Deadly Arts

by Ken Brigham

  Katya Karpov was not easily frightened. She had seen violence in her youth. Rather than saddling her with an abiding fear that harm might come to her when she least expected it, those early experiences inured her to any fear of violence. She recognized that such things happened but did not expect them to happen to her. They never had. Even as a child, she seemed to be exempt from harm for the most part. She still felt that was true, although she had not made any serious effort to probe too deeply for the reasons.

  But when Katya left her office a bit later than usual, made her way to her assigned space in the high rise parking garage, and discovered that all four of the tires on her white Boxter were flat, she was frightened. The garage was essentially empty at that hour. The unsigned note trapped under the windscreen wiper blade—tell your too curious husband to back off, Dr. Karpov—unleashed a surge of adrenalin that shook her to the core. She had checked her cell phone on the way to the parking lot, intending to call Shane to let him know that she was running a bit late, but discovered that it was dead. She had neglected to recharge it. She often did that. Recharging her cell phone wasn’t high on her list of essential tasks, although at this moment, stuck alone with a disabled car in a dark, deserted garage, she thought that perhaps she should rearrange some of her priorities.

  As Katya leaned against the side of the car, pondering what to do, she became aware of a rhythmic tromp of footfalls against the concrete floor, echoing about the big hollow space. The sounds moved closer with each clop of heavy boot on hard cement. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone. It was dark. There were lights in the garage, but it seemed to Katya that they mainly served to create deep pockets of pitch-black shadows cast by the supporting pillars. She thought she sensed some movement in a large swath of black just across the way but she couldn’t make out any detail.

  “Dr. Karpov,” a voice called her name from the shadows.

  Her heart raced, pounding against her chest. She was paralyzed. She couldn’t speak.

  “Looks like you’ve got a problem, Dr. Karpov,” a uniformed security guard whom she recognized emerged from the shadows and came over to where she stood. He walked around the car, checking each of the tires, “Looks like somebody doesn’t want you driving this chariot,” the guard said. “The tires have been slashed. Any idea who’d do such a thing?”

  Slowly recollecting her wits, the relief she felt clearly evident in the tone of her voice, Katya said, “I have no idea. But my phone is dead and my husband will be worried. Can you help me out?”

  “Of course. Of course,” he replied. “Let me call for a cruiser to get you home for the evening, and then you can deal with the car tomorrow. I’ll also let your husband’s friend Hardy Seltzer know about your problem. I’m sure the detective would want to be informed, especially since it looks like something fishy may be at play here. The detective tends to get interested in fishy looking situations.”

  “Not going so well this evening, Hardy,” Shane responded to his friend’s greeting. “I seem to have lost touch with KiKi for a bit and I’m concerned.”

  “Yes,” Hardy said, “That’s why I’m calling. She is on her way home, escorted by one of Nashville’s finest. She is not in any danger as far as I know. But there is more to the story.”

  “Thank God for that. What in the world has happened?”

  “Katya can fill you in. She should be there shortly. There’s certainly something very odd going on that bears looking into. We should talk tomorrow.”

  “Let’s do that, Hardy. Many thanks for calling and whatever else you did to help.”

  “Not a problem, Shane, my friend. Not a problem.”

  Shane wheeled over to the bar, refilled his glass of sherry, took a large swallow of his favorite liquid, and exhaled a sigh of relief that came from somewhere deep in his soul. Thank God, or whoever, he thought. He would die without KiKi.

  By the time Katya arrived at home, greeted by an especially enthusiastic hug from her husband, she was no longer afraid. What she felt was exhaustion. She was not prepared to handle the barrage of questions from Shane. She understood his need to ask them, but the answers would have to wait until another time, after she had managed to regain some of the energy she had spent on dealing with the intensity of what was to her a strange emotion—fear. That really unpleasant feeling had washed over her, a tsunami of sensations that consumed her for what seemed in retrospect like only a moment and then drifted away into an unknown distance leaving her bereft of that vibrant core of energy that she had always been able to depend on to sustain her. She felt vulnerable in a way that was distinctly unfamiliar. She was exhausted and didn’t want to talk about it. With apologies to Shane, she went to bed and promptly fell into a deep and silent sleep.

  It was the note that most affected Shane. Katya had not shown the note to the guard and had considered not sharing it with her husband. She didn’t want to disturb him too much about this incident. But she showed him the note anyway, and he now sat in their living room staring at it. What was welling up in him was anger. At whoever was behind this obvious threat to his wife. And at himself. He had never considered the possibility that his interest in this case could put KiKi in danger. Why would it? He hated the thought of being intimidated by the note, but he would do anything he could to protect KiKi.

  Maybe he should back off the Fitzwallington matter. Maybe the bad guys would win this one in spite of him. Of course, KiKi would oppose that. She was basically fearless and admired that in Shane too. He wouldn’t score any points with her by retreating from this investigation even if he thought the motive for doing so a noble one. She would probably think him either cowardly or inept. He didn’t want to appear to be either of those to his wife…or to himself. He stared at the note, handwritten in large block letters on a piece of lined yellow paper, no doubt torn from a note pad. He read it over and over, hoping for some insight into the identity of its author. Didn’t happen.

