“Some can. I called Kathy as soon as I saw what happened. She says she has the negatives for most of the missing shots. She’s on her way over.”
“Can you show me what you’re missing so I’ll know what photographs were stolen?” Melendez asked.
Devereaux opened a folder on her desk and pulled out a series of photographs she had taken of the exhibit. Then she led Jack and Melendez out of her office and into the desecrated gallery.
Devereaux stood in front of two blank spaces on the wall where the photographs had been displayed. Then she pointed at the photograph of the exhibit that she held in her hand.
“These shots hung here,” Devereaux said.
Jack looked over Melendez’s shoulder at a picture that had been taken of a bearded man who was staring into the mirror behind a bar, his sad and soulful face framed by bottles of liquor. Another photograph showed waves breaking against a majestic rock formation under the light of a full moon.
“Kathy took the seascape shortly before she discovered Megan Cahill on the beach below her summer home,” the gallery owner said.
Just before they moved down the wall, Jack realized that he was standing where Megan Cahill had stood just before she fled the gallery.
“This was one of my favorites,” Devereaux said angrily as she pointed to a shot Kathy Moran had taken on Ocean Avenue during a flash downpour: people running for cover, arms thrown over their heads, newspapers whipping down the street, rain-caused chaos.
A section of the exhibit closer to the front of the gallery had more blank spaces. Devereaux pointed at several more pictures that had hung in the exhibition.
“Kathy took these four photos two years ago during a climb up Mount Jefferson.”
Before anyone could say anything else, Kathy Moran rushed into the gallery, clutching a file.
“What’s going on, George? First Megan is murdered. Now this. Is it the same person?”
“It’s too early to say that the murder and the burglary are connected. There was a forced entry through the back door of the gallery. You can see the mess. It looks like the thief trashed the place and took pictures at random, so it could just be vandalism.”
“I can’t believe that,” Kathy said.
“I’m not counting out any possibilities right now but it’s a big mistake to go into any investigation with a theory. You tend to try to make the facts fit it and you can miss something.”
“How many negatives did you find?” Devereaux asked Moran.
“I’ve got them for all but three of the photographs you told me were stolen.”
“That’s great. What are you missing?’
“I don’t have the negative for the rainstorm on Ocean Avenue, the bearded guy in the bar, and the seascape, but I found the Mount Jefferson shots. Some of my earlier stuff, like the rainstorm and the man in the bar, was bought by individuals from galleries. The galleries that showed them may have the negatives. We can call later today.”
Kathy handed Devereaux the file. While the gallery owner looked through it, Kathy looked at the exhibit.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Jack said.
Kathy didn’t turn toward him. Her jaw clenched. “I’d love to get my hands on the bastard who did this.”
“It looks bad now, but I’ll have the exhibit looking just fine as soon as the police leave,” Devereaux assured Moran.
“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Melendez told the women. “I’ll send Frank in to take a statement. Call if you remember anything that might help.”
Jack tried to think of something else he could say that might engage Kathy, but it was obvious she was in no mood for small talk so he followed the police chief outside.
“Well?” Melendez asked.
“I didn’t see anything,” Jack answered. “My gut says vandalism, kids.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. But I can’t help thinking about Megan rushing out of the gallery.”
“I see what you mean,” Jack said, “but, if there’s a connection, I can’t see it.”
And he couldn’t. Then, during the drive back to Portland, something started to nag at him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was so he shrugged off the feeling and focused on a brief that had to be filed by the end of the week.
Part Six
THE SMOKING GUN
2015
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Over the weekend, Glen helped Stacey move out of her Portland apartment and into his house. They made an effort to keep the relationship chaste for a few days, but their attraction for each other was too strong and before a week was out the only thing residing in Glen’s guest room was Stacey’s valise.
The emotions that Megan’s murder had unleashed faded as Stacey experienced some of the happiest times of her life. During the week they worked at Glen’s law firm, then they came home and watched television or read, and they made love a lot. On the weekends, they socialized with Glen’s friends and went sightseeing along the coast. Glen even got Stacey out on a fishing boat and she had the time of her life.
Part of Glen’s routine every morning was a run on the beach. Stacey was not much of an athlete but she had been on the cross-country team in high school. She had never placed in any championship, but she was a determined runner who finished high enough in a meet every once in a while to get points for her team. Stacey’s college was Division I so she didn’t even bother trying out for cross-country, but she did keep running for exercise until she moved to New York City. Now that she was living with a runner, Stacey vowed to get back in shape and she started joining Glen each morning.
With Kathy Moran’s help, Ellen Devereaux was able to replace all but three of the stolen photographs. The publicity surrounding the murder and the break-in brought unexpected crowds to the gallery and made the exhibit a rousing success. Stacey had been tempted to ask Devereaux to intercede with Kathy Moran on her behalf but she decided to wait until the exhibition moved to the Portland Art Museum before renewing her efforts to interview the photographer. It turned out that it didn’t matter. Glen talked to Devereaux who asked Kathy if she would be willing to let Stacey interview her. Kathy declined. This was a setback, but Kathy’s only involvement in Raymond Cahill’s murder was as the witness who found Megan on the beach and, of course, the person who’d taken the famous photograph. Stacey decided that she could use her imagination to flesh out the character of the photographer in her novel, which she had decided to call Woman with a Gun.
