Another Day, Another Dali

by Sandra Orchard

  “He said he was going home.”

  There was no sign of Tanner or the Russians, so I slipped back inside and checked out the side door that opened onto the parking lot.

  A familiar voice caught my attention. “I don’t renegotiate.”

  Pete? I squinted into the shadows but couldn’t make out who he was talking to.

  “Now, keep your mouth shut and your ears open,” Pete went on.

  A lanky figure in a black hoodie slunk off into the night.

  The mugger who’d grabbed the Degas last week? Sure, lots of creeps wore hoodies, but Pete had been around that day too.

  Pete strode to his car and sped away, tires squealing.

  I sensed movement behind me and spun around, one fist pulled back, ready to let loose, my other arm raised to block a blow.

  Tanner smiled. “Everything okay?”

  “No!” I dropped my arms with a huff. “I wish my grandmother had never asked me to find Gladys’s stolen painting. My prime suspects are her children, and Nana will never speak to me again if I arrest one of them!”

  “So don’t arrest them. Quietly share your suspicions with Gladys and ask if she wants you to keep digging.”

  “She’ll refuse to believe it. I know she will. And she’d never press charges against one of her own.”

  “Then that will be the end of it.”

  “I can’t drop the case!”

  “You can still keep a lookout for her missing Dali.”

  “It’s not just the Dali. Capone had—”

  Tanner raised his hand. “Dozens of photographs of paintings. I remember.”

  “Including my grandfather’s,” I reminded him.

  “Yes.” He gripped my upper arms and held my gaze. “But not Gladys’s.”

  I opened my mouth, the need to justify continuing the investigation surging up my throat.

  “Two different investigations,” Tanner added.

  I clapped shut my mouth. Okay, that made sense. Pete, or Tasha and Ted, could’ve been mimicking the MO of thefts they’d read about in the papers.

  Then again . . . I filled Tanner in on the exchange I overheard between Pete and the guy in the black hoodie. “If Pete’s behind more than the theft of his mother’s Dali, I can’t turn a blind eye.”

  Tanner grimaced, no doubt thinking of the GPS locator I’d found in my purse. “He won’t be easy to nail.”

  Anxiety churned in my chest. “And my grandmother will hate me if I manage it.”

  25

  The next morning crawled in gray and gloomy, which pretty much matched my optimism about the way the day would go. “Should I do what Tanner said and talk to Gladys about my suspicions?” I asked Harold as I fitted my gun into my shoulder holster. Yes, it was Saturday, but until my suspicions were settled one way or the other, I’d be an even lousier shopping partner than I was on a good day.

  Harold circled his spot on the bed a couple of times and plopped back down without responding.

  “Yeah, I feel like I’m running in circles. But the photograph of the Dali was on Lucas’s computer, so it’s got to be Tasha’s doing, maybe with Ted’s help, or Pete’s, or Lucas’s, if his handler is wrong about him.” I sat on the edge of the bed to pull on my shoes. “I don’t have anything to connect any of them, or the Dali, to Capone though. So Tanner’s probably right about Gladys’s theft being a copycat.”

  Harold let out an indignant throat warble at the word copycat.

  “Trust me. The idea doesn’t sit well with me either.” I pulled out my phone and thumbed through the pics I’d snapped of Capone’s photographs. I paused on the one of Granddad’s painting, thought about the explosion that took out the originals. “Somebody didn’t want the police examining these. Which means he had to be afraid they’d give him away.”

  Tasha wasn’t old enough to have been involved in Granddad’s murder, but Pete would’ve been eighteen, maybe nineteen at the time, old enough to concoct a scheme to steal the painting, or to be cajoled into helping. And savvy enough now to know the best time to destroy the evidence. “Maybe I’ll dig a little deeper into Pete’s activities before I speak with Gladys.”

  I tapped in Matt Speers’s number. “Hey, can we meet for coffee?” The best way to gain insider information on a cop was to talk to his colleagues.

  “Too busy today. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “We’ve got a warrant for Tyrone Gaines’s arrest.”

