by Roslyn Woods
“He was terminal anyway?” Gonzalez asked.
“That’s the way I understand it,” the doctor responded.
“Can you tell us what happened Monday night?” Gonzalez asked.
“Well, let’s see. The ambulance delivered the patient and we started working on him—”
“He was unconscious?” the sergeant interrupted.
“In and out. He became completely lucid after a few minutes and asked to see someone who was waiting in the reception area.”
“Who?” Gonzalez asked.
“A blond woman who had followed the ambulance—”
“Michelle Hodge?” Wilson asked.
“Yes. I think that’s it. Very attractive lady,” said the doctor.
Gonzalez turned to Wilson. “Do you have a picture of Michelle Hodge in your phone?” he asked.
“No!” Wilson answered defensively.
There had been a time—nearly a year ago now—when Wilson had been teased mercilessly by the other detectives in the department for using Michelle Hodge’s photo as a screen saver.
“Would you check?” Gonzalez pressed.
Wilson grimaced and took out his phone, opened his photo application, and searched for a few seconds. Then he handed the phone to the sergeant sheepishly.
“Is this her?” Gonzalez asked, holding the phone up for the doctor to see.
Dr. Pritchard leaned forward and squinted briefly. “Yes, I believe that’s the young woman,” he answered.
“So he asked for her and you let her come into the treatment room?” Gonzalez asked.
“I figured the old man was dying, so I sent one of the nurses after her. I thought she must be his granddaughter or something.”
“And she came?” the sergeant asked.
“That’s right. And the old man told her something. I couldn’t hear all of it, but it was something about telling his daughter something.”
“I see,” said Gonzalez. “Did he say anything else?”
“They spoke for a little while. I was focused on other things.”
“And then?”
“And then he lost consciousness and flat-lined.”
“He died with her right there in the room?” Wilson wanted to know.
“We worked on him for a while, but we couldn’t bring him back.”
“How did she take it?” Wilson asked.
“Quietly. It surprised me since I thought she must be family, but people take death in different ways. Later I went out to speak to her in the waiting area, but she was already gone.”
“So someone was in a hurry,” Wilson said to his boss as he pulled the car out the space in the parking garage.
“Or they didn’t know Edwin Bishop was dying.”
“But he knew?” Wilson asked.
“Of course he knew. He’d been in treatment for six months. Pancreatic cancer is a tough one. I don’t think the odds are good for anyone who gets it.”
“So, he must not have confided in his drinking buddy.”
“Maybe not.”
“What next?”
“Next we interview the lawyer. Find out the names of everyone in the old man’s life.”
“Seems like a waste of time.”
“To you it does.”
“It’s not our only case.”
“It’s our most interesting case.”
“What about Shell Hodge?” Wilson asked.
Gonzalez knew the younger man held a grudge against the young woman even while he was attracted to her. She had captured his imagination a year earlier and disappointed him by becoming involved with their prime suspect, Dean Maxwell.
“What about her?” the sergeant asked, irritated. “You want to interview her again?”
“Sure I do. She didn’t tell us about her conversation with the old man.”
“I know, but she seems a bit fragile to me—hasn’t recovered from the kidnapping. Maybe she can’t talk about it.”
“Well, she’ll have to talk about it. She may have the damning evidence that we need to put the neighbor away.”
“Possibly, but let’s talk to the others first.”
“She should have told us. She was hiding information when we talked to her before.”
“Or maybe she has a sense of loyalty to the old man about the last things he said before he died. Maybe there was no evidence at all and she’s just trying to be a good person.”
“Now who has a crush on her?”
“I’m old enough to be her father.”
“So?”
“So take it down a notch.”
Chapter 19
Friday, August 7, 5 p.m.—Armen
Armen Hanoian sat outside the gallery in the gray Cadillac, just watching while his heart raced. It seemed it had been racing for a week, ever since Cecelia had gone. At first he thought she’d left him, and then Harris had called. Then he knew what had happened. He knew that Harris was using her to get to him. And it was going to work. Armen would always give in, always do what was asked of him if anything to do with Cecelia was at stake.
Heat waves rose from the pavement of Lavaca, but people continued to move up and down the street as if it were normal weather. He’d never understood it. Born and raised in San Francisco, he was uncomfortable in any weather above seventy-five degrees. Today it seemed hot even inside the air-conditioned car. He was sweating.
His cell buzzed. He ran a shaky hand through his white hair and pulled the phone from his shirt pocket. Yes, it was Harris. Armen tapped the screen.
“I’m working on it,” he said before Harris even spoke.
“What are you working on?” came the controlled tones of Harris’s voice.
Armen figured he intended to sound threatening, and he did, but that was because he had Cecelia. Even though Armen had always known about Harris’s ties to the crime world, he had never seen him as more than a Dallas art dealer. He didn’t even look like a thug. He was short, and the glasses he wore made him look bookish, even effete. Armen had never feared him before. Never till now. It was obvious the man could make good on his implied threats. He might just be cruel enough to follow through, and he was always surrounded by people who could do the work for him.
