“And, once you sent her the last email with the valuation, was that your final contact?” Declan asked.
Brandon remained quiet, and the way his eyes moved from side to side, it appeared he was struggling. Finally, he said, “Yes.” But that yes was measured, and it had taken too long for me.
“Did she happen to mention how she came into possession of the paintings?” Cillian asked.
“No,” he said. “She had a clean provenance—or it appeared she did. The database was clean, so I didn’t press it.”
“And all this is reflected in your written notes?” Declan inquired.
“Yes,” he said.
“Okay, Ms. Grailer, will we need a subpoena to obtain those notes, or will the auction house consent to their release?” Declan asked.
“I believe you must go through our legal department,” she said as she retrieved the printed copies.
“Will do. I’d like to speak to Dalia, please. And, Dalia, can you step out of the room?” Declan said.
I picked up the phone and moved to the hall.
“What are your thoughts? Do the paintings look genuine?” he asked.
“It’s impossible to say. However, the paintings were in the original frames. I read his notes, and what he told you verbally is reflected in the notes. On my cell, I captured the name, address, phone, and email address the caller had given, but I’m pretty sure all that will wind up being bogus. Since Margaret said we needed to contact legal for a verified copy of his notes, that doesn’t prevent me from using the notes I made. I’ll send you a copy of mine,” I said.
The line went silent for a few beats, and I waited for him to continue.
“Is there anything that bothers you about this?” he asked. “And I don’t mean the fact that the paintings are out there on offer.”
“God, yes. This is not an auction house that Alex Clarke contacted previously. Were they contacted because someone knew these paintings would not be in their database? Did the person calling have that specific information? Or did they call because this is a second-tier auction house and maybe they felt it would be a little more flexible in the investigation of the paintings?” I said.
“The fact that the auction house, as you said, is not one contacted before raises a red flag. But being that the voice was female is neither here nor there with today’s voice-modulating equipment,” Declan said.
“Yes, that would be a logical thought,” I said.
“What’s your feeling about Brandon?” he asked.
“There’s something going on with him. You couldn’t see him, but he clearly was nervous. But I don’t know if he is guilty of thinking about doing something illegal or knowing he got caught up in not following protocol. He was involved in a case I had with the DA’s office, and we struck him as a witness because we didn’t think he’d do well on cross-examination. My read on him is, he’s anxious, but I don’t know if that’s him or if he’s externalizing something,” I said, pacing. “I want to see when the paintings hit the databases, showing someone had stolen them. Sometimes, it takes twenty-four hours to update. Maybe he was just careless.”
“Or maybe he has a side racket going,” Declan returned.
“Well, I don’t want to jump to that conclusion, but I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.
Declan was quiet again, only this time, I could hear him breathing into the phone.
“As much as I hate to say this, I think it’s time to get the Feds involved. They can execute a subpoena quicker than I can and get a trace on the phone and IP address,” he said.
I had to agree, but when the Feds got involved, there was more red tape, and some of our investigating access would be cut off.
“Let me tell Cillian your thoughts, and maybe he can use his connections to facilitate this with the FBI. And keep us in the loop. I’ll text you with updates. We’re catching the last flight out tonight. Our next stop is to touch base with the other two auction houses and a few galleries I know that can be sketchy,” I said.
“Okay, thanks. I owe you a fancy dinner,” Declan said.
“And I’ll hold you to it.” I smiled.
I returned to the office, and we wrapped the meeting up. If Brandon had been concerned when he saw me, he had no idea of the nightmare he was getting ready to encounter if the Feds got involved.
When we were clear of the building, I relayed what Declan had said, and Cillian said he’d discuss with Jackson if it was time to get the Feds involved and contact his old Art Crimes team. And he thought it might be advantageous to pull Aunt Mary in and have her friend Tyler give us a hand.
“Let’s get a quick bite, and I’ll make some calls,” he said.
The rest of the day was uneventful. No other auction house had received subsequent inquiries about the paintings, and none of the galleries admitted to any contact.
When all was said and done, with circumstantial evidence building, it looked as if Alex Clarke might soon march into court in jailhouse hardware.
Alex
In the court of public opinion, I was officially a prime suspect in Sam’s disappearance and facing an uninformed judgment by the public. The media grabbed hold of the story and spun its own version, and it was not pretty. Every aspect of my life was picked over, sifted through, and torn apart. My ex-wives were interviewed and gladly gave their account of how I had broken our marriage and that Sam was probably another victim.
I supposed, in retrospect, I should have conducted the initial contact with the police differently. But I really had not understood that Sam was gone and that something might have happened to her. Why would I have? I had talked to her earlier that evening, and now here I was, the next Scott Peterson. I was criticized for not raising the alarm bells sooner, not mounting a missing person campaign, and not giving public interviews and pleas for her return. Yes, it was clear my life was screwed.
And, now, I was headed back to meet with Detective Murphy to undergo another interview. One which I feared might turn into a custodial one as opposed to fact-finding. I was no idiot; my alibi was weak. There was no reason for me to have stayed the night after the final deposition. Admitting my alibi was a woman I’d picked up and had a roll between the sheets with would look bad, but looking back, at least it was an alibi. But what was worse, I’d never even gotten her first name. She was one in a string of women over the years whom I’d fucked and chucked.
