Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II

by Padgett Lively

  She held her breath for a few seconds and expanded her diaphragm, blowing the air out slowly. She repeated this three more times in an effort to calm her nerves and clear her thinking. But her stomach knotted up again almost immediately with worry and indecision. God, how she hated yoga! It never worked. Only action had ever given Ava the release she needed when under stress.

  She picked up the portrait, now securely wrapped again in its velvet cover, and her phone, zipped them into the outer pocket of her book bag, and left. She walked across the central lobby that connected the two wings of the building and stopped at the office of her colleague, Janet Fielding.

  She employed the tactic so often used against her by knocking while opening the door. Fortunately, her friend was doing nothing more private than gazing blankly at the computer screen.

  Janet blinked and looked up, rubbing her eyes. “This translation is driving me nuts. No matter how long I look at it, it’s still boring.” She stretched back in her chair and asked, “What’s up?”

  Dr. Janet Fielding was an associate professor of comparative literature. Her specialty was the study of colonial and postcolonial writings in India. She was a well-respected expert and researcher in the area, but that didn’t stop the university from almost cutting her position just the previous year. She was saved, barely, by the receipt of a grant she had submitted almost as a joke. It was a two and a half million dollar payday from some big Wall Street firm investigating the similarities and differences in financial reporting between the United States and China.

  Janet often joked that she had sold her soul for a paycheck, but Ava could tell it really rankled. She knew Janet was suspicious of the money, and had once wondered aloud whether the C.I.A. was laundering money through Wall Street for her research.

  Until now, that was about as far as any of Ava’s friends or coworkers had ever gone down the rabbit hole.

  “Is there any way I can speak with Tim?” Ava asked bluntly.

  Janet blinked in surprise. “I guess you could Skype him. Romania’s, what? Six? Seven hours ahead? Why not just message him?”

  “I want him to see something.”

  “What?”

  “A painting, a miniature portrait.”

  “So call him.”

  “He’s more likely to pick up if it’s you.”

  “Ava—”

  “Please, it’s urgent or I wouldn’t ask,” she pleaded.

  Janet shrugged and pulled the laptop closer. She clicked on the number and waited as it connected and rang. Ava sat nervously counting the rings until the bobble sound and…

  “Hey, Janet. Velcome to Transylvania,” he greeted her in a stereotypical vampire accent, his open, handsome face looking relaxed and well rested.

  “Hi, Tim. How’s the sabbatical going?”

  “Really great. The icons are amazing, and the cataloguing is not nearly as difficult as we initially thought it would be. I haven’t felt this good since the break—”

  She cleared her throat. “Hey, I have Ava here. She needs your help.” Janet dreaded seeing his expression change. She had been his go-to friend for several months after he and Ava broke up. While it had been a mutual decision based on very different personal goals, Tim had definitely taken it harder. Instead, she was relieved to see him breathe deeply and nod.

  “Okay, so, what is it?”

  Janet turned the laptop around to Ava, who smiled and gave a little wave. “Sounds like you’re having fun.”

  “You know I’ve always wanted to do this, so…so what can I do for you?”

  She had already pulled the portrait out of her bag and unwrapped it. She lifted it up now and placed it close to the camera. “This is supposedly Odette Swanpoole.”

  He whistled through his teeth and leaned in closer to the screen. “Beautiful work and a striking woman, but what does this do to your theory?”

  “Blows it all to hell,” she replied with a wry smile. “I guess she could still be of African descent, an escaped slave or the child of one. But it’s unlikely based on what I’ve been told.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  She looked at him a little helplessly. “I can’t tell you. At least, not until I know more.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Dubious provenance?”

  “No, no, it’s not stolen or anything. There are just some questions around it that I need answered first.”

  “Have you had it looked at?”

  “It came with a letter of authentication from Whiltshire and Milford.”

  “Well, Ava, you can’t get any better than that. They are the preeminent appraisers in the business.”

