I watched as one item after another took the stage, quickly being bid upon and sent off to await their new owners. Several pieces inspired bidding wars, where the prices climbed into territories my bank account would cringe at. Though quite a few items went for under what I'd expect, the interest not as high.
About mid-auction, Lottie's Blob came up to the podium. I saw her lean forward in her seat, clearly excited to see what she'd get for it today. Van Steinberg gave a very long description of its origin and symbolism before beginning the bidding at $1,000. While I thought that was generous, several paddles went up at once, the auctioneer's voice bouncing from one to the other as the prices escalated. After we hit five figures, several paddles went down, but I noticed three bidders duking it out for the ownership. One was the same white haired lady who'd won the first item. The second was a man near the front row in a Hawaiian shirt—clearly enjoying his retirement. I craned my neck to a get a good look at the third as his paddle went up again.
And I nearly fell out of my seat when I did.
It was Bradley Cooper!
Okay, well, maybe not the Bradley Cooper, but he was tall, had sandy hair, blue eyes, and an impish smile that looked like it could melt Lady Gaga's heart. My pulse sped up as I wondered if this was the same guy Mom had described as being at the Antiques Extravaganza—both on the convention center floor and near her in the food court. While it had seemed like a wild goose chase at the time, now it felt like a tangible lead.
A lead who had just won Lottie's antique sculpture for a cool seventy grand. I wasn't sure what shocked me more—my good luck at seeing the actor look-alike or the price for the glazed blob.
As soon as the clay piece was removed from the elegant table and the next item brought in, I watched Bradley Cooper get up and quickly make his way toward a side exit door.
I froze. I did a mental eenie meenie minie moe between staying for the next few items—my Chanel pumps were only three away—or following my one good lead. In the end, the image of Mom's tear-stained face won out, and I made quiet apologies to the other people in my row as I shuffled past them and out the same door I'd seen Bradley Cooper use.
The main lobby was quiet and nearly empty. I whipped my gaze from left to right, hoping for any glimpse of the mystery man. An elderly man exiting the restroom. A woman talking in hushed tones on a cell phone near the reception desk. A portly guy sipping from a coffee cup near the elevator.
And a sandy haired man in a navy suit slipping out the front doors.
I bolted toward them, trying to follow him. Unfortunately, my heels were not made for bolting, and it took several small jogs forward before I hit the glass door, just in time to see Bradley Cooper get into a shiny silver Mercedes.
"Wait!" I called, still hustling in his direction.
But he must not have seen me, as he didn't so much as turn my way, instead roaring the luxury vehicle to life and pulling it out of the lot and onto West Olympic.
And disappearing.
CHAPTER TEN
I tried to quell my disappointment as I stood panting on the sidewalk. I took a minute to get my breathing under control, then slunk back into the auditorium, just in time to catch the tail end of bidding for the midcentury modern Gehry desk.
As I silently watched the next item come up, my mind turned over the possibilities of just who Bradley Cooper was. I was dying to ask Van Steinberg, but I'd have to cool my jets until the end of the auction for that. Mom had said she'd seen Bradley Cooper at the Antiques Extravaganza show, and now he was here. Possibly a coincidence—Van Steinberg had mentioned that the antiques community was a small one. Or possibly there was more to it. Hadn't Van Steinberg mentioned that, like The Blob that Bradley Cooper had just won, the last piece Carrington had put up for auction was from the Heffernan Studios? Maybe Bradley Cooper hadn't been at the Extravaganza to have a piece appraised but to speak to the man he'd just bought a valuable sculpture from…or possibly a fake sculpture?
I was liking that theory more and more, when item number twenty-four came up to the table, and I saw my Chanel shoes. Van Steinberg did them proud, rattling off facts about how they were the signature two-toned look in the late fifties, created with the express purpose of making a woman's legs look longer and her feet look smaller. Bidding started at fifty dollars, and at first I was worried that was all I was going to get. Maybe Allison Cash hadn't lowballed me after all.
But, thanks to a raised paddle by the white haired woman in the scarf, the ball began rolling, and several more paddles slowly went up. I felt the anticipation building in my stomach, understanding the thrill that kept frequent bidders coming back as the price climbed higher and higher. In that moment, it felt like the sky was the limit.
In the end, five hundred dollars was the limit, as Van Steinberg banged his gavel down on the podium, signaling that a lovely woman in a floral sundress had won the item and would be taking my sling-backs home. Any sadness I might have felt at letting them go dissipated as I calculated just how many diapers that five hundred would buy.
A few more items rounded out the auction, and by the time it ended, my backside was beginning to get numb, and my legs were stiff. The crowd slowly began dispersing, making their way as one mass back toward the lobby—some leaving right away, not having bought or sold anything. Others congregated near the reception desk, where paperwork awaited them to claim their newly purchased items.
I caught up to Van Steinberg as he stood by the door, nodding polite goodbyes to the regulars.
"Maddie," he said, beaming at me as I approached. "I'm very pleased with how the bidding went."
"Me too," I told him, meaning it.
"Come by on Sunday, and we'll settle the ticket," he told me.
