“I thought we weren’t getting involved in the other aspect of the case. What changed in a day?” I asked.
“Detective Murphy is working with the theory that Alex Clarke killed his wife and that he has an accomplice. If we add that into our working hypothesis, we need to widen the net of who might be in possession of the paintings. If there’s an accomplice, maybe that’s who’s shopping the paintings,” Cillian said. “In fact, that could be the woman who called Brandon.”
Mary’s phone vibrated, and I saw the name Tyler appear. She hit Accept, and a man’s face appeared on the screen.
“Mary, take me off FaceTime,” he said. The brief image I saw was a man with silver hair, and he had a slight foreign accent.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Sometimes, I forget you’re a ghost,” she said with a conspiratorial tone and hit the button to place it on audio only. “What have you got for me, Tyler?”
“I’m not a ghost. I just hate that feature. It glitches and makes it hard to communicate. Good morning, all. I’ll be brief. I have four of your paintings in play. The paintings are on an auction site on the Dark Web. We were able to track them down last night, and already, interest is causing a large stir. We’re keeping a close eye on them, as oftentimes, when too much interest is shown, they move it to a new site to avoid the government from finding them,” Tyler reported. “We are trying to track down the IP address. But, if I told you it was bouncing from country to country, that wouldn’t surprise you, I’m sure. Anyone can set up a proxy these days.”
“Any idea where the paintings are being housed?” Jackson inquired.
“No. All I can say is, they went on the market last night, and the interest was overwhelming,” Tyler said.
“What about the other four paintings?” Jackson asked.
“Nothing yet. I’ll keep you posted as information becomes available,” he replied.
The call suddenly disconnected.
“Can I ask what that’s about?” I posed to the group.
Everyone remained silent.
“You realize, I am a part of the team, right?” I said. “And, as a lawyer, I am obligated to keep secrets.”
“Mary, since this is your confidential informant, I’ll defer to you,” Cillian said, leaning forward.
“You ever hear about Israeli Intelligence Unit Corp 8200?” she asked.
“You mean, the one credited for intercepting the Australian airplane attack by terrorists?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, leaning forward to stare me in the eye.
“He’s one of them?” I asked, almost breathless.
“For his protection, I can’t admit or deny that,” she said, pouring her coffee to the brim.
“For the love of God, Mary, cut the dramatics. He’s in the private sector now,” Jackson said, turning to her. “Dalia, leave it, as he’s a very skilled source. Let’s continue. I’ve got a full day ahead of crawling through financials.”
I saw Mary raise her middle finger ever so slightly from the table in Jackson’s direction, and he got the meaning. Lee’s mouth twitched with a smile. Apparently, Mary and Jackson had their own form of nonverbal communication they were comfortable with.
“Back on track, people. Dalia, Detective Murphy said he’d let you view the second interview he had with Alex Clarke. If his theory is correct that there is a woman accomplice, then that would fit in with a woman calling the auction house,” Cillian said.
“You’re discounting that Alex might have used the voice-altering equipment?” I asked.
“I’m not discounting anything. But, right now, it feels like he is acting on impulse with little regard for consequences. Finding and using voice-altering software would mean planning. I’ll leave all the options open for now, but hopefully, we can rule in or rule out an accomplice rather quickly.
“This whole thing doesn’t sit right. His past actions always seemed calculated and well-thought-out. Why change now? People act impulsively when they are cornered or angry or because they’re innocent,” Cillian said, rubbing the left side of his face.
“I want to hear about the evidence at the house. I’ve got my theories,” Mary said.
“Of course you do,” Jackson replied, turning away from her.
I could tell Cillian was losing patience with Mary and Jackson by the tightness in his voice as he asked Lee to give a rundown of the forensics. Lee sat back and aimed a remote-control device at the computer, which engaged the projector.
“I’ll make this as simple as possible, as this is not our focus, but you need to understand a bit of background. Without a body, it is difficult to tell what happened, but it is clear from the blood pattern that it wasn’t arterial spray. There wasn’t a void in the area to indicate a body had hit the wall and slumped down, so we are left with the probability that someone was struck in the head with an object, and the blood splattered,” he said. His pointer outlined the areas on the wall where the blood pattern was centered and where the blood was cast off the weapon.
“Can we make a deduction that, with that type of castoff and pattern, the victim didn’t survive the attack?” Jackson asked.
Lee nodded. “From my experience, the answer is yes. Now, if you look at these pictures, you’ll notice items near the wall are missing,” he said and flipped between the two sets of photos. “We’ve already received confirmation from Detective Murphy that DNA analysis identified the blood on the wall as Samantha Clarke’s.”
A round of, “That’s terrible,” and groans were responses from the group.
“Here’s the interesting part. Look at this picture. There’s a rug in this picture, and the rug almost blends with the flooring, so you might not notice it if you weren’t looking closely. However, in this one, there is definitely no rug. Before you jump to conclusions, we don’t know if it was sent out for cleaning or if Samantha sent it to storage. Or if a body was wrapped with it to use as disposal,” Lee said.