  “I know, I know. It’s not that, I believe it is an authentic eighteenth-century portrait. It’s just…” She looked at him with some unease. “They think it’s the work of Jonas Bell.”

  Ava saw him tense up. He closed his eyes for a second before looking at her again. “You want the name of the collector.”

  “Tim, I need to see that painting.” She held up her hand to stop his objection. “I don’t need it for my research. I have no intention of using it in any way. He doesn’t even have to know the information came from you.”

  He gave a little laugh of disbelief. “He would know the minute you told him where you worked. And even if you didn’t tell him, he’d find out.” He looked at her with concern. “He’s a nasty piece of work, Ava. He may be a respectable, powerful person, but underneath the expensive suit is a reptile—and that’s an insult to reptiles.”

  “Tim, please, trust me, it’s important.”

  He leaned toward the screen. “Okay. I’ll ask him—”

  “Tim—”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do. If he is okay with it, I’ll message you with the contact information.”

  She nodded resignedly, and they looked at each other for a few seconds more before he disconnected.

  “Okay, that was weirdly intense,” Janet said breaking the silence. “What are you into?”

  Ava looked up from the computer shaking her head slowly. “I really don’t know.”

  *

  They sat outside of the restaurant on a rustic picnic bench. Ettie had requested it so Beatrix could join them. The white pit bull, her tongue lolling out, lay at Ettie’s feet. The wide, goofy grin so iconic of the breed was plastered across her face. Beatrix had just consumed two hotdogs and was feeling especially satisfied with the world in general and her owner in particular.

  She was a gentle creature, but her strong, muscled physique and rather intense, yellow-eyed stare prompted passersby to give their table a wide berth. She loved people, and Ettie’s friends were regularly subjected to her enthusiastic greeting of jumping up and “hugging” them about the waist with her front legs. Odell had dubbed her “violently friendly” and was practically the only person Beatrix treated with the utmost respect.

  Ettie had reason to spoil the mutt who, as a stray, had chased a would-be mugger from the alleyway door of the theater when she was leaving it late one night. She had coaxed the dog all the way home by dropping pieces of a doughy pretzel behind her. Two years and three apartments later, they were as inseparable as dog and master could be in the modern bustle of New York City.

  The evening was relatively mild for November. The outdoor heater kept most of the chill at bay, allowing Ettie to remove her coat. Her father sat across the table from her and nursed a beer. His chin rested on his chest, and his reading glasses were riding low on his nose. He looked to be literally contemplating his bellybutton.

  “Dad, are you awake?”

  He yawned and looked up. “Sorry, dear, woolgathering is all.” He glanced down at the drink in his hands. “I shouldn’t be having a beer on a weeknight. I’m sure to fall asleep on the cab ride home.”

  She smiled at him affectionately. He was a big man. A bit tending to fat now and with thinning blond hair, but he had really changed very little from the young man who had fallen in love with their mother.

  Arthur
Bradley was Ivy’s junior by several years, but looked older. Ettie could only imagine it was a result of her mother’s active lifestyle compared to their father’s generally sedentary existence as a professor of economics. On those rare occasions when they were all together, the contrast between the two was startling. Arthur, bearlike, loomed over the very svelte and graceful Ivy. Ettie often wondered what they were like as a couple, having separated when she was still very young.

  “Woolgathering?” She laughed. “I’ve never heard you use that term before. Seems an odd, old-fashioned word.”

  He looked at her with mild bewilderment. “Did I say that? I’ve never been one for whimsical language. But you know, I think I like it better than daydreaming. It implies industry, although it means just the opposite…”

  He droned on, expounding upon a word he had never, before this night, given any thought to. Ettie pushed her empty hamburger basket to the side and, resting her chin in her hands, watched him. She was puzzled and hurt at Odell’s indifference to their father. Really, it often bordered on the cold and unfriendly. She couldn’t understand it. Arthur had never been a very attentive parent, but neither had Ivy.