"Thank you," I said again. "I will. And I was wondering if I could ask you about a bidder?"
Some of the jubilation left his face. "Was there a problem?"
"No, no problem," I assured him. "I just wondered if you knew his name. He actually left early. Sandy hair, about six feet tall."
He frowned. "Sorry, I'm not sure I know who that could be."
"Kind of looks like Bradley Cooper," I tried.
The frown deepened for a brief second before recognition finally set in. "Oh, yes. You must mean Benton."
Bingo. "Benton?" I asked, fishing for more.
Van Stenberg nodded. "Yes. Giles Benton. He's an auction broker."
Something clicked from the last time we'd talked. "You mean he's one of those people who bids for buyers who wish to remain anonymous?"
"Quite right. I'm not surprised he left early. Generally brokers are at an auction for one specific piece, directed by their clients."
"I noticed he won the sculpture from the Heffernan Studios. Did he win the last one as well? The Bracington that Carrington brought in before his death?"
His white eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Actually I believe Benton did have the winning bid for the Bracington sculpture as well. Why do you ask?"
"Just a fan of modern art." I blinked innocently at him, giving him a big smile with teeth and all.
I wasn't sure he totally bought it, but someone else hailed his attention just then, and I quickly excused myself, heading toward my car.
The midday sun had baked the interior to a balmy hundred plus, and I cranked up the AC full blast as I pulled out my phone, typing the name Giles Benton into a search engine. It took only a couple of minutes before I found an address for a place in The Valley. Benton may not have been the collector who received fake pieces from Carrington…but he just might work for him.
I typed the address into my GPS and pulled out of the lot.
* * *
Giles Benton's office was located in a modest three story building in Van Nuys, surrounded by decaying apartment buildings and liquor stores. After circling the block a couple times, I finally found a place on the street three doors up and fed the parking meter. Then I backtracked to his building and took the stairs to the offices on the second
floor that Google had directed me to. The hallway was carpeted in dark Berber that looked like it had suffered some water damage at some point. The paint on the walls was a dull gray, and the fluorescent lighting buzzed with a threat to go out at any minute.
The door to unit 217 simply read G. Benton on the nameplate, and I slowly pushed inside to find a small reception room holding a metal desk, a murky looking fish tank, and a brown sofa that looked like it might have predated the water damage. I stood quietly for a moment, but when no sign of life appeared, I called out a tentative "Hello?"
Rustling came from beyond a door marked Private Office, and it opened to reveal my Bradley Cooper look-alike.
Though, up close I could see that all of the boyish charm that had made the real Bradley Cooper famous was missing from this guy's face. In fact, the narrowed blue eyes turned my way felt decidedly suspicious…with a possible undercurrent of danger, as I took in the broad shoulders and bulked biceps beneath his button down shirt that had been hidden under his blazer at the auction house.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice holding a slight East Coast accent and an edge that had me instinctively taking a step back toward the door.
"Uh, I, uh, got your name from Van Steinberg. He said you're an antiques broker?"
The suspicions didn't recede any. "You in the market to sell something?"
"Buy, actually." I licked my suddenly dry lips. "I was interested in a piece you purchased at auction recently. A Bracington sculpture."
If it was possible, the eyes narrowed further, making me feel as if they could almost see right through me. "I'm sorry. That was for a client."
He turned and started to walk back into this office.
"Wait," I implored him.
He paused, giving me his attention again, though he crossed his arms over his chest and took a wide stance that felt distinctly defensive.
"I'd love to make an offer to your client for the piece," I lied, trying to come up with a plausible story quickly.
"What kind of offer?"
I sucked in a deep breath, hoping for inspiration. I had no idea what the piece was worth or what he'd paid for it at the previous auction. All I had to go on was what he'd just bid for Lottie's Blob. "Sixty thousand," I finally blurted out.
He was silent a beat. I wasn't sure it was a negotiation tactic or if he was just trying to figure out if I was pulling his leg.
"Sixty-five," he shot back. "And my client might consider it."
Considering my bank account held just enough to pay this month's preschool tuition and possibly buy a tube of lip gloss afterwards, a small bubble of anxiety formed in my stomach as I bluffed. "Sixty-five it is." I paused. "But I'd like to talk to the owner in person."
"No deal." Benton turned and started to walk back into his office a second time.
I sighed. "Wait!"
He did, just inside the doorframe, turning to face me as he leaned against it.
"Look, all I want is a name. Just tell me who bought the Bracington, and I'll agree to seventy thousand," I said, upping the ante.
But either he could see right through my charade, or he had impeccable ethics, as he just shook his head. "I don't give out client names. That's the entire reason they come to me. Discretion."
"Not even for seventy grand?" I said.
"No." He pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward me. "And as a collector, you should know and appreciate that."
"Sure, right." I backpedaled, physically and metaphorically, as I took a couple short steps backward toward the door, realizing his stride was long and could reach me in a heartbeat. "Discretion, discretion, discretion." I did a weak laugh.
His jaw tightened, and those eyes narrowed again, suspicion coming off him in waves.
