I placed the headphones on and settled in for the interview. It was amusing to watch as Declan entered the interview room, and all three men postured for a lead position. The attorney sat back and braced both hands on the table. Alex put his hand on his hip and leaned into his left leg.
Declan tossed a folder on the table that remained closed, but by the way Alex looked at it, he knew it was the focus of the meeting. Edges of photos could be seen jutting out from the bottom. Each man signed a paper, indicating they were a party to the interview, and a duplicate was handed to Alex’s attorney.
“You’re here for an interview to collect information about the disappearance of Samantha Clarke and the paintings that Mr. Clarke has reported as stolen. Mr. Clarke has not been placed under arrest, nor is this a custodial interview,” Declan told Alex, staring intensely into Alex’s eyes that shifted from Declan to the floor.
“Is my client a person of interest in this matter?”
“Mr. Harrington, at this time, I cannot say that your client is a person of interest,” Declan replied.
Clever. He hadn’t denied he was a person of interest; he’d just said he couldn’t say. The attorney would probably seek clarification on the wording. Or he should.
“Very well then. Proceed,” the attorney said.
Dave and I exchanged glances. Clearly a surprise to us both that the attorney did not follow up.
Declan laid out the background of how the paintings had come to be in Mrs. Clarke’s possession, something Alex had intimate knowledge about, but the foundation had to be verified for the record. For the attorney’s benefit, he summarized the findings of blood on the walls at the house and how it’d led to the conclusion that something sinister had befallen Mrs. Clarke. Although not stated, Declan implied that Alex was the only one who seemed to have a motive and would benefit from her disappearance.
I saw no remorse, no emotion in Alex’s eyes. But he seemed to be thinking, plotting.
“Mr. Clarke, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I have to say, I think you know more than you’re telling me,” Declan said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
“Why would you even say that? If I knew anything, I’d share it with you. I don’t have any information to share with you,” Alex said, tapping his fingers in a staccato fashion on the table.
“Were you there the night your wife disappeared?” Declan asked.
“Seriously? This is where you’re going? You already know I was miles away at a hotel and staying there for the purpose of taking depositions. This is a waste of time.” He leaned back and crossed his leg, in effect closing off the conversation.
“You were at the hotel. That’s an accurate statement. However, you left the hotel that night. We have you leaving your room at eight forty-five p.m. and returning at four a.m.,” Declan said.
Alex’s stunned expression spoke volumes. His head jerked up and eyes drilled into Declan. He waited for Declan to say something further, but there was only silence.
Alex did not admit or deny the statement. His attempt to recover was weak.
“I had nothing to do with the disappearance of my wife or theft of the paintings. I certainly didn’t sneak out of my hotel to drive home to rob my own house. Tell me how stupid I would have to be to kill her in the home, knowing a murder there would devalue the house. Do you have any idea the trouble and paperwork you have to go through for that type of disclosure?” Alex said in an arrogant tone.
That last sentence drew a visible wince from his attorney, and recovery would prove difficult. The attorney interrupted; I supposed he was trying to mitigate some damage.
“Detective Murphy, my understanding is, right now, the only evidence—if you can call it that—that a crime might have been committed is the blood splatter on a recently painted wall,” Mr. Harrington offered.
Alex became agitated and fidgety, followed by an outburst. “Let me save you the time and anticipate your questions and give you some answers,” Alex jumped in and said, way too cocky for me. “I’ve got nothing to hide, and I know the drill. The husband is always suspect numero uno. Admittedly, I have a few peccadillos in my past that you can try to exploit. As far as I know, she said in her new will that she was planning to make me the beneficiary of everything, except her paintings. Those she bequeathed to various museums. What would be the point of offing her and stealing the paintings if doing so would point the finger right at me?”
“Do you know where her will is or who drew it up?” Declan asked.
“Not a clue. She knew her last one was voided once we married,” he said. “And, if she died without a will, through the laws of intestate, everything would come to me.”
This would be helpful to everyone involved.
His attorney closed his leather folder. “Enough. We are stopping this interview. We willingly came here to provide information about the robbery, and this is turning into a fact-finding mission against my client. I assume we can leave here, unimpeded.”
I saw Declan’s mouth twitch in a slight smile. Alex did himself no favor in admitting to past problems, particularly in such a callous representation of events. Someday, a jury might have cause to hear this as part of the prosecutor’s case.
Declan looked at the camera, and Dave cut the feed. The interview was terminated, and Declan gave the hand signal that he was escorting them out.
I returned the headphones to Dave, and he placed them in a drawer.
“What the hell is wrong with that man? If he had kept quiet, there really was nothing Declan had on him. Even in a circumstantial case, based on this type of outburst, I could sell a jury that he was guilty. Although we can’t put up false testimony, there’s nothing stopping us from pointing out his erratic and volatile behavior,” I said.
“He’s cooking his own goose,” Dave agreed.