  She thought of him as the quintessential absent-minded professor. In his younger days, he had been tall and well-built. Although never handsome, he was certainly good-looking enough to attract their mother. Other women came after Ivy, but nothing serious. He seemed to Ettie a throwback to an earlier time, to the bachelor dons of Cambridge and Oxford. Content with his academic pursuits, he rarely socialized outside the university setting.

  “Odette…”

  Shaken from her thoughts, she looked up abruptly.

  “Now look whose woolgathering,” he said with gentle reproof.

  She smiled. “Sorry, Dad, looks like we’re both kind of out of it tonight.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I should be heading home.” Then he looked at her uncertainly. “If you have a mind to, tell your brother I saw his lecture at the faculty club last week. It was brilliant. I sat in the back… didn’t want to put him out of frame or anything.”

  Ettie felt a little tightness in her chest. “You know, Dad, he really does—”

  Arthur shook his head. “You don’t have to make it better, dear. Honestly, when I come to think of it, you’re the only person he truly loves.”

  She smiled wanly, and they both rose from the table. Ettie had chosen this restaurant because it was cheap and close to her apartment. Her father, on the other hand, had a long ride ahead of him.

  Ettie retrieved Beatrix’s leash and stood with her father at the curb while he hailed a cab. Once he was comfortably ensconced, she waved and turned to go.

  She practically fell over Beatrix who stood like a statue, her yellow gaze focused intently on three people loosely grouped on the curb. It looked to Ettie as if each one was trying to flag down a cab, and she pulled at Beatrix to get her moving again. As they passed the group, the dog emitted a low growl and strained against the leash. Ettie turned to her, appalled.

  “Beatrix! Bad girl!” She looked up at the nearest person and said, “I’m really sorry. She never does that.”

  The individual barely turned, acknowledging the apology with a dismissive wave. The other two people hadn’t seemed to notice.

  Once away from the restaurant, the dog relaxed and reverted to her usual jaunty gait. She swiveled her head from side-to-side to inspect each passing person and paid little heed to Ettie’s steady stream of recriminations.

  “What got into you, Bea? Very, very, bad dog! That type of behavior can get us into real trouble.”

  And so it went until Ettie finally turned the corner to her building. She was digging in her coat pocket for the keys when two things happened simultaneously. Beatrix looked up at her with yellow eyes bright behind round-lens goggles and astonishingly dressed in a doggie-sized trench coat with a cute little driving cap on her head. And a man in a well-tailored workday suit and coat stepped off her stoop and flashed his badge.

  *

  Ettie may have been too startled by her dog’s appearance to understand what the man was saying, but the figure in the shadows overheard clearly.

  “Ms. Speex? Odette Speex? I’m Inspector Roy Hamilton with the New York City Constabulary. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to come with me.”

  The figure watched as a confused Ettie, Beatrix in tow, was bundled into the police cruiser and driven away.

  Neither Ettie nor Beatrix had noticed the person lurking next to the building. Standing in the shadows, it was hard to tell whether the figure was a man or a woman. This wasn’t the first time it had stood and watched with a heart full of hate. Typically, its emotions were kept under tight rein, but it had been careless while observing father and daughter at dinner. The dog was sensitive to any vibe directed at her owner and had felt its quickly suppressed hostility.

  Now, with both gone, it gave full voice to the rage whipping through its brain. The girl! Insipid, worthless girl! And her father, even worse! The gentle, lumbering oaf was only a shadow of what he once was. Their relationship was sickening, a frail and pallid love. They talked of nothing important, shared nothing of real significance or intimacy.

  In the beginning, feelings of pleasure at seeing father and daughter so disengaged overrode all others. Its initial jealousy had been replaced by a smug self-regard; this girl could never measure up, could never inspire a truly grand, undying love. But subsequent voyeuristic outings had led to confusion and then anger. The quiet dinners of conversation and joking began to take their toll. What was wrong with them? A hug and gentle peck on the cheek began and ended all of their meetings. Their relationship was confounding and uncertainty crept in, an uncertainty that caused a queasy feeling in the pit of its stomach.