Energized by her love affair, Stacey made real progress on an outline of her book, but she was frustrated by her inability to figure out the big clue that would lead to the solution of the murder. Readers would be upset if her book had an unsatisfying ending but—as in the real case—no good solution presented itself.
One evening Stacey and Glen were sitting on the deck, sipping wine and watching the sunset.
“I was thinking about the Cahill case and I got an idea,” Glen said.
“Oh?”
“In the police report of Frank Janowitz’s conversation with Teddy Winston and Jack Booth, Janowitz said that there are unscrupulous collectors who will buy stolen items for their secret collections. What if Crouse wasn’t the killer? What if some of the items in Cahill’s collection had previously been stolen and Cahill bought them from the thief? The article in the Gazette mentioned several items, like that rare stamp, that were later stolen when Cahill was murdered. What if the thief read the article and murdered Cahill because he was worried that Cahill would give the police his name?”
“Why would Cahill do that? The police might think he had hired the thief to steal the stuff. That would make him an accomplice.”
Glen shrugged. “It was just an idea. And even if it didn’t happen that way, I thought you could use it as a plot twist in your book.”
Stacey laughed. “Thanks.”
“Hey, I want this book to be a best seller so I can become a kept man, living in the lap of luxury in a huge mansion in Beverly Hills while you
slave away for hours on end on your laptop.”
“Dream on, bozo. Once I start making millions, I’m ditching you for a boy toy.”
Glen laughed and squeezed Stacey’s hand. “Before I forget, I’m representing one of the plaintiffs in a suit against the owner of several retirement homes. I’m going to be in Portland for a few days, taking depositions, and my client is putting me up at the Heathman. The hotel is pretty swanky and my room has a king-size bed. I asked several women if they wanted to share it but they’re all busy, so what do you say?”
Stacey grinned. “I say you’re a jackass but I’ll put up with you if you throw in dinner at some very expensive Portland restaurant.”
“Deal,” Glen said.
Two days later, Stacey and Glen set off for Portland at noon and were in their hotel room a little after three. They ate out, then saw a movie and had a great time. Stacey was starting to give serious thought to what she would do when she finished writing Woman with a Gun. She liked everything about Oregon, Palisades Heights was growing on her, and she kept reminding herself that a writer could write anywhere. Then there was Glen. She’d only known him for a short time but she was beginning to think that he was special.
Their first morning in Portland, Glen got up early but Stacey stayed in bed until eight thirty. She ate breakfast in the hotel, then she carried a latte up to their room and got to work on her laptop. Stacey was toying with the idea of making the old Western revolver the big clue in her book, and that got her thinking about how Cahill had acquired the Schofield revolver. She wondered how she could find out and had the answer to her question almost as soon as she had formed it.
Stacey looked through her notes and found a phone number of a store in San Francisco. Stacey dialed and waited nervously as the phone rang.
“Antiques,” a man said.
“Is this Frank Janowitz?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Stacey Kim. I’m a writer and I’m living in Palisades Heights while I research a novel that was inspired by Kathy Moran’s famous photograph of Megan Cahill.”
“Does this have something to do with Megan?” Janowitz asked, his concern evident.
“Not directly, no. But I discovered her body.”
“My God, that must have been awful for you.”
“It was. I had an interview scheduled with her. When I went to her house . . .”
Stacey paused. “I really don’t like talking about it.”
“I’m sorry. I understand completely. But why are you phoning me?”
“I have a question I hope you can answer. It’s about an item in Raymond Cahill’s collection. You know that Mr. Cahill was shot with a Schofield .44 Smith and Wesson revolver that may have been owned by Wyatt Earp?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how Mr. Cahill acquired the gun?”
“Raymond already owned the Schofield when I started helping him with his collection, so I don’t know how he got it.”
“He never told you who owned it before he did?”
“No.”
“I understand that Mr. Cahill believed that Wyatt Earp used the revolver during the Gunfight at the OK Corral but that might not have been true.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you ever try to authenticate Mr. Cahill’s claim?”
“I offered to try shortly after he hired me, but he said that he didn’t want to know.” Janowitz laughed. “What he actually said was, ‘What I don’t know can’t hurt me.’ I think he was happy, believing he owned Wyatt Earp’s gun, and he didn’t want to know the truth if it was going to spoil his illusion.”
After she hung up, Stacey remembered what Glen had said a few days before about Cahill’s possibly getting some of his collection from a thief. That set her wondering why Cahill didn’t want Janowitz to try to find out if Wyatt Earp had really used the revolver at the OK Corral. Was he afraid that Janowitz would discover that the gun he owned was never used by Wyatt Earp or was he afraid that Janowitz would discover that the gun had been stolen?
Stacey’s latte had cooled by the time her conversation with Janowitz ended. She took a sip, then she dialed Jack Booth’s office.
“Stacey, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Booth said when they were connected.
