknown truths that are better left that way? But I thought you were in the business of slaying the dragons of ignorance.”
“You put it so colorfully, my love. Maybe slaying some dragons of ignorance but inflicting collateral damage in the process. Too many slayings of late, it seems to me. Maybe the power of our weapons has transcended our understanding of what they can do.”
“The power of the genome, I sense you mean.”
“Well, more the power of the technology to explore it. Afraid we scientists are generally more interested in discovering new knowledge than in the potential consequences.”
“You’re still fretting about the Mad Hatter thing, right?”
“That, and about outliers in general. Fitzwallington was an outlier too. And there are a few others who have been given some of their genetic information. I’m worried that we haven’t seen the last of the fallout from this.”
“Outliers,” Shane mused. “Most of our social capital is spent dealing with outliers. Murderers, thieves, miscreants of other sorts. Those aren’t your average folks; they’re outliers. But those people are the very raison d’etre of the entire elaborate and expensive law enforcement apparatus. Maybe the same is true in your work. Focus on the few to benefit the many? Something like that.”
“But, sacrifice the few? You are sounding a bit like my geneticist colleague who seems to brush off things like the Mad Hatter episode as genetic collateral damage, the cost of advancing knowledge. That’s cold, Shane. I’ve not thought you such a cold person.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant. Law enforcement is not in the business of sacrificing innocent people as a matter of practice. But it does happen. Do the bad guys hide behind that possibility? Sometimes. And sometimes they even get away with it for a while. But the bad guys eventually have to pay for their sins. Otherwise the good guys are stuck with the tab.”
“What terrifies me, my love,” KiKi responded, “is the possibility that we’re wielding tools powerful enough to convert good guys to bad guys if we aren’t more careful about how we use them.”
“Not a pleasant thought,” Shane replied.
“Thank you, my love,” KiKi frowned. “I do appreciate your honesty in general, but occasionally couldn’t you massage the truth a little bit for the benefit of your loving wife?”
“My lovely wife, seeker of truths, wishes to accept only the convenient ones?”
“I just don’t want it to be this hard,” she said.
“Nor do I, my love,” Shane said, leaning his head back against her chest. “Nor do I.”
Hardy Seltzer got the news just as he was about to leave his office for a Printers Alley rendezvous with Shane. Word came from the crime scene investigation people that they had lifted a single complete fingerprint from the handle of Shane’s wheelchair. (About time they got around to going over the wheelchair, Hardy thought.) A quick run of the print through the FBI database produced a clean hit. The owner of the print was one Dudley (the Dude) Sysco, a known hoodlum from Chicago who worked as hired muscle for the mob or anyone else willing to meet his price. A freelancer. Sort of middle management type. He had served a couple of stints in federal prison for violent crimes but was not incarcerated at the present time. A photograph, obviously not very recent and a little blurry, was attached to the email message. Hardy printed out the message and the photograph, carefully folded them up, slipped them in between the pages of his pocket notebook alongside the earlier message, and headed for The Alley.
“Called himself Damian Saturn,” Shane said. “Same initials. Fits.”
Hardy’s printout of the earlier mysterious email about Shane’s kidnapping being an outside-inside job, and the picture and note resulting from the discovery of the fingerprint were spread out before them on the small patio table, and both men pored over the documents.
“He provided me with quite unsolicited assistance toward Wall Street one afternoon. Just appeared behind me and grabbed the chair and shoved it. No doubt an effort to intimidate me. Maybe that’s where the prints came from. Could be this doesn’t link this guy to my abduction at all.”
“Was that the only time you remember seeing him?” Hardy asked.
“Actually, no. He was at that art showing at Athena Golden’s gallery that KiKi and I attended. Went out of his way to introduce himself to me. Said something that I don’t remember specifically, but said in a threatening way. I recall that well enough.”
“Moleskin?” Shane said, looking at the email message. “Now that’s odd. And the faux illiteracy is not very convincing. Do you think that was deliberate? An obscure clue to the identity of the author?”
“Maybe. Not sure. It’s likely that the FBI will be called on to figure that out. I’m pretty sure the department brass will insist on turning the abduction thing over to them. They aren’t very happy with my approach to it anyway. They think I’m too close to it. The chief will also like the optics of bringing in the FBI. He likes that word a lot…optics.”
“A perfectly good word when used properly which, alas, it seems rarely to be these days,” Shane said. “So, you surmise that this Chicago hood is Mr. Outside? How do you figure that? What possible connection would he have had with our fair city? And me? What interest could he have had in my whereabouts? Must have to do with my interest in the manner of our artist’s apparently timely demise. And who, do you suppose, is Mr. Inside?”
“A lot of questions,” Hardy mused. “Not many answers yet.”
“However, my friend,” Shane leaned toward Hardy and barely suppressed the urge to poke him in the chest with a forefinger, “you surely must see the connection. The murder of Bechman Fitzwallington is surely integral to my abduction. It has to be.”