  The only emotion that could erase this feeling was fury. And so, the figure embraced its fury and directed it at Ettie.

  Four

  AVA HADN’T EXPECTED the summons to come so quickly, or, for that matter, at all. She had left Janet’s office feeling more than a little dejected that her plan of action had so quickly dissolved in the face of Tim’s reluctance. She really couldn’t blame him, though. Revealing a confidential source, even if promised the utmost discretion, was something she would find difficult to do as well.

  In an effort to divert her thoughts, she had worked for several hours at a secluded desk in the library when a gentle ping alerted her to a message. She looked around guiltily before pulling out her phone where she found a brief line of text: Meet Knightly Davis @ 7p, penthouse Ridgeleigh Bay Building. Be Careful.

  Son of a bitch! Knightly Davis! She could hardly believe it. Tim’s collector of early pornography was one of the most prominent and wealthy businessmen in the city and an outspoken critic of the sexualized nature of popular culture—particularly as it pertained to girls and women. Davis, being a devout Catholic, was initially sought out by Tim as a well-known connoisseur of religious icons and artifacts.

  Ava and Tim had been living together at the time. She remembered him being uncharacteristically tense during this period. He was never particularly eager for a meeting with Davis, even though he was the preeminent collector of Tim’s specialization.

  Ava remembered the evening she had come home to find him furiously chopping carrots for a stew he had simmering on the stove. He had stopped when she walked in, the knife held in mid-chop, and a forced smile upon his lips. Later at dinner, he described to her a particular painting he had encountered among the many others in the private gallery of some unnamed collector.

  He had been shocked at the likeness and disgusted at the nature of the picture. Not long afterwards, Tim had switched his focus from Western to Eastern European iconography, effectively ending his association with Knightly Davis.

  Ava had never made the connection between Davis and the unknown collector of “old nudies” as Tim had scornfully referred to them. She shook her head sadly. Probably because she had been as caught up in her own research as Tim was in
his.

  What had shocked her that night, and now seemed oddly coincidental, was not only the subject of the painting, but also the artist attributed to it: Jonas Bell. He was known as an artist of particular discretion. His miniatures were given as gifts and keepsakes to the illegitimate and unacknowledged. He had painted the lovers of quite a few famous men and women, but they were paintings typical of the time and never, to her prior knowledge, included nudity. The fact that he was Margaret Bell’s father and an acquaintance of Odette Swanpoole’s made it even more difficult to believe him the artist; for a nude painting was one thing, but what Tim had described was something else entirely.

  Ava stood and gathered her belongings. It was already six o’clock. To get to the Financial District by seven was going to be tight. She left her car in the parking garage and went to the nearest subway station. The roads were packed, and this was the quickest way to lower Manhattan.

  Clinging to the steel pole in the subway car, Ava turned over in her mind all she knew of Knightly Davis. Admittedly, it wasn’t much. She paid little attention to Wall Street and finance. But as a staunch socialist, she’d had enough run-ins with the conservative student leadership on campus to know he was something of a holy prophet to them.

  She remembered well a heated argument that arose in her Women in Early American Politics class between her teaching assistant and a young man who viewed his main role in the class as one of provocateur. He had thrown several quotes attributed to Davis into the discussion, not as foundation for any reasoned rebuttal, but as a scattershot effort to get a reaction. He dumped so many hot-button phrases into that short fifty minutes Ava wasn’t sure what he was truly angry about. From quotas to taxes, feminists to immigration, revisionist history to constitutional absolutism, all she could figure was that he felt desperately threatened.

  Later, a heavily edited video version of the class had surfaced on the internet. She could only be grateful that her teaching assistant had led the class with only minimal contribution from her. The way the camera had lingered on her face, even when someone else was speaking, made it clear she had been the target.