“Miss Bradley saw someone enter Capone’s apartment shortly after three.”
“I know the time,” the elderly woman said, “because my soap opera had just finished, and I went downstairs to collect my mail.” She poked the officer’s arm. “Tell her about the hood.”
Prescott smiled at my widened eyes. “She said he or she wore a black, hooded sweatshirt.”
“You couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman?” I asked Miss Bradley. I thought she’d said a woman earlier, but maybe I’d assumed because I’d been so anxious to find my aunt.
“I only glimpsed the person from behind as I came up the stairs.”
“Did you happen to see two men retrieving paintings from Capone’s apartment some time after that?”
“You mean the boys he hired to set up his booth at the exhibition center?”
“I’m not sure. They were loading the paintings into a white panel van.”
“That’s them. Truman always uses the same guys. Um . . .” She looked at the ceiling as if it would help her tap into some buried memory. She snapped her fingers. “Oh, their names will come to me. Anyway, the flea market people let Truman keep his booth set up in a corner of their main building, so he only has to bring new supplies each weekend, but for the special events, he always hires those boys to set up for him.”
Okay, so maybe we’d made a wrong assumption about the guys in the van. But they’d been in the apartment after the person in the hoodie.
Officer Prescott handed her a business card. “Give me a call if you think of their names.” After Miss Bradley disappeared back into her apartment, Prescott turned to me. “Looks like we need to track down Capone’s delivery boys.”
“Yeah, the door to Capone’s studio was closed when I went into the apartment, so it’s conceivable the things they had to pick up were waiting for them by the door, and they didn’t expect to see Capone.”
“Conceivable, but unlikely.”
“Hmm.”
“Why was your aunt outside Capone’s building?”
“Whoa, you can’t think she killed him!”
“I can’t dismiss her simply because she’s your relation.”
“Okay, yes, she came here to see Capone, but she never made it into the building.” I explained Aunt Martha’s interest in helping Tyrone make a go of his art. Was this why Prescott had summoned me up here? So her sidekick could grill Aunt Martha without me there to defend her? Thank goodness Nate had shown up.
Detective Richards strode out of Capone’s apartment. “Jones, Prescott said you found evidence pertinent to the Keane theft?”
“Yes, I’ll—”
A pair of EMTs guided a gurney holding a body bag out Capone’s door. We waited as it passed, then I motioned Richards into the apartment and showed him the photograph of the Margaret Keane painting.
“Good catch,” he said. “Irwin has located a ledger that might prove helpful in matching jobs to clients if we can figure out the guy’s coding system.”
“Irwin?” I asked.
A well-dressed Tom Selleck–type—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair, and dark, bushy mustache—strode into the room with a leather-bound ledger under his arm. “You must be the agent who found the body.”
“Yes, Serena Jones.” I extended my hand.
“This is Detective Irwin. The homicide detective on the case,” Richards said by way of introduction. “I’ve already filled him in on your interest in Capone.”
“If it’s all right with you,” I said, matching his viselike grip, “I’d like to follow up on all the photographs of paintings. I think we may find other collectors have been unwitting victims and haven’t realized it yet. One of them may be able to give us a lead on who was buying the forgeries from Capone and pulling the switches.”
“I’m only interested in the people who had motive, means, and opportunity to kill him.”
I dropped his hand. I’d hoped he’d be more enthusiastic about my investigation. “May I?” I asked, pointing to the ledger.
He handed it over. The pages dated back more than thirty years and were yellowed with age. I thumbed through the most recent entries and found four in the weeks leading up to the Dali theft. The jobs had numbers I suspected would match those scratched on the back of each photograph. But without a numbered photograph of the Dali, there was no way of knowing if it was among the jobs listed. The customers were identified by an alphanumeric code. Several were repeat customers.
I thumbed back eighteen years to the weeks before my grandfather’s murder. At the sight of a familiar number, I gasped.
“What is it?” Irwin asked.
“I have strong reason to believe that at least one of his customers murdered someone.” I turned to the officer packing up the photos for processing back at the station. “May I?”
He looked to Detective Irwin, who nodded, then handed me the stack.
I found the photo of my grandfather’s painting. The numbers matched the ledger entry. I moved the photograph to the top of the stack, my heart twisting at the memories that came flooding back. “See this?” I pointed to the matching entry in Capone’s ledger. “The owner of this painting was murdered by the man who stole it.”
“Here in St. Louis?”
“Yes, eighteen years ago.”
He scrutinized me as if I didn’t look old enough to know the city’s ancient crime history. “How come you know so much about this painting? Is it famous? I don’t recognize it.”
I squared my chin. “The painting’s owner was my grandfather.”
“Oh, I see,” Detective Irwin said, frowning. “Um, sorry for your loss.”
Right, that was an afterthought if I ever heard one. What did he think? That a personal connection to the investigation would taint my perspective?
Irwin booted me off his crime scene with a “we’ll keep you in the loop; thanks for calling,” so I decided against telling him I’d snapped pics of the art photographs. I stepped out of the building and smiled at the evidence team loading boxes of them into the police van. What Irwin didn’t know wouldn’t get his nose out of joint.
