Sherlock and Lindsay took up their positions on the corners while Caren and I slipped up the fire escape in the morning sunlight. Less than eight hours ago, we'd done the same outside police headquarters. We wore the same clothing and I carried the same tools, my web belt and its many heavy attachments camouflaged in a canvas bag.
"We could just go in through the door, couldn't we?" she asked as we climbed the fire escape side by side. "I mean, no one would see us down that dark corridor."
"You're right, we could." We were far enough above the street not to be noticed, so I pulled the web belt from the canvas bag and strapped it on. "But I don't like going in blind, not since I arrogantly picked the lock on Sherlock's office one last time before the war."
"Was he in there?"
We rounded the corner of the fire escape and climbed the final flight.
"Not him, no," I said. "Just a German Shepherd with an attitude. That was Sherlock's oh-so-subtle way of telling me to mind my own business in those halcyon days of our youth."
"Why were you breaking into his office, in any case?"
"Because I could."
The window of Glendower's flat was covered with a mini-blind, but the leaves were bent and cracked. Even through the dirt smearing the glass, it was obvious the furnished apartment contained the bare minimum to qualify for the term. A single bed, without headboard, leaned against the far right corner, with an upright dresser at its foot and a rickety table serving as a nightstand, so near the door I wondered it could open. On the left was an envelope-sized countertop with a sink, microwave, and electric burner crowded atop it, a small fridge beneath and cabinet above. A round table wobbled on that side of the room with two hard straight chairs tucked in around it. The floor was covered by an old shag rug of indistinguishable brownish color.
"This is awful."
"Was this the City man who brokered a thousand stocks?" I removed my dagger and started on the caulking of one window pane.
"Do you think he asked Edith for money? Charles, could he have blackmailed her?"
"I don't know." Nor did I want to consider it and concentrated on the break-in instead. But the caulking was minimal and I removed the pane without effort. I yanked up the blind then felt around the casing, but could detect no trace of an alarm through my gloves.
Nevertheless I was determined not to become careless. This was the sort of ruthless situation where defenses would be well hidden but vicious when sprung, like a syringe full of anthrax buried somewhere to be tipped during a search.
"Caren, did you bring gloves?"
She peered through the window, watching as I unhooked and lifted it open. "Gracious. No, I didn't."
"There's a handkerchief in my left hip pocket. Wrap that around your hands before you touch anything. I want to leave as few clues as possible. And be extremely careful. Look before you touch."
She pulled out the handkerchief, and I did my best to ignore my physical response. Right now, as much as I craved her touch, the distraction could prove disastrous.
We climbed in through the window. I closed it behind us. At least the apartment was clean and aired out.
"What are we looking for?"
"The same thing he was looking for when he searched my condo: anything and everything. We'll show him higher consideration than he showed me and leave everything just the way we found it. Start in the kitchen, all right? Open everything slowly and keep well back, just in case."
There was nothing on or under the nightstand, under or inside the pillow, beneath the mattress, or taped under the frame, and there were enough rips in the cloth covering the box springs that I felt reasonably certain there was nothing hidden there, either. I poked and prodded through the threadbare clothing in the drawers, peered behind the dresser, and looked behind the mirror and the lone framed print, a cheap landscape.
Perhaps it was my recent soul-searching, or perhaps it was the deadly seriousness of the situation, with Caren peering into cupboards behind me and in danger of triggering some booby trap. But I wasn't nearly as relaxed about this search as I had been going through Wingate's office. It was not a matter of conscience. Glendower was, I now knew, a murderer, and he deserved no pity for what he did to Aunt Edith, Trés, and the security guard. This time, rather than playing for kicks, I answered a professional's challenge. This wasn't only personal; this was war.
"Charles."
I turned. Caren, using the screwdriver in my lockpicking kit, had removed the backing from the cabinet.
"Smart woman. What have you found?"
Wordlessly, she pulled out a framed photo, an old black-and-white in a silver frame. It was Aunt Edith, certainly not yet of age, and she posed outdoors in a summer garden, wearing nothing but a string of pearls, her own glorious dark unbound hair, and an openwork shawl draped low beneath a solid wall of roses. She leaned back on one hand, shoulders pulled back and tilted to maximize her cleavage, the other hand holding the shawl closed and strategically placed. Even for her nephew it was an incendiary pose.
"Wow."
"This is Edith, isn't it." Caren's voice didn't make it a question.
I took the photo from her. It shocked me to my core and I couldn't seem to draw a breath. "Pardon me if this is an old-fashioned question, but at that age would you have posed semi-nude for just any photographer?"
"At that age I wouldn't have posed semi-nude for anyone at all. Do you think Glendower was the photographer?"
I tucked the picture into my canvas bag. Despite the expensive frame it felt tawdry and I wanted it out of sight. "Seems that way, doesn't it? Put that back together, will you? Let's finish and get out of here." No matter what time of the morning it was, I wanted a drink and a shower, in that order.