Right now, nothing I did would make me appear as anything but a villain. Well, I might as well get this over with and hope to God that, by the time this interview was over, I could drive away and not be transported for a book-in and stay at the county jail.
My phone vibrated, and the screen lit up with Stanton’s name.
“Hello, Stanton,” I said.
I had to get rid of Stanton. He was an expensive but ineffective lawyer.
“Alex, are you ready for the interview?” he asked.
“Is anyone ever ready to sit in a room where everyone thinks you brutally murdered your wife? This is a nightmare. It’s turning into some type of future Dateline episode! No one wants to face that possibility. What’s the strategy here?” I asked, scooping up my keys. “And when will I get my car back?”
“Probably today. They found nothing of interest in the car,” he said.
“And the house? When can I move back in?” I asked.
“That’s pushing it, and you know it. It’s my opinion, you should assert the fifth. Eventually, they’ll stop asking you to come in just to hear those words, I refuse to answer, blah, blah, blah,” he replied.
“What do they want today?” I asked.
“You know they don’t share that with me. Meet me there in fifteen minutes. And, Alex, you need to keep that temper in check. Get comfortable and buckle up. You have to make some effort to appear as if you are concerned for the welfare of your wife,” he said.
“Well, if you were effectively doing your job, I wouldn’t have to be answering these questions at all,” I told him.
“And maybe, if you weren’t such a disagreeable person, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Take my advice or don’t. It won’t be me who’s behind bars,” he said and disconnected.
I hated interrogation rooms. I looked around at the cramped space, which was less welcoming than the last room we had been in. I supposed this one was to make me so uncomfortable that I’d admit to crimes I hadn’t committed. They certainly did their job.
“Good morning, gentlemen. We are now on the record, and everyone has signed off on the attendance sheet. Let’s get started, shall we? Mr. Clarke, we’ve done some digging into your alibi, and it’s troubling,” Detective Murphy said, gripping his chair as he tilted it back.
“How so?” I asked. Now, that was a stupid remark because I knew there were holes in my alibi.
“Well, we had difficulty chasing down this woman you’d said you spent the night with. But we found her. Now, here’s my problem, and I need you to fill in the gaps here as best you can,” Murphy said, sliding his chair forward and opening a folder.
“This woman, Claire Sturbridge—that is her name in case you care. She says you and she had a few drinks at a local bar about nine thirty and then both returned to her hotel. We secured footage from the lobby of the hotel, and we have the two of you entering her hotel at ten forty-five,” he said.
He showed me a still of us. I didn’t recognize the woman at all. Christ, had I been that drunk? Or had someone slipped me something?
“Well, there you go. Are we done here?” I asked.
“Not so fast,” he said with a smile. “Ms. Sturbridge said she was—let me see here … she was drunk off her ass and had no recollection of the night. She cannot account for the time you were there or left, and we’ve gone through the hotel footage and don’t have you leaving through the lobby at any time,” he said.
“Okay, so that proves I was there the whole night.”
“Does it?” he asked.
“What about cameras in the halls or the outside perimeter? Did they catch me leaving?” I asked.
“The hotel doesn’t have cameras in the halls. The entrance to the room is through an old-fashioned key, and perimeter cameras from the parking lot only picked up people’s shadows,” he said. “As far as we know, you could have left anytime.”
“Or not at all. This is insane. You’re telling me, you think I screwed this woman to use as an alibi. Then, I left her to hightail it home to kill my wife. After killing her, I drove to a store, got paint, painted the room, and drove back, all in a matter of seven hours. You’re high,” I said, shaking my head and sarcastically laughing. “If I was going to kill her, why make such a mess? Why not strangle her? Or poison her?”
“Quiet, Alex! Detective, it’s not my client’s burden to disprove your theory; it’s your burden to prove it,” Stanton said.
“I’m aware of that, sir. However, I was hoping Mr. Clarke could fill in the holes,” Murphy said.
“Holes. What holes? I don’t see any holes. I picked a woman up and banged her, and we both fell asleep. At some point, I left her hotel and returned to mine. I mean, really, what reason would I have to race home and kill Samantha? And then what? After I killed her, I ran to Walmart, bought paint, and quickly painted the area? What about the paintings themselves? How did I move them? Those things are huge. I couldn’t chuck them in my car, for God’s sake. You’d need a van to transport them,” I said.
Now, I was getting aggravated. They must not have worked this through. They were just jerking my chain, and I was done playing their game.
Detective Murphy continued staring at me. He leaned forward and slapped his hand flat on the table. “You had an accomplice,” he said. His eyes never left mine, as if he was watching to see if my heart sped up and breathing increased to indicate I’d lied.
“A what?” I breathed out, stunned at this conclusion.
“An accomplice,” he repeated.
“Who? Who was my accomplice?” I laughed.
“A woman,” he said with some sense of smug satisfaction.
“What woman?” Stanton finally asked.
I was getting ready to unload on him, and he suddenly flipped his folder closed.