I walked to the corner of the street where I’d parked my car and had the neck-prickling sensation I was being watched. I glanced over my shoulder. Detective Richards was heading toward me, but when our gazes met, he waved and turned toward a car at the curb.
I waited a moment to see if he actually climbed in it. He did.
I scanned my car inside and out before getting in, but the churning in my stomach didn’t abate. Of course, it was more likely nerves over the thought of telling Nana about the photo I’d found than the idea of someone following me. I might as well get it over with since Nate took care of driving Aunt Martha home.
Two streets later, a black Lexus that had cruised up behind me after I left Capone’s was still on my tail. Then again, with everyone heading home for supper, traffic was tight. He could just be going the same direction. I pulled into the visitors’ lot of Nana’s condo just off King’s Highway Boulevard, and the Lexus didn’t even slow. Good, glad I didn’t waste time doing any evasive maneuvers.
Nana lived in a full-security condo, so no one would be sneaking in after me anyway. “I’m here to visit Stella Jones. I’m her granddaughter,” I said to the doorman. A doting granddaughter wouldn’t have to tell him. I would come so often he’d recognize me on sight. I shoved aside the thought. Nothing would make me happier than to feel as if Nana would welcome my visits, but I suspected she ranked them up there with a house call from the dentist.
“You can go on up, Miss.” The doorman tapped the elevator button for me.
“I prefer the stairs,” I said with a practiced smile. Nana lived on the tenth floor and enjoyed a spectacular view of Forest Park. But the place felt more like a showplace than a home.
Nana opened the door the instant I knocked. “Serena, what a nice surprise. Have you brought news of the investigation?”
“Of a sort.”
“That sounds cryptic.
Come in. Would you like a spot of tea?”
“No thank you.” I’d actually have liked nothing better, but getting through what I had to say would be hard enough without trying to balance a cup of tea while perched on Nana’s pristine white sofa.
“Then come sit.” Nana motioned me to her sitting room. It smelled like Chanel No. 5 and furniture polish—without a hint of the rich leather-and-sandalwood fragrance I fondly remembered from their home in Granddad’s time. Or the deep, mellow tones of Frank Sinatra crooning in the background.
Nana wore a fashionable plum pantsuit with a floral blouse. She sat in the Queen Anne chair, her back ramrod straight, her legs crossed at the ankle.
I attempted to do the same, although the sofa’s soft cushion made the posture thing a challenge. “I may have identified the person who painted the copy of Gladys’s Dali.”
“May have? You don’t know?”
“Not definitively.”
“I see. And do you think he made the switch?”
“No, I believe someone provided him with a photograph of the Dali and hired him to paint the copy, then made the switch himself at a later date.”
“Someone who?”
“I’m still working on that.”
“It sounds like you’re doing a lot of supposition with nothing helpful to show for it. Can’t you coerce this artist into giving you the name?”
“No, he’s dead.”
Nana’s eyes narrowed. “Dead? So he’ll be no help at all to us, then?”
I bristled at her utter lack of compassion. “We did find evidence he painted copies of at least two other stolen paintings. Evidence that may help us track down the thief.”
“That’s good, then.”
I took a deep breath. I’d hedged long enough. “Have you heard of Truman Capone?”
“No, should I have?”
She’d answered quickly. Too quickly? No, if she recognized the name, something in her body language would’ve betrayed it. A twitch. A lip curl. Something.
“Capone had a file folder full of photographs of paintings we believe he copied. One of those photographs was of the Blacklock landscape stolen from your home the night Granddad was murdered.”
Nana stiffened. “I see.”
“According to his ledger, someone hired him to paint a copy.”
Nana clasped the fine gold chain at her neck, trailing her fingers along it until they reached the lantern-shaped locket at her throat. She rubbed her thumb along the etching, her gaze drifting to the window.
“The ledger entry was dated a month before the robbery,” I added softly.
She nodded, her gaze still fixed on something beyond the window.
I’d expected surprise. Anger even. I swallowed hard. I wouldn’t blame her for being angry. If I hadn’t begged to stay overnight so Granddad and I could finish my painting, he would’ve been out with Nana at their Bible study like they were every Wednesday.
“I trust this will not cause the police to reopen the investigation.” Nana’s features remained as hard as granite.
I blinked. “Excuse me? Don’t you want Granddad’s killer brought to justice?”
“Will the photograph of Gladys’s Dali you found in this man’s file help you locate the person who hired him?”
I reeled at her deliberate avoidance of my question. I’d been stupid to ask it. Why would she dignify it with an answer? “We didn’t find a photograph of the Dali,” I said.
“Then why are you involved? Surely this man’s murder isn’t an FBI matter. You should be working on Gladys’s case.”
I fought the urge to shrink back at her caustic tone. “I don’t understand. I thought you’d be happy.” For the past eighteen years, I’d spent half my waking hours dreaming of the day I’d bring Granddad’s murderer to justice, for that reason. “I’m sure this will convince investigators to reopen Granddad’s case.”
Nana crossed her arms, not defiantly but as if to contain something building up inside her chest. “Then I hope you will ensure they don’t.”