“I’m going to get you the Rose. It will happen,” Armen said.
“I want to know exactly what you’ve been doing.”
He knew what Harris was asking. He wanted the art, and he was letting him know that his time was running out. He should never have become indebted to a man like Harris—a man who always got what he wanted.
“I’ve been working on getting what’s mine. It’ll take me a few more days. Ed failed me, so now I’m taking care of things myself.”
He had a flash of memory then. He could see Ed standing before him, telling him he would have a Rose and Payne before long. And then he had told him to be patient. He could have easily given him the paintings then and there. That was why Armen had been angry. And the whole episode had upset Cecelia. And then he’d seen Ed taking that portfolio, exactly the size of the Rose, probably selling it to that gallery. It had made him furious.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to worry, Harris. You’ll get what I promised.”
“I’m not sure what it is you’re trying to do.”
“I’m going to get what’s mine. That’s all.”
“What does that mean, Armen?”
“It means everything’s almost settled. I just need you to stop badgering me. Give me a little more time. Edwin promised me, and he failed me.”
“What did you do, Armen?”
“I only do what I have to do.”
“This is making me nervous. Do I need to send some help down there?”
“To deal with the family?” Armen asked.
“To deal with you.”
Armen knew what he meant. It probably wouldn’t be the first time Harris’s people showed up and snuffed someone who wasn’t living up to his expectations. Armen just needed to convince him that it
would be prudent to wait a while.
“Look, Harris, it’s not that bad. I’ll get this taken care of. It’s just a matter of a few days. Give me a few more days. Let me talk to Cecelia.”
There was a silence on the line, and Armen imagined Harris’s thugs waiting for just a word, a look, a nod of his head. He knew Harris was considering. He waited, too, not wanting to break in and make him any angrier than he already was.
“Cecelia is indisposed at the moment,” Harris said.
“That means you won’t let me speak to her.”
“It means she can’t come to the phone.”
“Have you hurt her?”
“No. She’s fine. She just can’t talk right now.”
“I swear, Harris. If you hurt her I’ll kill you.”
“You’re the one who’s causing her pain.”
“Me? But I’m doing everything I can to get the ransom.”
There was another silence.
“Okay, look,” Armen continued, “I know I owe you money. The painting will more than pay you back, and then Cecelia can come home, right?”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“But it’s worth far more than the debt! I just want you to know I’m doing my best and I don’t want Cecelia hurt.”
“And I’m telling you to be sensible. Don’t do anything that would cause Cecilia pain. You understand what I’m saying?”
Armen knew what he was saying. He was letting him know just how wrong things could go if he didn’t hurry.
“Did you hear me?” Harris asked again.
“A few more days,” he said. “And don’t hurt Cecelia.”
“I need you to listen to me. You should be taking—”
But Armen didn’t hear him finish. He ended the call abruptly and looked at the gallery some more. He had even less time than he had thought. The picture window hadn’t changed since Monday night when Edwin had gone into the place. The huge poster was still there in its center, a painting in shades of blue and orange. How original, he thought. The large print was intended to introduce the featured artist and her show. EVELYN JAMESON: LIFE AND DEATH—OPENING AUGUST 7TH. It had all been done before, and by better artists. Original artists, he thought.
Armen had seen people coming and going today, and now deliveries seemed to be coming in. A caterer’s van had parked out front for a few minutes, people carrying trays going in and out. A dark-haired woman in a blue-green dress was in there, too. He could see her every once in a while as she passed the glass door, and he guessed the advertised event that was happening tonight was about her. Not that it mattered. He was going to be there. He was going to watch the owners of this gallery, and he was going to find out what they had done with that painting. It was his.
Chapter 20
Friday, August 7, 6:55 p.m.—Shell
“No, no, darling,” Billie was saying to Evelyn Jameson. “It’s true you’re an expressionist! You’re very much in the tradition! But think Franz Marc and not ever Kirchner! Not in your colors or your tone! Your colors tend toward these vibrant oranges and blues and greens, whereas Kirschner has a lot of harsh blacks and reds and yellows. And he’s just so, so, dark.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Evelyn Jameson was nodding as she answered, and even though Shell couldn’t see the older woman’s face, she was quite sure her eyes were glazing over. She was humoring Billie just the way Shell and Leo sometimes did when he was particularly animated.
“You should grab a bite or two before people start arriving,” Shell said to her. “We don’t want our featured artist passing out from low blood sugar. Oh, and Billie, did you talk to the caterer and make sure he’s already opened the wine?”
“Oh heavens! It’s definitely time to do that! Where is my head?” Billie replied, rushing toward the conference room.
Shell turned to Evelyn. “Don’t pay attention to him. He loves it when we have a show, but he gets manic with the excitement. If you listen to him much his nerves will rub off on you. Believe me, I know because it’s happened to me!”