“Is it me, or are we getting too involved in the investigation of a possible murder?” I asked, leaning forward to pick up a chocolate doughnut.
“Point taken,” Lee said. “But, now, I think it’s clear she didn’t leave with the paintings.”
“Who’s got our paintings?” Mary interrupted. “Anyone care to answer?”
Silence.
“I think you’re going about this all wrong. Right now, all of you want to start with a theory and work toward confirmation of that theory. That’s the wrong way to approach this case. I think Lee’s presentation spotlights that we need to start with observations and work up to a theory. What I’m hearing is, your theory is that the husband did it, and now, you’re trying to confirm your theory,” Mary said, standing to lean back and release a kink in her back.
“The logical conclusion is, the husband has something to do with it,” Cillian said.
“Why? Because the husband is a jerk and a philanderer? There’s nothing here to say it wasn’t someone else. How about that loose cannon Marley? Or Ashton could have had someone do it. And where’s your proof there was an accomplice? You people need to let Lee finish,” she said and sat. She looked to Jackson, waiting for an argument but didn’t get one.
“Okay, I get that everyone is antsy to get the artwork back. Here’s my observation—and not my theory. I can’t say for certain if there was more than one person involved in the murder. But an efficient use of time would say one person moved the body from the home while the other went out for paint. There’s no blood in the husband’s car, so that’s not how the body was transported. That leads us to have to look for a second person’s involvement. And that might be the person with the paintings,” Lee said.
“Christ, my head is ready to explode. What’s the path we are following?” Jackson said, grabbing his head between his hands.
“Delegate. Leave the location of the auction for the paintings with Tyler. He’ll monitor that. Face it; it’s out of our control. Dalia, I heard a woman picked up the husband, and you snapped a photo. Mary, did
you run it through your facial recognition setup?” Lee asked.
Mary nodded.
“It’s not much help. She’s in a baseball cap and sunglasses,” I said.
“You’d be surprised what the software can pick up. I’m on it,” Mary replied.
Lee continued, “I noticed, in the report, that the forensics people postulated the person was right-handed because of the castoff pattern. Dalia noticed the husband seemed to have trouble raising his arm more than a fifteen-degree angle. Maybe he hurt it during the struggle. Or maybe he has a chronic rotator cuff problem. Some physical disability might make it difficult to swing a weapon and make contact with a head. Someone should look into if he has chronic shoulder or arm issues,” Lee said, tossing his pen down.
“Or the accomplice could have taken a whack,” Jackson said.
“No one is ruled out at this point, and the suspect pool is wide open. Like Mary said, we are working from inductive reasoning as opposed to deductive. Dalia, you stay on Alex. Jackson, on Marley. Mary, you do a workup on Ashton, and I’ll look at Suspect X, the possible accomplice—” Cillian said and was interrupted.
“Nope, that won’t work,” Mary said.
Jackson raised his arms to the sky and mouthed a plea to God for help. Lee looked down and bit his lip to stifle a laugh.
“Okay, Mary, what is your proposal?” Cillian asked in a defeated tone.
“I take Marley. Jackson loses his patience too quickly. This little girl is a drama queen who loves chaos and is impulsive. I can work better with her.”
Cillian looked to Jackson for a rebuttal.
“Fine. One wackadoodle can read another. Have at it,” Jackson said.
“Good. Dalia, you seem to have developed a good flow with Detective Murphy, so how about you continue with him and keep us in the loop?” Cillian said.
“Works for me. I just received a text from him, confirming I can review Alex’s second interview, so I’m heading there next,” I said. “I’ll watch Alex’s body language and see what I can pick up about that arm.”
“One last thing,” Mary said, and everyone who had risen sat back down. “Why are only these paintings being moved? Does the killer have a plan to move the others a different way? Or has he already lined them up to do a trade? Or is there sentimental value? Just throwing it out there.”
I had to admit, Mary was not only a hoot, but also a bright woman. The fact that she looked like the mother in The Golden Girls TV show and wore ridiculously thick black owl eyeglasses gave her an edge at disarming people. That she also held a private investigator license and was a co-owner of the firm boggled my mind.
“Okay, we’ll all give that a think. Anything else, chief?” Jackson asked with a sarcastic tone, looking at Mary.
“That’s it. And, Dalia, anything you need, let me know, dear.” Mary smiled sweetly while Jackson shook his head and mouthed, Run.
“Thanks, Mary. Cillian, I’m heading over to the police. Lee, thanks for the background, and I’m a fan of your wood-sculpting.”
I gathered my stuff, and I was gone.
The video of the interview went by rather quickly and gave me no further information than before. Except, as an attorney, Alex made every blunder you would tell your client to avoid.
“So, what’re your thoughts?” Declan asked.
“This case gets weirder and weirder,” I said, turning toward him.
“That’s not even the half of it. If you can believe it, the sister, Marley, has been all over us as to when the house will be released as a crime scene,” he said, shutting off the monitor.
“Why?” I asked, settling in for what would be a new piece of information to add to the heap. Like Mary said, observe and gather facts.
“Damn if I know. She said she has valuable stuff she has to get out. I told her to make a list, and we’d consider letting her in to get it,” he said. “My understanding is, she was persona non grata at the place. But maybe she had some stuff there from childhood.”