  “What? Why?”

  “His prints were all over Capone’s apartment. I’m sorry.” Matt knew Tyrone was one of my art students because he was the one who’d introduced him to the drop-in center after picking him up for painting graffiti on the side of a bank.

  “They can’t think he’d kill Capone. Why would he?”

  “I don’t know, but Capone’s neighbor recognized his picture and remembers hearing yelling coming from Capone’s apartment not long before he saw Tyrone leave last Friday. The neighbor said he glimpsed Capone through the open door, and he looked like he’d been punched in the face.” He paused. “And now they can’t find Tyrone.”

  “Which only makes him look more guilty.” I heaved a sigh. “Okay, thanks for the heads-up, Matt. By the way, how’s Tracey doing?”

  “Much better. On bed rest, but home at least.”

  “Good to hear.”

  I patted Harold’s head. “Looks like I’m paying Tyrone’s mother a visit.”

  When I parked my car outside Tyrone’s parents’ place twenty minutes later, I couldn’t help but notice the guys sitting in a green sedan across the street perk up. My heart did a quick dip, until I realized Dmitri’s goons had no reason to watch for me here. They had to be plainclothes officers hoping to spy Ty sneaking home.

  I crossed the street, shifting my coat so they’d see my badge clipped to my waistband as I approached. “St. Louis PD?”

  “That’s right. And you are?”

  I glanced into their vehicle and spotted the police radio and other hardware confirming their admission. “Special Agent Serena Jones. Tyrone is one of my art students at the drop-in center where I volunteer.”

  “Thanks for letting us know.”

  “No problem.” Unless they informed Detective Irwin. He wouldn’t be happy about my being here.

  Tyrone’s crumbling brick two-story sat on a narrow lot. A curtain in the neighboring house slid back as I approached the covered porch. I couldn’t see who was looking out but nodded anyway. The curtain immediately swung back into place. I rapped on the door and waited on the small covered porch as multiple locks slid open.

  Tyrone’s mom didn’t even wait for me to introduce myself, although I suspected she recognized me from the drop-in center. “Like I told them other po-lice,” Tyrone’s mom railed, “he didn’t come home last night. Said he was staying at a friend’s.”

  “Which friend’s?”

  “Don’t matter. He ain’t there. He ain’t anywhere. Them po-lice already came back and told me that much.” Even her dark complexion didn’t hide the tired circles under her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, you must be terribly worried.” She was hiding it behind anger, but I remembered my mom doing the same thing when my brother would stay out all night without calling.

  She collapsed into a chair, her hands fisted against her thighs. “It ain’t like him. Ty’s a good boy.”

  “What was the nature of his relationship with Truman Capone?” I asked gently.

  “That artist?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was tutorin’ Ty. Sold some of his paintings too.”

  “Did they have a disagreement recently?”

  She shrugged. “Ty stomped around here the Friday before last after seein’ him.”

  The Friday before last? Ty had been at the Boathouse that night, watching a couple of Dmitri’s goons.

  “But when he came by Sunday to pick up one of Ty’s paintings, they seemed square. Mr. Capone even gave us a nice portrait he did of Ty. Ha
d nothing but good things to say about our boy.”

  “Okay, thank you for your time,” I said and stepped out of the house. My gazed drifted to the officers still sitting in the nondescript sedan. Lord, please let me find Ty. Please let this all be a big mistake. But if it isn’t, please compel Ty to come clean.

  Catching the attention of the officers, I gave my head a small shake to let them know I came up empty talking to Ty’s mom. Then I climbed into my car and began trolling the streets. A lot of the places in this neighborhood were rentals, and it showed. Perched on scant patches of grass that didn’t seem to grow, they had zero adornment. Broken windows went unrepaired. Peeling porch rails had settled into a uniform gray. I spotted one of Ty’s friends near the drop-in center and pulled over. “Hey, Jamal, you seen Tyrone?”