“I’m in Portland for a few days and I had a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out the big clue in my novel that will help catch the killer and that got me thinking about the real case, and I’ve concluded that the most intriguing aspect of the case is the gun.”
“What about it?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why Parnell Crouse used the Schofield as his murder weapon? I mean, I could understand shooting Mr. Cahill with Wyatt Earp’s gun if Crouse didn’t have a gun, but Mrs. Cahill said that Crouse did have a gun. So why did he go to the trouble of breaking open the glass case and loading this old weapon, which might not even work?”
“We did talk about that at one time. Teddy Winston, the DA, thought that Crouse might have been afraid that the police would run a ballistics test and match the bullets that killed Cahill to his gun, but I didn’t buy that explanation. The police searched Crouse’s car and his apartment and they didn’t find a gun. I think Crouse got rid of it. There are plenty of places on the coast where he could ditch his weapon. Hell, there was a great big ocean outside the back door of the Cahills’ house. As soon as Crouse got rid of the gun he wouldn’t have had to worry about a ballistics test tying him to it. And the gun was probably stolen anyway or had its serial numbers filed off, which means that there would be no way to connect Crouse to it.”
“So why did he use the Schofield?” Stacey asked.
“We never came up with an explanation and I still don’t have one. If you solve that mystery, let me know.”
“One other thing, now that I have you on the line, I’ve been trying to find out about Kathy Moran’s childhood, because I’m trying to flesh out the background of my fictional photographer. There’s a lot of information about Miss Moran’s adult years but not much about her childhood. You knew her in Portland and you spent time with her in Palisades Heights. Do you remember anything about her folks or where she grew up?”
“I think her parents died when she was young. If I remember correctly, she was in junior high.”
“Do you know how they died?”
“No.”
“Who raised her after her parents passed away?”
“An aunt on her mother’s side.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“No. I think she lived in Montana.”
“Do you know where Miss Moran was living when her parents were alive?”
“No. I did know but . . . Wait, I do remember. I think it was Arlington, California. I remember thinking that it was like the Arlington Cemetery.”
“Thanks.” Stacey made a note. “You’ve been a big help. If you remember anything else, I’m staying at the Heathman.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Moments after Stacey hung up, Jack remembered that Kathy had pled guilty to a drug charge as part of her deal when she agreed to testify against Kilbride. The case had been dismissed when Kathy kept her part of the plea bargain, but the court had ordered a presentence report and the presentence writer had worked up a biography. Jack had read the report years ago and didn’t remember a lot that was in it, but he had a friend who was pretty high up in the DA’s office who could probably get it for him.
Jack started to dial the number for the Multnomah County district attorney’s office but he stopped midway through. Information in a presentence report was confidential, and he shouldn’t be sharing it with Stacey without Kathy Moran’s approval. Jack found Kathy’s number and dialed.
“Yes,” Kathy answered.
“Hi, this is Jack Booth.”
“Why are you calling me?” Kathy asked. She sounded suspicious.
“You know I told you about Stacey Kim, the woman who’s wr
iting a novel inspired by your photograph of Megan Cahill?”
“What about her?”
“She just called me. She’s trying to work up your biography for background on one of her fictional characters who is a photographer.”
“What did she want to know?”
“She was asking about your parents, where you grew up, your aunt.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her anything. I was going to call Rex Baron at the DA’s office to see if he’d let Stacey read your presentence report. There’s a biography in it. Only it’s confidential and I didn’t want to do anything without getting your approval.”
“Well, you don’t have it,” Kathy answered vehemently. “That woman is a pest. She’s tried to interview me and now she’s prying into my private life. I won’t have it. And if you give her that report I’ll sue you and the county. I do not want to read about my private life in some goddamn supermarket tabloid. I’ve had enough of that.”
“This is why I called. I’d never do anything that would hurt you. I hope you know that.”
The line was silent for a moment. Then Jack heard Kathy take a deep breath.
“I apologize, Jack. I shouldn’t have gone off on you. I appreciate the call. I’ve just gone through too much. All I want now is my privacy. It’s about the only thing I’ve got left.”
Jack hung up and worked until noon. It was a nice day and he decided to buy a sandwich and a soft drink and eat outside on the Park Blocks, a strip of parks that ran with few interruptions through the city. The bench was opposite the Portland Art Museum. A banner advertised the Kathy Moran exhibit and a sudden thought occurred to Booth. Something had happened in the blink of an eye that had sent Megan Cahill running out of Ellen Devereaux’s gallery on the evening she was murdered. There was no apparent connection between Megan’s rapid exit, her murder, and the theft of the photographs from the gallery, but it was hard to believe that there was no connection between some—and maybe all—of those occurrences.
Booth had thought about the incident at the gallery a few times and he had concluded that Megan had been shocked by something Kevin Mercer said or something connected to Henry Baker, but one other possibility suddenly presented itself. In her short speech, Megan had said that this was her first opportunity to see the exhibition of Kathy’s photographs. Before she ran out of the gallery, Megan was standing where she could see the photographs on the wall behind Mercer and Baker. Had something she saw in one of them upset Megan?
Woman With a Gun_A Novel Page 18