  It was late, but Shane fished his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Hardy Seltzer’s home number. Five rings switching to Hardy’s voice mail.

  “Hardy, this is Shane. The slashers left a note, a warning meant for me. I am really angry about this, Hardy. Really angry. We have to find out who did this and what his connections are. Call me as soon as you get this. I will not stand for KiKi to be put at risk because of what I’m doing.”

  Hardy’s phone lay on his bedside table, and the ring tone woke him up. Well, sort of woke him up. Not enough to make him answer the call but enough to cause him to check his voice mail after a few minutes. He listened to the entire message and sighed.

  “Who was it?” Marge Bland said.

  “Shane,” Hardy answered. “I’ll call him in the morning.

  There was no way that Shane would be able to sleep. After noticing his wife’s cell phone that she had left on the living room coffee table, and plugging it in for recharging, he managed to wheel back to the bedroom and maneuver himself out of his clothes and into the light blue silk pajamas that KiKi had bought for him a while back. He sat for a few minutes next to the bed and looked at his comatose wife. She lay perfectly still, breathing quietly. How could she be so at peace after what had happened to her this evening?

  He turned toward the windows and sat there thinking. Why in God’s name had he gotten so involved in this Fitzwallington case? He wasn’t a cop anymore. The death of the old artist wasn’t of any great significance anyway. It was basically selfishness that had drawn him into it and still drove him. Criminal investigation was what he knew how to do and what he loved. Truth be told, he resented having been made to take disability retirement after he was shot. He recognized that the department had meant that as an honor—he shouldn’t have to continue working after such a devastating injury suffered in the line of duty. Full pay for the rest of his life. Full medical and rehab expenses. And no expectations. What a deal!

  But for Shane, it was a raw deal, no matter how well-intended. They had taken from him what he most va
lued, the substance of what allowed him to feel good about himself, feel of use to the world. No surprise that he had responded enthusiastically when his old colleague Hardy Seltzer had reached out to him about the Bonz Bagley case. And no surprise that once again having tasted the pleasure that he had always found in the practice of his chosen profession, that he was drawn to this Fitzwallington thing.

  Basically selfishness, he thought. While he did indeed value the experience of doing what he was good at and what he enjoyed, he valued KiKi and their relationship a lot more. Was he going to put the love of his life, the source of the only real happiness that he had ever known, at risk to satisfy his need for self-indulgence? No way was that going to happen. Whatever the hell happened to Bechman Fitzwallington and whoever the hell was involved could just be dealt with by the people who got paid to do that sort of thing. It wasn’t his problem, and it was foolhardy of him to take it on in the first place.

  Of course he knew that KiKi would object. He imagined how the conversation would go:

  S: I’m withdrawing from the Fitzwallington case, KiKi. It’s not that important, and I will not put you at risk because of it.

  K: You are mistaken, my love. You are not withdrawing from that case until you have it solved. In case you hadn’t noticed, Shane, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I need you alright, no doubt about that, but not to take care of me. To love me.

  S: You know that I love you, KiKi, more than life. But I’m not a cop anymore. I’m basically just playing around the edges of a system that is designed, trained, and equipped to solve crimes. It’s selfish of me anyway, and I cannot bear to forge on with activities that could bring harm to you. Don’t you see that?

  K: Don’t do it, Shane. You are the best detective that this city has ever seen and you have never been afraid to go where the truth leads you. Don’t start now. And don’t make me feel guilty for preventing you from doing what keeps you alive and enthused about your existence.

  S: I’ll think about it. We’ll need to talk some more. Of course, I don’t want to make you feel guilt, but I don’t want to feel that either.

  K: Well, you think about it. But it’s too late anyway. Apparently, whoever you’re dealing with already thinks they have something to gain by threatening me. They’re wrong, you know. I am not easily threatened, my love.”

  The conversation would go something like that, and Shane would end up continuing on the case. Their relationship was too strong and their mutual respect too deep to let the bad guys win if they could possibly help it. Shane Hadley and Katya Karpov were good people and each in their own way was committed to that kind of a life. Otherwise, what was the point?

  Chapter 30

  That was, in fact, about how the conversation went the next morning. KiKi made it clear that Shane was not his wife’s caretaker. Fortunate for him since Katya Karpov did not need a caretaker and would not look very favorably on anyone attempting to play that role. Probably including her husband. If Shane was going to back off on anything, it would be wise of him to steer clear of the space KiKi needed to take care of herself. What was the advice she had quoted so many times over the years? He could never remember the source. Something about spaces in their togetherness. Give Katya room to be her. Was that too much to ask?

  So after a brief conversation along the lines that he had anticipated, Shane accepted the reality of his need to pursue the Fitzwallington thing and the reality of his relationship with KiKi. He resolved to do the best he could to carry on as before, although the fear that he might be putting KiKi in danger was still there…and some of the guilt. He would need time to completely reconcile his competing realities.

  Shane sipped at his coffee while KiKi called 1-800-PORSCHE to arrange for her car to be retrieved and taken to the dealer to get the tires replaced. She then called the dealer to inform them of the situation and signaled Uber on her cell phone for a ride to work. She kissed Shane goodbye, a substantial if less than passionate expression of her affection, summoned the elevator, and left for the hospital.