“Normally, I’d say, if he packed a jury with women, there would be a chance he’d be set free. That whole charming and handsome vibe sometimes is hard to overcome. But play that tape of the interview, and charm would just get flushed down the toilet,” I said.
As Dave was about to answer, Declan entered the room, and we stared at each other.
“Thoughts?” he asked, sitting in a chair next to me.
“I’m glad I don’t have to deal with the murder aspect. It’s almost as if he wants you to come after him. What an ego that man has. He obviously thinks he’s the smartest one in the room,” I said. “I don’t get it. He must realize how bad he looks, yet he’s doing nothing to rehabilitate himself.”
“Another fact to add to this circus. As I watched them leave the lobby, Alex and the woman left the building, arm in arm,” he said. “Did motive just walk out the building?”
Before I could respond to that stunning piece of information, I received a text.
I need you with me in NY tomorrow; paintings might be in play.
“Cillian texted me. There might be some movement with the paintings, so he wants me in New York tomorrow,” I said.
I was still processing who this woman with Alex could be. Could she have been the reason he left his room that night?
Looking at his own phone, his eyes glanced over a text. “I received permission to put our own surveillance in the house. I’ll get someone to place cameras inside,” Declan said.
“Isn’t that like closing the door once the horse has bolted?” I wondered.
“More than likely, yes. But we aren’t dealing with normal people here,” he said. “One of them is going to slip up.”
“I’ll let you know what we find tomorrow,” I said. “This could be a huge crack in the case.”
“Better than a wild goose chase.” He smiled.
Dalia
I was uncomfortable with taking Mary up on her offer to use her house for free while I was in Denver. I always paid my way and didn’t accept favors, and therefore, I owed nobody. But, since I was on a limited salary, for now, I needed to bend my own rule. The fact that I planned to move some of my
possessions from storage felt as if I were declaring my intentions to settle down. This was crazy. I was being too resistant and making a mountain out of a molehill. I finalized the plans for the move while Cillian rented the car from the White Plains Airport rental desk. There, it was done. Put a line under it.
The smooth drive down the Bronx River Parkway quickly turned into bumper-to-bumper traffic as we hit Manhattan. Horns blared, and hands waved out the window and alerted me I was home.
“Remind me why we didn’t take a train or Uber,” I said.
Cillian smiled and turned the car into the parking garage next to the auction house. I grabbed my bag from the back seat and felt my phone buzz with a text. Since I knew the person at the auction house, we’d decided I should take the lead. Margaret Grailer had been a key witness in one of my previous cases, and she and I had developed a good working relationship. I trusted that nothing untoward would happen on her watch.
“That’s Margaret. She’s ready for us, and she has the associate who took the call ready to talk to us. You know, I have a love-hate relationship with auction houses,” I said.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“I love the ability to get up close and personal with the art. I hate that the houses look at it as only a business. It offends me that there is such an enormous kickback to the houses that some people feel they have to skirt the system to make a buck and often sell to undesirables,” I said.
He gave me a questioning look.
“You know, like people who are buying it exclusively for an investment and stick it away in a vault. People looking for a bargain,” I said.
“Art is a business, Dalia. And that’s why you have philanthropists who buy it and share it and take the tax write-off. And then there are those who buy it as an investment, waiting for it to appreciate in value. I guess, to some, it’s nothing more than an additional asset to their portfolio.”
“Getting back to why we’re here. I don’t know the associate. Or his name doesn’t ring a bell. I’m well acquainted with the curator of that section, Margaret, and she’s brilliant. I’m a little surprised that someone would reach out to an auction house to cultivate what could only be termed as a criminal connection. That’s a bold move,” I said.
“Indeed, it is,” Cillian replied. “Since you know the curator, I’ll let you do all the talking.”
“That’ll work. I’ve done research on the paintings and the paintings by the artists at that time. I have to say, the public information about our paintings is sketchy at best. But I suppose, since Mr. Bennington was the first owner, there was very little to be researched. Still, it makes me a wee bit nervous that there’s so little out there about the paintings,” I said. “I have to trust the insurance company is competent enough to have completed extensive research and necessary testing.”
The sound of my heels echoed as they struck the marble floor. We entered the elevator and arrived at the modern lobby. Through the glass doors, I saw Margaret talking to someone by the desk, as if giving instructions. As she caught sight of us, she smiled and pulled the door open before I could exert any energy to push it.
“Dalia, so lovely to see you again. And you must be Cillian O’Reilly,” Margaret said, offering her hand in greeting. “Let’s step into my office where we can talk in private.”
One benefit of working for an immensely popular and profitable auction house was the benefits that went along with it—namely, a luxurious office with breathtaking art gracing the walls. As Cillian shuffled through his messenger bag, Margaret gave me a few minutes to study the new modern collection in her office. When he handed her the photos of the paintings along with the provenance, her raised eyebrows reflected her surprise.
“These were a well-kept secret,” she said, touching the photos.
