“Okay, so what’s the plan, boss?” Jackson asked, looking toward Cillian.
“I’m open to suggestions. I say, let Mary meet with Clarke again and see what arrangements he can make for the sale of her paintings,” Cillian said. “If it sounds underhanded, then I’ll alert the Feds. I hate to wrestle with how to tell them about Tyler.”
My phone vibrated on the table. A text from Declan.
“Excuse me. I received a text from Declan, and Marley is on her way in for an interview. Is it okay if I leave and catch up later?” I asked.
“Of course. Go,” Cillian said with a wave of his hand.
I grabbed my purse from the floor and was on my way.
Marley was a mystery. Her background involved hospitalizations as a teenager for mental health problems and a few low-level drug arrests but no convictions. No marriages but a long list of broken relationships with wealthy men. She came across scattered but manipulative, which usually translated into dangerous.
I arrived a little after Marley was taken back to the interrogation room. The front desk officer buzzed me through, and I power-walked my way to the monitoring room. I silently entered the room, and after a nod from Dave, I put my headphones on.
The monitors were live, and Declan and Marley were seated at the table. Declan had a closed folder in front of him.
“Ms. Bennington, it would help if we could get the preliminaries out of the way. It’s my understanding that the interview today is a consensual interview, and you waive your right to counsel. Is that correct?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Well, sort of consensual. You called me in for an interview, and I came. Unless you tell me right now I’m a suspect, then I’m leaving.”
I saw he studied her and thought about how to respond. Surprisingly, he didn’t respond at all and left that hanging. He removed a set of papers from the folder and placed them in front of her.
Every time I saw Marley, she always looked as if she was wired on drugs. Her eyes usually darted around, and her legs moved randomly. Today was no different. Her leg moved up and down under the table, and her eyes moved from the table to Declan in sporadic bursts.
Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a loose yellow top and jeans. The little I knew of Marley told me drama and chaos surrounded her. She had several filed police reports, which indicated, once her love affairs ended, they rarely ended well. Men accused her of stalking and bad behavior, but none seemed to go further than a report. This should be interesting.
“Please sign and initial here,” he said and waited for her to complete the document.
“Thank you. For the record, state your name and address,” Declan said.
“Marley Bennington, 606 Fox Trot Lane, Denver, Colorado,” she replied.
“And how are you related to Samantha Bennington?” he asked.
“She’s my sister,” she replied, lounging back in the chair. The leg that had been bouncing under the table was now crossed and swinging.
“You’ve recently been involved in a rather complicated court case with her. Can you tell me what precipitated that?”
“The case?” she asked, twirling her ponytail.
“Yes.” Declan nodded.
“My grandfather and I had been having problems for years. He expected me to follow a certain path in life as a Bennington, and I followed another. That led to several volatile disagreements, which always ended with threats to disinherit me. But, several days before he died, we resolved our differences, and he assured me he would leave me part of the house and two of the paintings. But, before he could change his will, he died and left Sam the entire collection.
“I tried to reason with her before suing. All I wanted were the two paintings that were always mine. I love those two. And I was the one who had researched them, and Grandfather and I’d purchased them together. I’d earned those paintings. But Sam was having none of it. She didn’t believe me and thus the lawsuit,” she said.
“Which ones?” Declan asked, opening the folder.
“The Campendonk and the Freud,” she replied.
He placed eight photos of paintings on the table. “Which ones are you speaking of?” he asked.
She pointed to the two and placed the others back in the folder.
“I see. And so, you were disappointed when he wanted to keep the collection together?” he asked.
“You could say that,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“Did you hold it against your sister that she was awarded the paintings by the court?” Declan inquired.
“Of course I did. Wouldn’t you?” she asked, leaning forward and placing her hands, palms down, on the table.
“Tell me why,” he probed.
“Please. First, she manipulates Grandfather to bend to her will. But then—” She stopped and sat back again, looking past him at the wall.
“Then, what?” he asked, also leaning back. A tactic used to be less threatening and give an interviewee some space.
“Like you don’t know,” she bit out.
“Honestly, I don’t. Where is this going?” he said, genuinely bewildered.
“Then, over the course of the lawsuit, Alex and I became lovers. And he promised me, if I consented to the terms of the will, he would make sure that, after it was over, he’d find a way to get those paintings to me,” she said. “But I had my doubts. It’s one thing, screwing someone, and another thing to trust them. I didn’t trust him, so I said no, and he went ballistic and broke things off.”
The way she’d said his name with such disdain, I had an impression she was telling the truth. But, if so and she was angry, why not bring that to the judge? Surely, the judge would have ended that trial due to his behavior. Or why not report him to the state bar? From the way her past relationships had ended, she didn’t seem to go down without a fight.
Declan placed his pen on the table and scrubbed his face with both hands. “Let me get this straight. You are saying, during the trial, you and Alex Clarke became lovers?” Declan queried.
“Yes. Isn’t English your first language?”