“While I can see the logic of that, I have been specifically forbidden from exploring the possibility,” Hardy sighed.
Ignoring Hardy’s statement, Shane continued. “If my abduction was orchestrated by the big city crime guys, they certainly failed to bring their A team. The caper was a total bust. Surely their intent was to either eliminate me from the picture or at least to keep me out of commission for a while until the Fitzwallington matter was settled and forgotten. I presume that the newspaper story, appearing so quickly on the heels of their ill-conceived plan, is what triggered the premature abortion of the scheme whatever it was. Quick thinking on your part to plant the story. A risky move, I suspect, that may have spared me some serious mischief.”
“Didn’t win me any friends in high places. That’s for sure.”
“I’ve observed over the years that the value of friends in high places tends to be greatly inflated,” Shane said. “However, be that as it may, Mr. Inside could be the one who links my abduction to the murder, although I’m not sure exactly how. Who is it? You must know some local bad guys with ties to big crime. Perhaps
a cooperative venture, old chits redeemed, something along those lines? And what is the connection to Fitzwallington? Must be one. Probably something to do with money. If there are a lot of paintings, there might be an expectation of a considerable sum, perhaps enough to flush out some greedy bad guys.”
“Drugs,” Hardy replied. “Any big crooks in this city make their money running drugs pretty much like they always have. Hasn’t changed much since you were on the force. Some different drugs. Maybe some personnel shuffling. But basically the same operations.”
“What about that Ricci guy, the ex-New York cop who’s been hanging around town for a while now? Have you any information on him?”
“Well, some,” Hardy replied. “He has a connection to the New York gallery that is making a determined play to land the Fitzwallington pantings. He’s spent a lot of time sucking up to the daughter. Not sure what else. I haven’t been able to find out much about Ricci personally—ex-cop, some checkered history on the force there. No criminal record that I can locate.”
“And Moleskin?”
“Not a clue.”
“I sense,” Shane said, “that we are far overdue for a sherry. Please amuse yourself for a few moments while I tend to that.”
Shane wheeled into the apartment, leaving Hardy sitting on the deck looking uncharacteristically morose. This whole matter depressed him. He still wasn’t sure about Shane’s conviction that the old artist was murdered. But what Hardy felt about that didn’t really matter anyway. The official attitude was clear and unequivocal. About Shane's abduction, the higher-ups would probably be right to ding him for being too close to the victim. The involvement of the Chicago hood would probably put the whole thing in the hands of the feds. Hardy might well be relegated to chasing gang bangers and out-of-control spouse abusers. He could do that, but it was not the part of his job that he particularly enjoyed.
He stood up and walked to the railing overlooking The Alley. A few early afternoon stragglers were wandering around looking for someplace open where they could get a drink. Out-of-towners, no doubt. A lot of them in recent years. Hardy wondered what they were really looking for. Why come all this way from Topeka or wherever and spend the afternoon milling about The Alley? What were their questions? What clever Kansas travel agent cooked up the ruse that lured these rubes to a place that didn’t pretend to have answers. Maybe some interesting questions. But answers? You’d need to go somewhere else for those.
Shane emerged through the French doors, a tray with two glasses and a bottle on his lap. He wheeled over to the table, placed each of the glasses there, and poured into each a generous amount of the wine. Hardy returned to his seat opposite Shane. Each of the men raised his glass and gestured before each downed a more than genteel sip. They replaced the glasses on the table and sat quietly for a few moments. Shane tried to engage Hardy’s eyes without success. Unable to read his friend’s mood, he spoke.
“Hardy, my man,” he said, “we need to talk. I mean we seriously need to talk.”
“Talk away,” Hardy responded. “Talk away.”
Blythe Fortune was always wound pretty tight; it was just who she was. But the past few days had her mainspring wound to near the limits of its tensile strength. She was as close as she had ever been to a cataclysmic snap. She was going through two packs of cigarettes a day. And Xanax? Like placebo pills. Not doing the job. Didn’t matter how many she downed. Finally, she resorted to the less standard drug that she had found effective when conventional pharmaceuticals failed her—the pristine powder didn’t relieve the tension, but tension became pleasure, the more the better. She didn’t like the idea of doing the drug, but the current situation was serious, plenty serious enough to warrant the legal risk and the certain guilt. There was always the tide of guilt that washed in as the drug-induced euphoria ebbed. She’d worry about that when the time came. She placed the call and made arrangements.
It was Bruce Therault’s fault. Following his return from Nashville, he had decided that he must inform Blythe more completely of the situation. In case this thing got entirely out of hand, which it seemed to threaten, Bruce had absolutely no intention of taking full responsibility. He needed an accomplice who was in on the deal. Blythe was already an unaware accomplice, so fully inform her of the situation and she’d automatically share responsibility for any adverse outcomes, especially if such outcomes involved legal trouble. Thus rationalized, Bruce did it.