“Gentlemen, that’s all for today,” Murphy said. “Mr. Clarke, we are releasing your car to you.”
“Wait, hell no. You can’t drop that on me and think I’ll take it, lying down. Who is my accomplice?” I demanded.
“Mr. Clarke, you’re an attorney; you know we don’t have to share investigatory details with you. What I will tell you is, we are getting close to closing that loop, and it would be better for you to come clean now. You won’t be able to move those paintings, and eventually, we will find your wife’s body. If I were you, I’d give this some serious thought,” Murphy replied as he stood to indicate this interview was concluded.
I was numb. I had done something reckless by picking up that woman, and now, I was in a mess of trouble. My mind spun. I wanted answers. No, I demanded answers, but I recognized to continue down this road would be futile.
“Thank you, Detective. Mr. Clarke will continue to make himself available. Alex, let’s go,” Stanton said, pulling me along by my jacket cuff.
After clearing the building, we saw an officer standing by the car, and he waved a board at me, indicating I had to sign off on my car. That completed, we waited for him to move away, and then Stanton started in on me.
“Who is this accomplice they are talking about?” he demanded.
“How the hell should I know?” I yelled back. “Can’t you get that through some discovery mechanism?”
“You haven’t been charged yet. Alex, what the hell were you thinking? Don’t you realize how bad this looks? You’re a newlywed, out screwing a woman whose name you don’t even know during a night you can’t account for to the police. Add to that, you keep painting yourself as a gold digger, and why wouldn’t the police view you as their primary person of interest?”
“You’ve got to get me back in the house, Stanton. Those paintings must be hidden somewhere,” I said, pacing and raking my fingers through my hair.
He looked at his shoes and shook his head. “Alex, if that’s your plan, you are off your nut. Don’t you think they’ve torn that place apart from the attic to the basement and the land surrounding it?”
“How? How could I have moved those large paintings?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t people who steal paintings remove them from the frame, pop the staples, and roll them up? All you need is a tube to stuff them in, and you’re gone. Or possibly use an SUV or minivan. The potential getaway vehicles are endless,” he replied, shifting his case from one hand to the other.
“Okay, what about the paintings on the wall—” I demanded.
“You were sitting there with me,” he replied, exasperated. “They think you left with the body and dumped it, and your accomplice took care of the rest.”
“All supposition, smoke, and mirrors. I’m done here, and I’ve got a client to meet, who probably wants to fire my ass after all the publicity,” I said. “Since no one else is doing any investigating on my behalf, I guess I’ll have to take the reins on that issue.”
“No. You do nothing, you understand me?” he demanded. “The next thing they will throw at you is witness tampering.”
I was done with this conversation. I took the keys from my pocket and entered my car. It had a funky smell. Christ! Probably from whatever reagent they’d used to try to illuminate blood. Great. My car had probably depreciated from this alone. First thing I would do after I got fired was call Bristol’s for the progress on locating the paintings. Then, I was going to fire Stanton. I needed a Lincoln Lawyer, a scrapper. I was not going to jail. End of story.
Dalia
Glad to be back from New York, I was still tired after a restless night. Settling into a new home was exhausting. The day came and went as I unpacked and made myself at home, and I didn’t even think about work. By midnight, I was dead to the world but in
my new home. Home. That word felt foreign after using the term apartment for so long. Yes, this felt like home with its flowerpots and wind chimes. My mind still raced, and my heart still beat a little too fast. But I was settling.
I slept better than I had in years and broke my own record. Normally, it was impossible to shut down my mind, rehashing the day’s activities. If someone bested me in court one day, I’d obsess on what had gone wrong, so it wouldn’t happen again. Here I was, able to spend a few hours reading without jumping up to make notes of things to review and rehash with my prosecution team. I wasn’t redoing my direct and cross-examination questions or going over inconsistencies that needed ironing out. This life felt peaceful.
Jolted awake at 8 a.m. by the blaring alarm, I was ready to roll out toward my day. A quick shower, hair secured by a ponytail, and travel mug of coffee, I was out the door.
By the time I bolted through the firm’s doors, Mary and a man I didn’t recognize were sitting at the conference table with Cillian and Jackson. The guy looked vaguely familiar. Had I seen him here before? He stood and walked toward me with an extended hand and introduced himself as Lee Stone. Mary interrupted and said that Lee had been an investigator with the firm but now crafted furniture full-time. Ah, this was the craftsman responsible for the firm’s and my home’s amazing, unique pieces.
“Dalia, I’ve invited Lee to sit in, so he can give us his thoughts on where the forensic evidence might fit in,” Cillian said, hitting a key to bring the computer to life.
“Lee worked homicide in Chicago,” Mary interjected, touching his hand. “He’s a crackerjack investigator. He and I cracked a big case not too long ago. A lot of people went to jail because of our good work.”
“Mary, old history. Can we move this along?” Jackson said, reaching for a bagel and a container of cream cheese.
She shot him a warning look, and he returned an eye roll.
What was with these two? It was almost like a routine they had worked out for some comic relief.
Facing A Twisted Judgment Page 7