“So, what about the woman he stayed the night with at the hotel? Have you cleared her of any involvement?” I asked.
“Claire Sturbridge. She’s a documented alcoholic, prone to blackouts with a string of DUIs. And your next question: could he have used her car if she was drunk? No, she’s got an alcohol sensor on her wheel so sophisticated that it monitors and documents the times the car is used,” he said.
“Well, that knocks that out. I watched him closely during the interview, and I couldn’t tell if he favored his right arm. Any way we can find more information out about debilitating health issues?” I asked.
“You mean, other than digging around his medical records or putting him under direct observation?” he asked, spinning his pen in a circle on the desk.
I nodded, and he shrugged.
“I don’t see any way to get a court-ordered warrant to look at his medical records at this point.”
“I’m going to call and see if I can make an appointment with him,” I said. “Any word on the FBI tracking the paintings?”
“They were pretty upset we kept them out of the loop and are just getting up to speed right now. I’m waiting for them to reach out to me,” Declan replied. “But we will still maintain point on this.”
“Even though someone tried to shop them across state lines?” I asked.
“For now,” he said.
I so wanted to tell him about what Mary’s friend Tyler had said, as it was of vital importance. However, this was Cillian’s call. And he should be the one to liaise with his old partners at the Art Crimes team and bring Declan into the loop. I suppose it would take special finessing to explain how Tyler knew his way around the Dark Web and why he had been called before the FBI. But, playing devil’s advocate, it wasn’t our job to do the police department’s work and not our fault we were one step ahead. Yet that logic felt shaky at best.
“Well, that’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Want to grab lunch?”
“Let me take a rain check. I moved into a new place yesterday, and I want to finish unpacking stuff while I have some energy in me. I’ll let you know what Alex says about an interview. Being the swine of a ladies’ man, he is, maybe he’ll say yes because I’m a woman,” I said and put the straps of my bag over my shoulder.
He smiled in agreement.
Declan Murphy could be a weak spot for me. Handsome, smart, and funny—the deadly triad.
Dalia
It was a shock that Alex had agreed to meet with me to discuss the paintings. Here I sat, waiting for him to arrive for coffee, when my phone rang, and Mary’s name appeared.
“Good morning, dear. I know Alex Clarke will be there any minute, but I wanted you to have this information. The woman he was with who picked him up has a name now and a criminal record,” she said.
How Mary stayed ahead of everyone was an amazing feat.
“Quick, I see him walking across the street to get here,” I said.
“Her name is Marissa Adams, and she has convictions for intent to distribute drugs, but that was about ten years ago, and an identity theft and financial fraud conviction from five years ago. It appears they crossed paths in a case where she was accused of stealing from her ex-husband’s mother’s estate. He represented her and was able to have the case dismissed. I can go into more detail, but that’s the quick and dirty,” she said.
A text appeared with the face of one Marissa Adams without a baseball cap and glasses.
“Got it,” I said, and we disconnected.
On his way over, he took a moment to answer a text or email and then pocketed his phone.
He spotted me in the secluded booth I’d chosen and sauntered over. Alex Clarke was quite the conundrum. Handsome, well dressed, and carried himself with confidence. The trifecta of a womanizer. Looking at him, it was clear what his game was, but it was easy for a vulnerable woman to get sucked in.
“Good morning, and thank you for meeting with me,” I said as I offered my hand in greeting.
&nb
sp; He slid into the booth and dismissively waved my hand away. I supposed he felt no need to turn his snake-oil charm on me.
“I have little time, so I’d appreciate it if we could get on with this. Ground rules: I will not talk about anything other than my personal knowledge of the paintings,” he said, flipping over his cup and pouring his coffee.
“Fair enough.” I smiled. “This will be rather painless, so let’s jump in. I am showing you some paintings that are the subject of this investigation—”
“No, no, no,” he said. “Don’t waste my time. I will not sit here and go over ground that’s already been covered. I first saw the paintings when I took the case and last saw them when I left for the depositions. I have a copy of their last appraisal and the insurance policy. I have no idea where the paintings are now. Anything else?” he clipped out. “Now then, where do I sign to complete my mandatory statement?”
I sat there, contemplating my options, and went for it.
“What’s your theory? Why steal the paintings?” I asked.
“Money? Greed? Why else?” he asked.
“It will be hard to move them, even through a private sale. And a nightmare to get them out of the country,” I replied.
He studied me for a beat and replied, “The fact that they haven’t offered to sell the collection back to us says they might have a buyer. Or they can sit on it, take each painting to market under a different name, and list it as in the style of or trade it for weapons or drugs or keep it in their homes as a showpiece,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What about temperature regulation and getting through customs?” I asked.
“Now, you’re just playing dim-witted. Throw it in an architect’s blueprint tube and carry it on a plane. People slip through borders to come into the US from Central America all the time. How easy would it be to get the paintings back down that way? And face it; there’s always a person in an auction house who needs a few extra dollars to get the right people in touch with each other,” he said as he held my eyes.
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