But Blythe Fortune wasn’t made of criminal stuff. She was not a crook and could not possibly think of herself that way. This situation struck her as grossly unfair. What she cared about was the gallery, and what she knew about was art. Granted, she was responsible for getting Bruce involved, but she was convinced that it was essential to do something to rescue the gallery at the time. Bruce seemed to bring a talent for attracting money that Blythe did not have. He had done that, maybe saved the gallery. Happy with the ends, Blythe had paid too little attention to the means. She was vaguely aware that her partner was capable of bending some rules, but outright criminality? What in God’s name was he thinking? And now she was party to it, up to her nether parts in what had become essentially a criminal enterprise. The drugs might help for a bit, but they were no answer. She had to do something. She was not a crook!
She listened to the voice message from Athena Golden in Nashville and stewed about it for a while. Blythe was beginning to regret ever having heard of the town. New York was her place. But maybe Athena would have some additional information that would help Blythe figure out more precisely where this matter was and perhaps where it was headed. It was just not going to be possible for Blythe to extricate herself from the situation now that she was informed and so really involved. She needed to know more than she did at present. She phoned Athena Golden.
Most evenings, there was a period of an hour or so, before the clubs were in full swing and before the blood alcohol levels of the assembled patrons were sufficiently high to abolish inhibitions and so raise the volume to acoustically challenging levels, when Shane thought it especially pleasant to sit on their deck with a glass of sherry, allow the soft murmur of the milling crowd and the muted sounds of bar musicians tuning up for the evening to wash over him, and contemplate. This was such an evening. KiKi had not come home from work yet, and Shane sat in the cresting dark, nursing his drink and contemplating the death of Bechman Fitzwallington.
So many pieces to this puzzle: the odd collection of people who persisted in visiting the artist whom they claimed to hate; the aborted abduction just out of the blue and its apparent connection to the Chicago hood; the completely unexpected and still not very well explained review by the Times art critic that catapulted the value of Fitzwallington’s paintings into the stratosphere; that ex-New York cop hanging around and insinuating himself into the Fitzwallington matter; the dueling galleries, New York vs. Nashville duking it out for rights to the sale of the paintings; the odd email from “Moleskin.” Now what in hell was that about?
There must be a key, Shane thought. There was almost always a key, especially when the situation appeared to be so complex. A person? A fragment of evidence? A factual detail, disguised as trivial but in reality, the critical link that made sense of the information fragments, the key.
Shane wheeled himself back into the apartment, retrieved his laptop from behind the bar, and opened it up. Remembering the name of the New York Gallery, he Googled Galleria Salinas, New York. The search produced, among a lot of uninteresting propaganda, two names, Blythe Fortune and Bruce Therault. From what he could retrieve from the Internet, Blythe Fortune appeared to be reasonably well-respected among the city’s art cognoscenti. Bruce Therault had been involved in business deals in the city, mostly real estate, and had become involved in the gallery only in recent years presumably as the money guy. Hard to tell from the information on the Internet, but his history might be something less than simon-pure, legal-wise. Worth keeping in mind.
Shane closed his computer and sat for a few minutes i
n the living room, thinking. He heard the throaty purr of KiKi’s Boxster enter The Alley and nestle into the garage below. He wheeled to the elevator to greet her arrival.
Moleskin, he thought. Moleskin.
Chapter 24
Although not quickly apprehended, Mr. Inside in Shane Hadley’s abortive abduction was quickly identified by both Hardy Seltzer and by an FBI agent in the Chicago office of the bureau. Hardy reasoned that if the Nashville based participant was a Crook with a capital C and had connections to organized crime, it would almost certainly be, or at the very least involve, Wilton Argent, kingpin of the city’s significant illegal drug business. Hardy would love to see the elusive criminal get his just desserts. It would be interesting if that happened as a result of involving himself in a hapless abduction scheme, doing a favor for his cronies in the larger crime world when Argent didn’t have a dog in that particular fight. Irony, Hardy thought that must be what it would be, although he wasn’t sure of the exact meaning of the word.
Seltzer sat in his office thinking about the identity of Mr. Inside and staring at the screen of his computer, which attracted him from his reverie by signaling the arrival of an email message. Hardy opened it.
Mr. Detekiv, the message read, Call off the feds. Don ass too many questuns. Jus go for the big Crooks. Moleskin
Hardy was again tempted to ignore the message but somehow couldn’t bring himself to do that. He printed out the message and put it between the pages of his pocket notebook with its companion. He’d talk to Shane about it, but it sounded as though Moleskin was warning against trying to identify the source of these cryptic notes, which probably meant that whoever Moleskin was, he wasn’t directly involved in Shane’s abduction. Or more likely, the whole thing was a hoax. It certainly smacked of that.