  The hum of the descending elevator and the dull thump of the lobby door punctuating KiKi’s exit into The Alley had barely faded away when Shane’s cell phone chirped. It was Hardy Seltzer. Early for Hardy, but then Shane had left him an urgent request for the call late the previous evening.

  “I presume,” Shane answered the call without preamble, “that you were occupied with important matters last evening and thus the inordinate delay in responding to my near frantic call.”

  “It was late, Shane,” Hardy said. “I had solid information that Katya was fine and didn’t see what I could do last night.”

  “How about something like, console a troubled friend?”

  “I somehow have difficulty picturing you as someone in desperate need of consolation,” Hardy responded, more than a little testily.

  “Perhaps,” Shane answered, his tone matching his friend’s irritation, “your powers of perception are in need of some attention, my friend. But,” not wishing to continue discussing the nature of his relationship with Hardy at the moment, Shane pivoted to more substantive matters, “have you any idea who threatened my wife and thoughts about how the matter is to be pursued?”

  “I’m guessing that Mace Ricci, you know the ex-New York cop who was hanging around the Fitzwallington business until recently, might have had something to do with it.”

  “Why him?”

  “A tidbit of information and a hunch.”

  “Ah, Hardy,” Shane said, feigning surprise, “I’ve not known you to rely on hunches. I seem to recall you disparaging the value of such in the past. But, never mind, what is the tidbit?”

  “I talked with the Chicago FBI agent yesterday. Although he was pretty cagey about his source, he says that their investigation is making progress. He especially mentioned that Mace Ricci might have been involved in your abduction. Ricci had dropped off my radar. He disappeared after your little incident—checked out of his hotel, returned his rental car—just seemed to disappear. I assumed that he had left town until Marge told me that she had recently served him Scotch at TAPS. So, he’s still here, in town, I mean. Apparently, his job from the beginning was to nail down acquisition of the Fitzwallington paintings for the New York gallery as quickly as possible. Obviously, he and whoever he works for, the Therault guy and God knows who else, see you as an obstacle to be neutralized so the process can move along. It’s a short trip from that assumption to the conclusion that threatening your lovely wife might be another effort to get you off the case. So, we need to locate the New York cop and lean on him. The FBI would probably be happy to do the lion’s share of the leaning.”

  “Pull out all the stops, Hardy,” Shane’s voice quaked with uncharacteristic intensity. “APB, whatever it takes. Find this Ricci guy and milk him!”

  “I’m on it, Shane,” Hardy said. “Believe me, I’m on it.”

  Athena Golden thought it probably coincidence that she received the two related phone calls less than an hour apart. Neither call was anticipated. She was at her desk, poring over her gallery’s disappointing financial records. There had been little traffic in the place that afternoon, and she had seriously considered locking up and drowning her sorrows in some good red wine that she remembered having on hand in her condo. Athena was not a serious drinker, but she did enjoy a good red on occasion and that afternoon seemed like it might well serve as such an occasion. She was seriously approaching that decision when the first call came.

  The caller was Parker Palmer. It was not the caller that surprised her. She still had a few of his paintings on display, and he would check in occasionally although he well knew that she would inform him of any action that concerned him. What surprised her was the content of the conversation. After briefly inquiring about the status of his paintings, he launched into a rather opaque monologue having to do with the fate of the Fitzwallington works.

  Although Palmer did not explain how he came by the information, he informed her that h
e was probably going to be in control of Billy Wayne Farmer’s paintings rather than the spacy daughter. In fact, Palmer speculated that Sally Farmer may not be the old man’s heir after all. He did not explain why, but claimed that he, Palmer, was likely to be the next in line. The good news for Athena was that Palmer told her that if he did indeed turn out to control the fate of Billy Wayne’s works, he would see that they were assigned exclusively to the AvantArt gallery for their sale. Further, Palmer said that should this be how things turned out, he intended to establish a foundation that would be the repository of all profit from sales of the paintings and would serve to support local artists of all stripes. And, Palmer continued, he would wish Athena Golden to chair the foundation’s board. Now, what did she think about that?

  Well, what she really thought about that was that Parker must be smoking something really potent or otherwise pharmacologically enhanced in order to come up with such a far-fetched scenario. She had never known him to have a drug problem, and he was no doubt an exceptionally creative man, but this was just not a possible sequence of events that she could imagine having any basis in reality. She probed gently in an effort to find out the actual facts of the situation, what realities, if there were any, had triggered the usually pretty sane Parker Palmer’s flight into fantasyland. Although her queries didn’t produce anything that was verifiably factual, Palmer continued to sound absolutely sure of his fairy tale. Very well, Athena thought. No sense in queering the deal if there was any possibility that there was some truth in it.

  Athena was still pondering the call from Palmer when the second call came—Blythe Fortune from New York. Preoccupied with reflections on the Palmer call, Athena didn’t answer the call for a few rings. When she finally glanced at the caller ID and saw the call was from Blythe Fortune, Athena picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Blythe,” Athena said. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s on your mind?”