“Thanks, Shell,” said Evelyn, a woman of about fifty who wore her curly dark hair long and loose. “I am a little nervous.”
“Don’t be. All you really have to do is smile and be gracious. The work is done. You look great by the way,” she added, admiring the older lady’s cerulean peasant dress and long earrings.
“Oh, thanks. I wasn’t sure how dressy everyone would be.”
“You look perfect. Leo will take care of sales so you just need to schmooze. I suggest you drink a glass of wine and try a stuffed mushroom and some of that lovely cheese.”
“Good idea. I couldn’t eat earlier, I was so busy.”
“That’s what these opening days are like,” Shell said before turning back toward the counter, glancing at her watch, and picking up the camera. “I’ll get a snack in a minute myself. I’m just going to go around and get some shots of the displays as they are tonight, and maybe I’ll take a few of the food and wine table to post on the website.”
“I’ll just go grab some grapes in the conference room, then,” Evelyn replied, smiling. “No need to make these perfect trays lose their symmetry before the pictures are taken.”
“Good idea,” Shell answered, glancing at her watch again.
“Are you okay yourself?” Evelyn asked.
“I’m fine. I just can’t figure out why my boyfriend isn’t here yet.”
“Ah. He’ll come along soon.”
“Yes. Of course he will,” Shell answered.
She walked around the gallery snapping pictures for several minutes, trying to distract herself from her own nerves. Where was Dean? She put the camera down on the tall marble counter near the entry and greeted a few people who were just arriving, smiling and shaking hands while her heart beat a bit unevenly. Leo was already near the entry doing the same. He had taken his gray linen jacket off and was standing by the door, his purple shirt and tie nicely set off by the shades of orange in the painting behind him, totally in his element as he greeted people.
Shell herself was wearing a deep lilac, sleeveless dress. “You two couldn’t have planned your colors better,” Billie had remarked when he’d noticed her talking to Leo earlier. She had been glad she’d brought the dress with her this morning when she headed for her meeting with Octavia Bishop. Bringing it had saved her a trip home to change, but now she wished she had gone home because Dean wasn’t here yet. He had said he’d get here early. It wasn’t like him.
It was a strange way to feel after telling him he needed to get over worrying about her this very day. Here she was feeling anxious when it was possible only traffic was delaying him. She tried to shrug off the feeling, but it wouldn’t let go.
At that moment the gallery door opened and another group of people entered. They were Austin art lovers, the people who came to shows regularly. The women typically wore some version of a black dress and simple, silver or pearl jewelry—it was almost a uniform—and the men wore slacks and white or pastel dress shirts without ties. They were youngish, and richish, and Shell always recognized a few people in each group.
That was when she saw the older man she had seen before. Yes, he was white-haired, pear-shaped, and short—no taller than Shell herself—entering the gallery and looking around intently.
How interesting that he’s here again!
She was quite sure he was the man who had come into the gallery the other morning with a group of older people, and she was almost positive he was also the man she’d seen at the hospital the night Edwin Baird had died. Who was he? She approached him with her hand outstretched. “Hello again,” she said.
“Again?” he asked, his dark eyes darting around the room nervously. Yes, he was obviously the man she had seen before. She couldn’t forget his strong features and thinning, snow-white hair.
“Yes, you were here the other day, I believe.”
“No, it wasn’t me I’m afraid,” he said, reluctantly shaking her hand. “I just notic
ed your poster and decided to stop in before I meet my wife down at Halcyon for dinner.”
“Oh? You look a lot like a gentleman I saw earlier in the week,” Shell said, giving him an out, though it was clear to her that he was lying.
“Ah! Just another older guy, then,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
“I’m Michelle Hodge.”
“The name’s Smith.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy the show, Mr. Smith,” Shell said, “and please feel welcome to bring your wife up to the gallery if you finish dinner early.”
“I will,” he said, hurrying past her into the main gallery.
Shell turned toward the hall that led to the conference room. Billie still hadn’t emerged from his trip to visit the caterer and servers. When she found him he was preparing a food tray while Gino, the caterer they hired for all their openings, stood watching him with his hands on his hips.
“What are you doing?” she asked Billie.
“I know, I know,” he replied. “Let Gino do his job! Don’t micromanage! I get it!”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” she answered, “but since you mention it!”
“I’m stopping,” he said, throwing his hands in the air.
“I have something else to talk to you about, Billie. Let’s go into the office. I’m sure Gino and the servers can manage the trays without you,” she said, glancing at the caterer.
“Thank you, Miss,” Gino replied with a nod of his head and a suppressed grimace. “I appreciate your confidence in me.”
Billie had obviously been irritating him.
“So what is it, darling?” Billie asked in a low voice as they took the few steps from the conference room and were standing in the hall near the gallery entrance.
“There’s a man here,” said Shell, “the same man I saw at the hospital on Monday and again here in the gallery a couple of days ago. We need to watch him.”