“And he promised you that, in return for you dropping the lawsuit, he would find a way to get the two paintings to you?”
“Yes,” she said with a nod.
“Did he make any other promises?” he asked.
“No. That’s all I wanted,” she said.
“When did this relationship start?” Declan asked.
“Three months or so before the judge gave the order,” she said, rubbing her hand in a circle on the table.
“Did you tell anyone about this relationship?” he asked.
“No. Are you crazy?” she said.
Right, he was the crazy one.
“Was this what you would call a romantic relationship or more of a business relationship?” Declan asked.
What started as a giggle turned into a full-blown, almost maniacal laughter.
Dave and I exchanged looks, but Declan remained placid, waiting for her to stop.
“You slay me,” she finally replied, settling down.
“Did it shock you when he married your sister? I mean, it seems obvious that he was carrying on with you both at the same time,” he posed.
The laughter stopped, and in return, he received a noncommittal shrug.
“Look, could you please cut to the chase? I’m tired, and I’m giving you five more minutes,” she said, pulling her handbag toward her to peer inside.
Wow, what a switch. Does this woman have multiple personalities?
“I’ve got several questions I still need to be answered,” he said.
“Well, since I’m free to leave, I’ll be leaving in five minutes,” she said. “And, next time, I’ll bring a lawyer.”
She had him, and she knew it. That last statement about the sisters sharing Alex was the one that had caused the plug to be pulled.
“Where were you the evening your sister disappeared?” he asked.
“Since I have no per
sonal knowledge of when she disappeared, I can’t answer that question.” She smiled.
“Don’t play games—”
“I’ll have to check my diary and get back to you,” she replied and suddenly stood. “Good talk. Now, if you can, have that cute officer who escorted me in come and escort me out, please.”
“It really will go better for you if we can rule you out today,” he offered.
“Now. I want to leave now,” she said, moving toward the door.
Declan picked up his phone and texted what I presumed was a message to the officer.
“When you look at your diary, I’d appreciate that information,” he told her.
“I’ll look into it,” she replied.
“Also, when were you last inside the house?” Declan asked.
“Too long ago to remember,” she said.
The officer arrived and escorted her out.
Within a few minutes, Declan strolled into the monitor room and sat with his legs sprawled out in front of him. He sat back, looking at his feet. Then, he moved one ankle over the other and crossed his arms.
“Do you believe her about the affair?” he asked.
“Hell if I can figure. She seems sincere. However, the woman does have a history of drug abuse, and maybe this was a drugged-up fantasy,” Dave said.
“I don’t know. That was a pretty big bombshell, and from what I could tell, she wasn’t using it as a diversion tactic but rather as part of a fact pattern,” I said. “What about the DNA, so you can test the hair? Did you get some from her?”
“We got that before you got here,” he said.
“How long will it take to see if it’s a match to the ones in the vacuumed bag?” I asked.
“A few days. But that’s never going to be the crack in this case. We might be able to flimflam her into making a mistake. But, if she brings a lawyer next time, there’s not much we can do with it. Sure, we can spin a tale that she hadn’t been there in a long time, so how’d it get there? But a good defense attorney will come up with lots of plausible reasons,” he said.
“Are you going to corroborate the story with Alex? Like he’d ever admit it,” I said.
“Yep. I’ll call his lawyer to set up a meeting to get his reaction to this affair. You want to get some lunch?” he asked.
I grabbed my bag, and we moved toward the door.
“Marley seems the type who would have some extortion material ready if Alex pulled out of the deal. You know, like pictures or recordings, maybe text messages or emails,” I said.
“And Clarke seems slick enough to avoid any of that mess,” Declan said.
I had to agree. In the end, it was he said/she said. Neither one had the upper hand on that front.
Dalia
I found a casual conversation with Declan was as comfortable as when we were in a professional setting. We seemed to fall into an easy, relaxed state. Declan was a man who portrayed the saying, What you see is what you get. I liked that about him. There was no hidden agenda and no second-guessing.
“Do you like living in Mary’s house?” he asked.
“Oh, man, it’s an amazing house. I grew up in a nice home with a yard and lots of room. Then, when I worked in Manhattan, I found all I could afford was an apartment where you had to step outside when you wanted to change your mind.
“This house has a special feel about it. And what makes it so interesting is that Lee has added touches to it with his wood sculpture. Every day, I seem to find something new that invites me to study it. His touches are mesmerizing because they remind me of the medieval German church wood carvings. Some are stained wood carvings, and others are colorfully painted. Each day, I see something new,” I said.
“Lee. You mean, Lee, the investigator in Cillian’s firm?” he asked. His fork stopped midair as he waited for a response.
“Yes. Lee only works part-time for Cillian now. He devotes most of his time to wood-sculpting. All the furniture in the office is his creation. And the backyard furniture at Mary’s is also his work. His talented touch is everywhere. If you’re not busy, I’d like to invite you to come over this weekend for lunch, and I’ll give you a tour of the place,” I offered.
“Day and time?” he asked with a smile.
