Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2)

by Lisa Brunette

  Strickland put down his pen. “And I thought you were going to tell us something we didn’t know.”

  “If you go looking for the financial trail, you will find…irregularities. Enough to convict me, perhaps. But you won’t find anything against the Langholms.”

  “And what makes you so certain of the limitations of our abilities?”

  Ernesto laughed, shaking his head. There was a sad, bitter quality to the man that Mick realized had always been there, underneath the facade of elegance.

  Ernesto looked directly at Mick. “You think art is some kind of pure thing, with its aesthetics and meaning? I am here to tell you it is not. The money people of the world, the ones who run everything, behind the scenes—they use your pretty pictures to hide their ill-gotten wealth.”

  Strickland picked up the meaning. “Langholm uses art to launder his child-porn money.”

  Ernesto flinched. “I really didn’t know where his wealth came from. I thought he was committing fraud through his construction projects. And he probably does. Victimless crimes.”

  Pris cleared her throat, attracting Ernesto’s gaze. “That’s what you told yourself, anyway.”

  “Please, Grace…”

  Pris shook her head. “You’re trying to convince yourself, Ernie. But your conscience prevailed. You’ve never interfered, tried to steer us the wrong way… I think some part of you wanted this to come out. You knew when Donnie was killed that there was something darker going on, and then when Mick stumbled into that pedophile nightmare, you wanted out. But you weren’t courageous enough to be conscious about it, to come to us with the truth of your suspicions.”

  Ernesto looked down at the table. He didn’t say the words, but Mick took this as a gesture to say, “I’m sorry.”

  Strickland took the reins again. “Mr. Ruíz, I need you to tell us for the record exactly how Kristoff Langholm launders his money through art.”

  Ernesto explained. Mick couldn’t believe he had no idea this was going on under his nose, probably even involving his own paintings. Kristoff would hide his money in art, reporting the worth of the piece as far more than he’d actually paid for it when he resold it overseas. There were no rules in the art world, no checks and balances of a bank or financial institution. Art went from private collection to private collection, and the price could go up or down by millions of dollars arbitrarily, with amounts reported on receipts at the convenience of whatever the smuggler needed. Listening to Ernesto describe how it worked, and his role in it as a sort of “financial art advisor,” Mick realized something.

  When Ernesto paused, Mick said, “I think that’s how Pennington James got the Angie Ramirez photo from Langholm. He traded it for his art, the night of the party.” Mick remembered Pennington hauling in several pieces that evening, but he’d assumed the Langholms had purchased them in an aboveboard manner. That must have been why Pennington dreamed about the redheaded girl that night. She was fresh in his mind. There’d been a trade.

  “I think Langholm used those parties for transactions, trades,” said Mick. “And Pennington provided Kristoff with a fake receipt for the art, which he could use to hide his child-porn money.”

  “I do believe you’re right, Mick,” said Strickland, who then turned to Ernesto.

  “Mr. Ruíz, thank you for your cooperation. I’m sure the prosecutors will take that into consideration when determining your guilt and sentencing.” Then to Alvarez, he said, “Let’s have a chat with this Pennington character.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Grace had to leave the room during the questioning of Pennington James.

  It had gone on for a long time, Strickland and Alvarez working on James. At first he stuck to his story about only purchasing material through online sources.

  But the two law-enforcement pros kept leaning on him, and they used the information they got from Ernesto. They bluffed, saying that they had James’s tax records and had found discrepancies in the amounts he reported earning from his paintings and the paintings’ values in the market.

  “Tell us about Langholm,” Alvarez said. “What do you have to lose? It’s not like he’s here, coming to your rescue or anything. We checked your phone records. You haven’t reached out to him, so obviously, the two of you don’t have that kind of relationship, do you? You must know better than to contact him for help.”

  At that, there was a long pause and James conferred with his lawyer, who did a lot of nodding as they whispered. Then he began to offer up what he knew about his chief source of pedophilic material.

  “Look, Langholm’s a smooth guy,” James said. “The porn—it’s digital. No need to ever meet anyone in person. But art—that’s got to be handed off. It’s a physical object. So he has these parties. I didn’t need to get my porn that night, but why not? Kristoff knows I like the vintage stuff, little girls from the Seventies and Eighties, you know, and a lot of that’s fuzzy in the digital versions.”

  He described the small gathering of men behind several layers of security under the cover of a large party raging in the very same house.

  It was the idea that Serena Jones was at that same party, that she was in the house while these men bought and sold images of her as a young girl—that’s what made Grace have to leave the room.

  It wasn’t that Serena was some fragile victim who’d been irreparably damaged. The woman was a survivor. She’d come through so much, and she’d done it on her own, using street smarts and strength.

  No, what upset Grace was thinking that after what Serena Jones had been through, she still wasn’t safe. No child or woman was, as long as men like these got away with their crimes.

  Strickland wanted to bring the Langholms in, but he needed more than James’s word against them. Serena Jones herself would torpedo any case against them, unless she could be convinced of their role in disseminating the material that had caused her such trauma as a child.