“Why?” Was the prospect of an investigation so intolerable? I’d been ten at the time of the original investigation, so I didn’t remember much about it. Her British stiff upper lip had remained firmly intact throughout, as I recalled.
Then again, in a murder investigation, the spouse is often the prime suspect until he or she alibis out. Maybe Nana’s Bible study had finished too early to provide her with an ironclad alibi.
Nana shook her head. “Because picking at old scars only makes them worse.” She stood, signaling the conversation was over. “Leave it alone.”
18
Leave it alone? How could I leave it alone now? After finding a photograph of Granddad’s painting in Capone’s file?
Tears blurred my eyes as I drove out of Nana’s parking lot. Stopping at the exit, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. What did I think? That she would suddenly forgive me for begging Granddad to stay home with me? That she’d forget I was the reason he’d been in harm’s way?
I slammed on my turn signal and blinked back the tears. It didn’t change anything. Granddad deserved justice, whether Nana loathed the idea of another investigation or not.
A text alert chimed on my phone. Nate asking if I could give him a lift home from my parents’ or if he should ask my dad. I tapped in that I’d be there in a few minutes.
The traffic blocking my exit began to move, exposing a black Lexus parked on the other side of the street. The same black Lexus that followed me from Capone’s. And this time, it was close enough I could make out the license plate.
I bypassed the radio in case the driver was monitoring signals and phoned the FBI radio room for his info instead.
“The car is part of a fleet for a company called XYZ Inc.,” the operator said.
“What kind of company?”
“Import/export.”
“Is it under federal investigation?”
I heard more keyboard tapping. “Not that I have a record of.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Behind me, a horn beeped. Traffic had cleared, and I was blocking the guy’s exit. I turned right onto the street, so the guy in the Lexus would have to pull a U-turn, and called Tanner. “Your case happen to be connected to XYZ Inc.?”
“Why?”
“One of their employees is tailing me.”
“Where are you?” The urgency in his voice answered my other question. XYZ Inc. was definitely connected.
I squinted at the street names on the intersection I was approaching and shouted them out, then added, “He’s three cars back.”
“I’m at Malone’s Grill five blocks down. Give me a second to pay my bill and—”
“I’m not picking you up. If this guy sees me with you, he might be more inclined to hurt me.”
“Yeah, so drive by, I’ll pick up his tail as you pass, and then you can work on losing him.” He spoke to someone at his end of the line, and a moment later, the background noise changed as if he’d stepped outside. “Where did you pick up the tail?” he asked, the beep of a car door lock punctuating the question.
“As I left a murder scene thirty-five minutes ago. I stopped at my grandmother’s house and he was still waiting for me when I came out.”
“The Capone murder?” An uncharacteristic edge laced his voice. “The police van transporting the evidence just blew to smithereens.”
“What?” The ledger, the photos . . . they were my only hope of tracking down Granddad’s murderer. “Your guys are connected to Truman Capone?”
“I didn’t think so, but you just put them at the scene.”
I rolled my car past Tanner as he climbed into his SUV, and my heart tripped into double time at the panic on his face.
“Was anyone hurt in the explosion?”
“Two officers were seriously injured. The suspects hit the van with a couple of grenades as the officers were climbing in.”
I studied my rearview mirror.
Tanner let
a second car pass him after the Lexus, then pulled in behind it.
I coasted into the next intersection and cranked a hard left at a sudden break in traffic. “Why blow up the van? If they were worried about evidence incriminating them, why didn’t they clear it out when they killed Capone?”
“Someone must’ve surprised them.”
Horns honked at the Lexus as it cut off traffic to make the same left.
I grabbed the next right. “Capone’s place was deserted when I got there. They could’ve hung back and waited for another chance if that were true.”
“Maybe someone else killed Capone. Someone not connected to them. Where are you now?”
I named the street.
“Take the next left.”
I did as he suggested and passed him at the next block. “So you think they showed up after hearing about the murder on the news?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. And maybe the guys who blew up the van aren’t connected to the ones on your tail.”
“Yeah? And I suppose you think pigs can fly too?”
The Lexus suddenly accelerated and veered into oncoming traffic, passed the two cars behind me and then screeched back into my lane a hair before a honking cube van would’ve rearranged his windshield.
“What did you do?” I yelled at Tanner.
The bus in front of me slowed. I swerved around it using the turning lane.
The Lexus swerved into the oncoming lane and rammed me into the side of the bus. The airbags exploded, and the next thing I knew I was staring out the passenger window at a bus-sized image of the local news anchor’s face.
Behind me, Tanner flipped on his siren and bubble light.
The Lexus sped off, clipping another car in the intersection.
The clipped car did a three sixty and plowed into my front end, bouncing me off the steering wheel of my now airbag-less car.
Tanner screeched to a stop beside me and yanked open my door. “You okay?”
“Yeah, go after that guy.”
“I alerted the police. They’ll catch him. I need to check on the other driver.”
As Tanner struggled to get the other driver’s door open, I brushed the shattered glass off my lap and did my best to ignore the faces pressed to the bus window and the reek of gasoline.
Another Day, Another Dali Page 16