After a quick phone call, a well-dressed young man entered and was introduced as Brandon Stills. He was the associate who had been contacted by the person who wanted to sell the paintings. Now, I recognized him from a case that had gone to trial about a year ago. Not a particularly memorable person, but there was something odd about him. If he remembered me, it wasn’t reflected on his face.
“Brandon, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m from the DA’s office.”
“DA? No one said anything about the DA,” he said as his eyes darted to each of us. The placement of his hands on the arms of the chair gave a clear picture of a man ready to bolt.
“Dalia’s not here in an official capacity. She’s working with my firm,” Cillian said, raising an eyebrow toward me.
Both of us could read the waves of anxiety coming from Brandon, which seemed unusual for what was supposed to be a fact-gathering meeting.
“What we need you to do is to take us through the phone call about the paintings,” Cillian said.
He looked to Margaret, who tipped her head, waiting for an answer.
“In the mornings, I do the initial screening of calls for the house and determine what department is involved and who should return a call. That morning, a woman called and said she was interested in selling several paintings. She asked if I—well, if we, the auction house, could perform a valuation analysis.
“I explained the process to her and offered to send her our form, and she accepted. Within an hour, she had the form completed and sent back a copy of the photos. I called her back and asked her when she would like to make an appointment to bring the paintings to us. She said she was out of the country, and when she was back, she’d make an appointment. However, she asked if I could give her some kind of ballpark number and email it to her. I did the research based on the paintings she’d emailed, and I emailed her an approximate value,” he said, tapping his index finger on the table.
Margaret studied him and carefully measured her words. “Brandon, you know the protocol is to bring any valuations to me before releasing any numbers. You could open us up to all types of liability issues with what you did. We’ll be talking about this further.”
Brandon’s grip on the chair tightened, but his face remained passive.
“What paintings did she want to be valued, and how did you go about doing the valuation?” Cillian asked.
“If you allow me to access my computer files, I can get the information for you,” he said, shifting his eyes to each of us.
“Of course. Margaret, is it okay if Dalia accompanies Brandon to retrieve the printed file? Since this might wind up being part of a criminal investigation, we should preserve whatever information you have on the computer as it is,” Cillian said.
Brandon and I made the short walk to his office together, and it was clear that he wasn’t interested in any small talk. I watched him download the file onto a flash drive, and then he printed four hard copies of the file. We returned to Margaret’s office.
He handed a copy of the file to us, and we reviewed it. Cillian appeared ready to pose his questions. He placed the file facedown on the desk and picked up his pen, ready to transcribe notes.
“Margaret, these photos appear to be part of the group of paintings that are missing and attached to a robbery investigation. With your permission, I’d like to call Detective Declan Murphy, who is handling this case, and have him listen in on the interview. This will kill two birds with one stone, and since the paintings are being shopped around, time is of the essence,” Cillian said.
I half-expected Margaret to say she had to run it past legal and that she might even end our interview. However, I was pleasantly surprised by her agreement. Wasting no time, Cillian called Declan. Once Cillian explained the purpose of the call, the phone was placed on the desk with the speaker engaged.
“Brandon, I am Detective Declan Murphy, and I’m with Major Crimes in Denver. I’ll be asking you some questions and recording this interview. Do I have your permission to record our conversation?” Declan asked.
Brandon nodded.
“Brandon, you have to verbalize your answers. The tape on the other end of the line can’t see what you are doing.
” I smiled.
“Oh, sorry. Yes, I consent to you recording me,” he said.
“Do you have a hard copy of your notes in front of you?” Declan asked.
“Yes,” Brandon replied.
“Okay, for the sake of this interview, I’d like you to go from memory,” Declan said.
Brandon cleared his throat. “All right.”
“In your own words, please tell me about the phone call you received, starting with the date and time. I’ll be making notes as part of the robbery investigation,” Declan said
“The call came in on August 2nd at eleven oh five a.m., and I was in my office. It was from a woman who said she had acquired some paintings and that she wanted to place them for sale. However, she wanted to do it through a private sale and not a public auction. She asked about the procedure for that, and I explained it to her, including what our fee structure would entail.
“I told her, in order to value the painting, we would need to examine them here and also have an authenticated provenance of the paintings. I sent her a form to complete, and she returned that with high-resolution JPEG attachments of the paintings. She said she was out of the country, but upon her return, she would bring the paintings and documents to us. However, in the meantime, she asked if I could give her an approximate value of the paintings. She understood it was nothing she could hold us to, so I told her I would research the paintings and get back to her.
“I researched the paintings, and based on other sales of the artists, I emailed her an approximate value. Now, I want you to know, I checked the databases for lost and stolen art that day, and nothing appeared in them. But, when I knew I had a meeting about this topic today, I rechecked, and the paintings are now on file,” Brandon said, clearing his throat.
Margaret jotted notes, and her tight mouth revealed she was angry with the way he’d handled the telephone call.
“Was there anything unusual about her voice? Did she have an accent? Was she young or older?” Declan asked.
Brandon relaxed his grip on the arms of the chair and sat back. “No accent. It sounded like she was youngish,” Brandon replied.
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