  Grace insisted she be the one to deliver the news about the Langholms to Serena Jones. And she wished to do it alone, with no one else in the room.

  It was the day after Serena’s previous visit, and the woman was not happy about having to come back. “Is this going to be a daily thing now?” she asked sarcastically.

  “I’m sorry, Serena,” Grace said. “But there’s been another…development in the case. I need to tell you something potentially upsetting.” Grace got up and went to the corner of the room to retrieve the same box of tissue Serena used the day before on her contact lenses. While she felt compassion for Serena in this moment, Grace was also aware of her own choreography in setting the tissue as a prop with psychological import.

  “I’m not a crier,” Serena said emphatically.

  Grace let that go. She cleared her throat. “This concerns your longtime friends, the Langholms.”

  Serena appeared genuinely surprised.

  Grace took a deep breath. “We have reason to believe they have been involved in the…dissemination of the abusive material in which you appear.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “We have evidence.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “My brother’s paintings were inspired by something he saw at a party at the Langholm’s residence.”

  “The night I met Mick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. Do you remember another artist there that night, a man named Pennington James?”

  Serena thought about it. “I think so. I remember his work. Zebras and giraffes, right? Dressed like superheroes.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you telling me that man had photos of me—as Angie?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s been like twenty years!”

  “This kind of material lives a long time, it seems.”

  “My god.” Serena clasped her hands together, her perfectly manicured fingernails done in the French style. “How do they get it? Online?”

  “
Yes. And, as it turns out, from a network run by Kristoff Langholm.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Pennington James was there that night to give his paintings to Langholm, who would use them to launder money. And in exchange, he received pedophilic material, including photos of you.”

  “Langholm…had those photos…of me?” Serena’s voice was weak. She looked away, at the far wall. “All this time…”

  She turned back to Grace. “I don’t believe it.”

  Grace was prepared for this. There was a laptop sitting on the table. She opened it, cued up the audio interview with Pennington, and hit play. His words filled the room, describing the meeting at the party, and his preference for what he called “vintage child porn.”

  As the interviewed played, tears slipped down Serena’s cheeks, but she didn’t grab for the tissue. She let them fall.

  When it was done, Serena said, “I need you to play that one more time.”

  Grace did as she was told. This time, Serena’s body moved in sobs. She reached for the tissue.

  “Tell me,” Serena said, aggressively tearing the tissue in shreds, “exactly what we need to do to get them.”

  “Do you think it’s Kristoff, alone?” Grace asked. “Or Carrie, too?”

  “Everything Kristoff does, he does with Carrie’s blessing, and more.”

  >>>

  Grace was on a boat about a mile off Star Island, listening to the wire hidden on Serena Jones, as were both Strickland and Alvarez. A few Miami PD and FBI boats were on alert in the area and would respond if anything went sour.

  After initial greetings in which the Langholms mentioned getting ready for a long trip to Italy, Serena launched into her agreed-upon performance.

  “Carrie, Kristoff,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.”

  “What is it, Serena?” asked Carrie, her voice sympathetic. “Have a seat, dear.”

  Serena must have been feigning having trouble telling them about her past, as there was a long pause, and then Kristoff prompted her. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can fix it,” he said cheerily.

  “There’s something I never told you about my past. In Del Rio.”

  “You can’t tell us anything that would alter our opinion of you, love,” said Kristoff.

  “You’re like family to us,” Carrie assured her.

  There was a rustling noise as Serena took out her phone. “When I was a girl, before I met the two of you, my parents sold me out to these disgusting people.” She broke off, convincingly upset. Grace understood that Serena wouldn’t need to pretend much, as this was a fresh wound. Probably some part of her wished this was the way it went down anyway.

  “Serena, there’s no need—” said Carrie.

  “They did things to me, took pictures of me,” Serena said through her sobs. “I was only twelve.”

  There were more rustling noises. Grace figured Carrie and maybe Kristoff as well were consoling her.

  “But why tell us this now?” Kristoff said.

  “Because…” Serena explained, “the pictures must still be out there. Someone…oh, God. Someone painted them.”

  This was the part where Serena was supposed to show the Langholms Three Views, One Girl on her phone.

  There was a long bout of silence, and then Kristoff asked, “Where did you get these?”

  “I was just in New York, and those paintings were in the back of a gallery there. I couldn’t believe it!”

  “Did you notice who the artist was?” Carrie asked.

  “Yes,” answered Serena. “It’s that Mick Travers. After the money I’ve spent on his work, to find out he’s that kind of man…”

  “There have been reports in the press,” said Carrie. “There was even a boycott.”

  “But how did he get pictures of me?” Serena wailed. “That was so long ago. I thought this was in the past, dead and buried.”

  “I don’t know,” said Kristoff, his tone hard. “But I will get the piece and have it destroyed. Tell me the name of the gallery where you saw it.”

  “The Painted Stick,” said Serena. Grace winced even though she knew the FBI had arranged for extra security on Greta Stein and her gallery, should the Langholms decide to act on the revelation that the paintings had not burned. The triptych itself was still in police custody.