  “No,” he spat in that indignant tone teens seemed to have down to a fine art. “TC didn’t do what those po-lice are saying he did.”

  I blinked. “You call Tyrone TC?”

  “Sure, we all do.”

  Oh, this was so not good. The initials TC had been what tipped off one forgery victim. Was that what Capone had been tutoring Ty in? Painting forgeries? “But Ty’s last name doesn’t start with a C.”

  “His dad’s name does.”

  But he goes by his mom’s name.

  A police cruiser turned onto the street and slowed beside us.

  “Act cool,” I whispered to Jamal as the driver’s window whirred down.

  Pete Hoffemeier sat behind the wheel. “Kind of early to see you in this end of town, isn’t it?” he said, obliquely referring to my volunteering at the drop-in center down the street, but clearly fishing.

  “Always things to follow up on after a big fundraiser,” I said, not about to be baited.

  He squinted at Jamal. “And what are you doing here?”

  “It’s a free country. I can be wherever I want.”

  “You know a kid named Tyrone Gaines?” Pete asked Jamal, wisely not rising to Jamal’s taunting tone.

  “Sure, he goes to my school.”

  “You seen him today?”

  “No,” Jamal barked back with a heavy dose of like-I’d-tell-you sauciness in his tone.

  Pete offered me a tight smile and cruised on.

  “You’d better go easy on that attitude,” I said to Jamal, “before the police get on your case too.”

  He shrugged and skulked off in the opposite direction from Officer Hoffemeier.

  As I returned to my car, I glanced toward the drop-in center, wondering if I should let myself inside for a few minutes for appearance’s sake. The basement windows were the old, wooden-framed type that opened like a hatch, and the one nearest the back looked as if it wasn’t closed properly. I strode over to investigate.

  The edge of the window near the lock was dented, as if crushed by a pry bar. I squinted through the glass but couldn’t make out anything in the dark basement.

  I returned to the front of the building and casually glanced up and down the street. No sign of Pete’s cruiser. A green sedan rounded the corner and parked in front of the convenience store at the next corner. I let myself in through the center’s front door and locked it behind me.

  “Tyrone? It’s Miss Jones. Are you in here? I want to help you,” I called out. Only after the words were out did it occur to me someone other than Tyrone might’ve broken in. I palmed my gun and scanned the large, open main room. No one. I glanced in the office, under the desk. No one. I checked the bathroom, the storage closet. No one. I flipped on the basement light. “Ty? Talk to me.”

  Silence.

  I hesitated. It would be too easy for whoever was down there to waylay me or shoot me as I descended the stairs.

  A shadow detached itself from the wall and stepped into the light, arms raised.

  “Ty, what’s going on? They think you killed Truman Capone.”

  “They who?”

  “The police. Is it true?”

  “No! I’d never hurt him.”

  “Then why are you hiding?”

  He shifted from foot to foot, his gaze bouncing about the floor, the muscles in his cheek flinching every couple of seconds. “I didn’t know what he was doin’ with the paintings. I swear.”

  I holstered my gun. “Okay, calm down. Start at the beginning.”

  “Tru was teaching me how to paint. Then he offered to sell my paintings from his booth. You know, like on consignment.”

  “What kind of paintings?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

  “Copies of masterpieces. He gave me photos of the ones he wanted. Said his customers ate that kind of thing up. I swear I didn’t know what he was really doin’ with them.”

  “Which was?”

  “Sellin’ them to a couple of goons who’d swap them out for the real thing. Except one of the homeys they hit spotted my initials. My mark, you know? I hid them in my copies, didn’t even tell Tru. The goons freaked on him. Accused Tru of setting them up.”

  “What did Capone do?”

  “He told me to hide as soon as he saw ’em coming. And he didn’t give me up. Just took the beating.”

  So that explained the yellowed bruises on Capone’s face. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “He would’ve gotten in trouble. We both would’ve.”

  It beats being dead. I didn’t say it aloud. Tyrone looked eaten up enough with the guilt as it was.