“Saturday at twelve thirty. Does that work? You’ll be my first guest,” I said.
“That works.” He smiled.
“Can you work one of those fancy-schmancy barbeques?”
“Am I a man?” he asked as if I had ten heads.
I returned a laugh. “Good. You’re in charge of the grill. I’ve yet to figure that thing out,” I said.
“Are you settling into Cillian’s firm for the long haul?” he asked as the waitress removed his plate.
“I honestly don’t know. Everyone has made me feel very comfortable, and this case is a challenge. But I am still playing with the notion of following a different path. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.
“The world today is on constant alert to data breaches. Many of my cases had elements of computer privacy invasion and hacking. Over time, I became intrigued by the concept of cybersecurity—you know, information system security. I had to learn so much about it to cross-examine expert witnesses that I became pretty fluent in the concepts. I found it interested me, and I asked for all the cases that involved hacking and breaches. Now, I’m thinking I’d like to explore that as a full-time career,” I said.
“What?” He half-laughed with a large smile.
“See, you’re laughing,” I replied.
“No, you caught me by surprise. That was the last thing I expected from you. I thought maybe you’d want to teach at a law school or something. But I didn’t know you even had an interest in computers,” he said, touching my hand.
“It’s much more than computers; it’s integrated networks. Following data trails and breadcrumbs of clues.
“It started with working a case two years ago. Someone hacked into the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s database and wreaked havoc with the provenances and paintings on loan to the museum. The hackers found ways to erase paintings that had been loaned to the museum, which made it difficult to trace where they were. When the paintings disappeared, there was no way to prove they had ever been there. I worked closely with that team and found it fascinating. In my spare time, I signed up for courses through an online school, and little by little, I’ve become more proficient,” I told him.
“Does Cillian know what a gem he has in his midst?” he asked through a smile.
“Please. Right now, it’s more a learning experience. And I’m not sure that’s where I want to be anyway. I’m exploring my options and deciding if I want to go down a new path. And, if so, what way to go,” I said.
“You don’t necessarily have to blaze a new path. You could blend the two,” he said and was interrupted by a phone call. “Sorry. Give me a minute. I have to take this.” He answered, “Murphy.”
I couldn’t hear the conversation from the other end, but from his raised brows, I could tell what the other person had said surprised him.
“I see. When?” he asked. He waited for a response. “Fine. Get me two visitor passes,” he said.
He disconnected the phone and reached for his wallet.
“Want to take a ride to jail? Ashton Bennington wants a meeting,” he said.
“Let me text Cillian, so he knows where I’m heading.” I smiled back at him.
I was getting to meet all the players in this little game of Hide the Paintings.
This Denver prison appeared to be a country club compared to my old New York system. I’d hated it when I had to accompany the police to meet with defendants or jailhouse snitches. The smell of mold and urine was a challenge to anyone’s gag reflex. But nothing beat the smell of fresh vomit. I’d learned one important thing during my first week as an ADA. That was to carry tiger balm at all times to smear under your nose to block out all the unpleasant odors of the job.
We were escorted to a room wh
ere prisoners met with their legal counsel and settled in for Ashton’s arrival. Looking out the window, I was surprised there were no bars to prevent an unanticipated escape attempt. But the large metal loops on the table where chains were attached probably prevented an escape.
I’d seen photos of Ashton Bennington from the extensive newspaper coverage of his arrest and trial. He had been a playboy who was welcomed at events, only to be brought low by greed. None of the magazines or articles did justice to his pretty-boy good looks. I wonder how those good looks served him in jail.
The slow shuffle in with the ankle manacles attached to his legs gave me time to study him. How was it that his highlighted hair looked as if he’d just come out of a salon where he paid three hundred dollars for the cut? And did they really let prisoners use gel products? One match well placed near that hair could probably set it ablaze.
“Have a seat, Mr. Bennington. Officer, you can remove the cuffs,” Declan said.
It appeared as if the correctional officer was about to argue but changed his mind. Once he uncuffed him, the officer left; that was followed by the distinct sound of a door lock being engaged from the outside.
It took a moment for Ashton to settle in, and while he did that, I took out my notepad.
“Mr. Bennington, I’m Detective Declan Murphy, and this is Dalia Grey. Ms. Grey works with Bristol’s, the company that insures the paintings. You wanted to speak to me?” Declan asked.
“Yes,” he said, taking a measure of me.
“You waive your right to counsel being present?” Declan asked.
Ashton nodded, and Declan pushed three papers at him to sign and return.
“Okay, why did you want to see me?” Declan asked. He sat back and crossed his arms.
“My sister, Marley, came to visit me, and it was both amusing and disturbing. Apparently, she had just met with you this morning about those elusive paintings.
“I don’t know how much you know about my sister or want to know. But I need to clarify that, whatever she says are her words, not mine. She has a habit of using the we word too liberally. It was brought to my attention that, in the course of your interview with her, you were looking at me as a suspect,” he said, clearly agitated from the way he changed position.
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