"I, just…I like to know who I'm doing business with," I finished lamely.
"Well, I can tell you who you are not doing business with." He took two more steps forward.
I took about six tiny, urgent ones back, feeling my butt come up against the door to the hallway again. "Who?" I managed to get out through the fear suddenly clogging my throat.
He moved toward me again, and I realized I was effectively pinned against the door. He was close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath and the faint odor of cigarette smoke lingering in his hair.
"Me," he said on a sneer.
And before I had a chance to react, he had the door open, and I was stumbling out into the hallway.
I tripped backward on my heels, just managing to catch my balance before my backside hit the stained carpeting. By the time I'd regained my footing, Benton had slammed the door shut, and, if I wasn't mistaken, I heard the distinct sound of a lock being thrown on the other side.
So much for customer service. I took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling immensely safer in the hallway. I quickly jogged to the stairs, my three-inch pumps echoing in the empty stairwell all the way to the first floor, where I was grateful to push out into the warm sunshine again.
I power walked to my car, not able to shake that anxious feeling until I had the doors locked and the AC on. I breathed deeply, my eyes going to the window on the second floor, which I now knew housed G. Benton's bleak office. I could well see that guy stabbing someone without blinking a blue eye. Though, what motive he had as middleman I wasn't sure. Except, maybe he'd been the middleman for murder as well? What if the disgruntled collector hadn't wanted to get his hands dirty and had hired Benton to off Carrington for him? It was entirely possible Benton had other skills beyond winning auction bids.
If only I knew who his buyer was.
I nibbled on my bottom lip, that thought taunting me as I contemplated my next move. The twins didn't need picked up for another couple of hours. I could check in on Mom, but I trusted Faux Dad to let me know if the police came nosing around again. I was just thinking about a burger and a cold milkshake, when I saw a delivery van pull down the street and double park in front of Benton's office building. While the parking violation was notable, it was the writing on the side of the van that caught my eye.
Van Steinberg's Auction House.
I craned my neck trying to see as a guy in a blue uniform exited the driver's side and went to the back of the vehicle, pulling open the double doors. Then he extracted a large item wrapped in plastic. If I had to guess, it was exactly the size of The Blob Benton had just won. I watched as the delivery guy disappeared inside the building. About five minutes later, he reemerged without the package, hopped back into his van, and left.
I grabbed a piece of gum from my purse, popping it into my mouth as I looked up at Benton's window. While the blinds were half closed, I could make out his shadow crossing the room to a desk near the window and putting his hand up to his ear, as if talking on a phone. If only I were a spy, I could have planted some sort of bug in Benton's office and would be able to hear who he was currently informing about the delivery. Or a cop with a wiretap. Or a lip-reader.
I was just wondering where one would take lip-reading lessons (I think the heat and car exhaust was starting to get to my brain), when Benton lowered his phone to the desk and stepped away from the window.
I waited a couple more minutes to see if he returned, but when I saw him next, it was not as a silhouette on the window shade but as he emerged from the front of the building, the Blob-sized package in his arms. He jogged across the street to his Mercedes parked at the curb, shoved the package into the backseat, and slipped inside. A moment later the car started, and he pulled away from the curb, heading east on Oxnard.
Without thinking, I turned my engine over and pulled into traffic, following him. I felt hope renewed in my chest, mixed with a healthy dose of ohmigod-what-am-I-doing as I tried to stay a couple car lengths behind him and out of his sight. I wasn't sure he'd recognize me through the windshield, but I didn't want to take any chances.
We wound through Sherman Oaks and Studio City, passing through a residential area and onto Ventura. My stomach growled as we made a left
and passed a McDonald's, the scent of fresh french fries wafting towards me through my open window. But I stayed with my prey, following him as he made a right at the next light, heading into the Hollywood Hills.
It was harder to stay out of sight there, the road narrowing. I pulled back, trying to keep enough distance between us that he didn't feel like he was being followed, while still maintaining enough view of him to notice if he turned off on a side street.
Concrete and traffic gave way to oak trees and multimillion-dollar mansions clinging to the side of cliffs to capitalize on the view of downtown from expansive decks and infinity pools. The air was warm and held a faint scent of cedar drying in the sunshine. I struggled to keep an eye on the luxury car as winding roads full of hairpin turns obscured my view. It was only luck that Benton turned off the main road onto a straightaway, allowing me to keep him in sight. If he'd done it a moment earlier, I'd never have seen and sailed right on by.
As he led me down a smaller street, I realized I recognized the area. I'd been down this road a few times in the past, and as Benton pulled to a stop in the circular drive of a home that sat as a glass and chrome monument to modern architecture overlooking the entire valley, I realized I'd even been to this particular house before.
My first visit had been several years ago while investigating a death on the set of Ricky's TV show. My most recent visit to this home had ended in a bittersweet goodbye just before I'd married Ramirez.
I took a deep breath, pushing nostalgia to the side as I pulled over next to a tall oak tree and watched Benton remove the package from his car, taking it to the front door. He rang the bell, only having to wait a moment before it was opened by the home's owner.
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 9