  “After they left, I told him I wouldn’t paint no more copies if he was gonna sell them to criminals. Then I followed the guys.”

  “To the Boathouse.”

  “Right, so I guess you know about the Russian mob guys?”

  “You’re saying they bought the paintings from Capone?”

  “Why else would they beat him up?”

  “He wasn’t just beaten.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? He got beaten up ’cause of me.” Tears sprang to Ty’s eyes. He swiped at them, shook his head. “It don’t make no sense. They had a bunch more orders Tru was supposed to do for them. I even finished the one I’d started for him because he was so desperate.” The painting I’d witnessed Capone picking up Sunday afternoon?

  “They sent someone to talk to you at the gala. What did he want?”

  “For me to take over Tru’s business.” Tyrone lifted his chin, squared his jaw. “I told that”—he slicked over a colorful description of Ted—“I wasn’t interested. But he said if I knew what was good for me, I’d change my mind.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me?”

  Silence.

  Not that he needed to spell it out. Most kids in this neighborhood didn’t see law enforcement as the kind of people who had their best interests at heart.

  My cell phone rang. I glanced at the display. Nate. I dismissed the call without answering. A few moments later, a text alert came through—Randy has vital info for you. We need to talk.

  “Excuse me a second,” I said to Ty and then called Nate. “Can this wait? I’m a little busy right now.”

  “Where are you? We’ll come to you. We might know who killed Capone.”

  My heart missed a full beat. “Who? How?”

  “We’ll explain everything when we see you.”

  “Okay, I’m at the drop-in center in north St. Louis.”

  Ty tapped my shoulder and shrank back into the shadows.

  “I know it,” Nate said on the other end of the line. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I clicked off and turned to Ty. “You don’t have to worry about Na—”

  Ty cut me off with a slice of his hand. “Someone’s trying to get in upstairs,” he whispered.

  I cocked my ear toward the stairwell. “Stay here,” I whispered and hurried up the stairs two at a time. At the top, I slapped off the light switch.

  The doorknob rattled, followed by knocking. “Miss Jones, you okay in there?” Pete’s voice boomed through the door.

  I opened it. “I’m fine,” I said, although I suspected he was more conce
rned about what I might be up to than my welfare. “What’s going on?”

  He looked around without moving from the doorway. “I noticed the light on in the basement when I drove by and then you didn’t answer when I first knocked.”

  “Oh, sorry. I must’ve still been downstairs at the time.”

  “Do you mind if I look around?” He moved to the front of the room and glanced under the supply table. “It occurred to me that if Tyrone is familiar with the center, he might decide it’s a good place to hide out from the police.”

  “I’m actually glad you came back,” I deflected, heading him off before he made it to the stairs. “I wanted to ask you about the guy in the black hoodie I saw you talking to outside the MAC last night.”

  “What about him?”

  Interesting. So he didn’t deny meeting the guy. “He fits the description of the guy who mugged me in that neighborhood last week. What’s his name?”

  “What was the description? Tall, white guy in a black hoodie?”

  “Pretty much,” I acknowledged, not missing that he’d avoided supplying a name as deftly as I’d omitted mentioning Tyrone was indeed hiding in the basement. “Do you know his name?”

  “Afraid I can’t tell you that.” He headed toward the basement stairs.

  “Let me guess. Another informant?”

  He paused at the head of the stairs and pivoted on his heels. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.”

  Or a cohort in crime and Pete was afraid the guy would give him up faster than a wooden nickel?

  Nate and Randy rushed into the center, minutes faster than predicted. But my relief was short-lived.

  “Randy? What are you doing here?” Pete asked.

  I’d momentarily forgotten they knew each other, and it occurred to me Randy’s new information might’ve been fabricated for Pete’s benefit. Only if that was the case, Nate wasn’t in the loop, because he immediately jumped in with a cover story. “I recruited him to help me help Serena”—he looked around the room—“with this place.”

  “That’s great. I’ll just check the basement, then be out of your hair.” Pete descended the stairs.

  Stop him, I mouthed to Nate.