  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” said Serena. “I tried to buy the pieces myself, but the gallery owner told me they weren’t for sale.”

  “It’s no trouble, Serena,” said Kristoff.

  “Now, don’t worry about it anymore,” Carrie said. “Why don’t you treat yourself to a spa vacation? Take Mariana. If one of the society bloggers sees you treating your maid to a spa trip, it’ll make a good write-up.”

  Grace cringed.

  “But what about the photos?” Serena demanded. “Those photos are out there somewhere. I want them destroyed!”

  “That’s likely impossible,” Kristoff said. “Those images have been floating out there for twenty years, right? I wouldn’t even begin to know how to track them down. But look, you’ve altered your appearance so much, no one will put it together that it was you.”

  “But I will know they’re out there. Maybe I should go to the police with this.”

  “Not if you want to remain Serena Jones,” Carrie said harshly. “You don’t want that to come out in the press. You’ll be nothing again, dear. Just Angie Ramirez, a little whore from a nothing town.”

  Even Grace clenched her fists to hear that. She and Alvarez exchanged pained glances. Strickland was all business, though, as if he expected it.

  But Serena was a raw, open wound. And she went off script.

  “I can’t do this,” Serena said softly, as if speaking to her wire. Then, louder: “Don’t refer to me that way.”

  “I meant that’s what people will think,” came Carrie’s voice.

  “I know what you meant. You listen to me. Angie Ramirez was not a whore, Carrie. She was a girl…who was raped.” There was a pause, and Grace could hear Serena taking in a breath.

  “And you two might as well have been her rapists.”

  “Serena!” cried Carrie.

  “My word, girl,” said Kristoff. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “What happened to me back then was your fault.”

  There was a long silence across the radio that felt eerie to Grace. Strickland called for agents to close in on the Langholm residence.

  And then Carrie said, “Serena, how can you say that to us?”

  “I know what you are,” Serena said. “You bought those terrible pictures of me. You’ve been making money off them for years.”

  “Serena, you don’t understand,” said Kristoff.

  “We’ve been…like parents to you, Serena,” said Carrie. “If it weren’t for us, you’d still be trapped in Del Rio.”

  “Don’t try to take my accomplishments away from me.”

  “But we helped you so much,” said Kristoff.

  “You owe us everything,” Carrie snarled.

  Serena smacked her hands down on something hard, causing static on the radio. “I owe you nothing! You’re no better than those crackheads back in Del Rio who called themselves my parents. No—wait. You’re worse. You had more choices than they did. And what do you choose? To make money off scum like Pennington James.”

  “Pennington James?” Kristoff asked. “I thought this was about Mick Travers.”

  “I don’t know what lies the authorities have filled that pretty little head of yours with, but that’s not true,” said Carrie. “The sole transactions we’ve had with James concerned his art.”

  “You’re the ones bankrolling it all. You’re buying and selling child porn.”

  Kristoff was gasping for breath. “How…how can you say such things? My dear, if you only knew what I’ve done for you…”

  Carrie spoke, “Darling, there’s no need.”

  “But she needs to know,” said Kristoff. �
�I did everything I could to protect her. I even took great risks.”

  “Kristoff, no…”

  “I thought I destroyed that painting, love,” Kristoff said. “Up till you showed it to me on your phone, I thought the painting was long gone. I got Mick to come to your house so you wouldn’t see it. I went out of my way to make sure it was destroyed.”

  “You set the fire,” said Serena.

  “Kristoff,” said Carrie. “You’re telling her too much.”

  “I did it for you. I recognized you in the painting, from all those years ago, and I knew you liked his art. I didn’t want you to have to see it.”

  “You didn’t set that fire for me,” said Serena. “You did it so I couldn’t trace the porn to Mick, and then to you.”

  Kristoff did not respond.

  Strickland gave the order for agents to invade.

  “Carrie,” said Serena. “How could you?”

  Carrie laughed. “Serena, we couldn’t erase what those men did to you. It was already too late. What’s done was done. You think you had it rough as a girl? Well, I had it worse. But I prevailed. There’s so much darkness in the world, don’t you see that? You can’t fight it. You can’t control it. So you might as well profit from it. Then you can afford to wall yourself off from it, just as we have.”

  “But you’ve become the darkness,” Serena said.

  Carrie cleared her throat. “Those pictures have been around for twenty years, Serena. You would never have known about them if it weren’t for Mick’s painting. There’s no harm in a few photos being distributed through the underground. In fact, some people think it’s better for men like that to have the images to look at so they won’t actually need to prey upon children. So we’re providing a service to society. We never imagined someone would use them as inspiration for his art and bring what happened to you out into public view. I mean, really. What is wrong with that Mick Travers?”

  “We were so careful, Serena,” said Kristoff. “We keep that world separate. I had to destroy the painting. It was the only way.”

  “You’re both monsters. You don’t deserve to live.” Grace didn’t like the sound of Serena’s voice, which conveyed that a double murder was a viable option. She remembered Serena’s story about going back to Del Rio to settle that score, how she’d learned to shoot.