While Caren busied herself with the screwdriver and handkerchief, I pulled the drawers from the battered dresser and examined their backs and bottoms. On the last one, nearest the floor, I struck pay dirt: a sheet of paper and a passport in an envelope glued to the underside of the drawer.
"What have you found?" Caren closed the microwave door and joined me. She craned her neck and peered at the passport as I flipped through it. "What language is that?"
"Something central European. Bulgarian, I think."
The I-94 exit date was the first of August; unless Glendower applied for an extension of his stay in the United States, he was legally due to leave in two days. Whatever he was after, he'd have to make his move soon, which explained his willingness to break into a house crammed with NATO special forces soldiers.
But the paper, to me, was more damning than the passport. I turned it so she could get a better look. It was a hand-drawn scale map of the Carr Gallery, showing in detail the exhibits and offices within, the best observation points on the street, all windows and exits, and the locations of the motion detectors, alarm contacts, and keypads. It was so detailed it could only have been drawn by someone who'd been inside the gallery on more than one occasion. Some of the exhibits were marked in red ink atop the pencil; most of these were on Trés sprawling half of the gallery but two were among Danny Vasquez's work. None marked Sidnë's.
"Charles, oh, Charles. No, wait." Caren balled the handkerchief and held it to her lips for a moment. "This doesn't automatically mean he killed her. It could mean something else."
Trust Caren to look for the good in anyone, even Glendower. "This is a stakeout map. It means he intends to rob the gallery. As for his guilt or innocence, look at the rug."
She glanced down at the old shag beneath our knees. It only took her wonderful mind a moment. "This is what the police found in Edith's car, isn't it?"
"The technician referred to it as old DuPont acrylic."
"Are you going to the police with this?"
"And admit how I gathered the information? Would it even be admissible in court?" I folded the map and stuffed it in my pocket, then returned the passport to its hiding place and slid the drawer back into its housing. "Let's get out of here."
We left the way we
came and I caulked the window behind us in silence. Before we clambered from the fire escape, I unslung the web belt and returned it to the canvas bag. Sherlock and Lindsay joined us at the Camaro.
"Swing by the gallery, boss, will you?"
He didn't ask questions but turned at the light.
Lindsay asked questions. "What's wrong? You look awful."
"Not now, Lindsay," Caren said.
But I pulled the stakeout map from the front of my shirt and handed it to her. I didn't give a damn whose fingerprints decorated it because the police were never going to see it. Lindsay stared. Even Sherlock glanced at it, while paused at a light, then looked away to accelerate.
"That is not good news."
"I need to warn Prissy. And it's time to take him down."
"You got a plan?"
"That's your job, boss."
Chapter Twenty-Five
current time
At the gallery, the others waited in the Camaro while I ran inside. Prissy met me in the showroom. Today she wore a strapless dress made from pieces of blue silk not quite sewn together, topped with a discreet green satin jacket. Again in flats, she didn't have to reach up to kiss me on the cheek.
"Sidnë's here," she whispered, "and I still want you to meet her."
"Perhaps in a minute." I handed her the stakeout map.
For a long silent moment she examined it, her face still. Finally she looked up. Her usual posturing was gone. "What does this mean?"
"If you had to double security for a few days, would you require extra funds?"
She returned the map to me. I folded it and tucked it away.
"My security's pretty tight already."
I didn't bother disabusing her of that notion, even though we both knew how I'd previously used her gallery as a breaking-and-entering playground. "Hire a few armed guards, preferably with dogs. Keep them inside, random patrols. I'll pay for the cleaning, too."
"Do you insist?"
I kissed her cheek. Dirty tactics, I know.
"You insist." I felt her relax. "All right, Charles, you have twisted my arm sufficiently with your gloved hands — why are you wearing gloves in July? — despite my better judgment, despite my allergy to dogs—"
"Oh, stow it, woman."
She had the grace to laugh. "Now come and meet Sidnë."
"I'm sorry, I really don't have time right now. The others are waiting for me in the car."
Prissy maintained her grip on my arm and dropped her voice to a whisper. "She hasn't sold a single painting and she's inconsolable. She's talking about changing her prices, rearranging the panels, bringing in different ones, oh, whatever she can think of. I keep telling her to be patient, breaking out in this game takes time, but she—"
I leaned over to murmur in her ear. "How much has Trés sold?"
She pulled back far enough to give me an amused reproachful look, then leaned closer than I dared. "Not quite half. Oh, yes, widen your eyes, young man. It's no exaggeration. I meant to warn you yesterday when you were here, if there's something you want, you'd better buy it now because there's no guarantee it will still be available tomorrow or even this afternoon. Just don't make eyes at any of those pastels; a collector is taking serious notice there. Danny's sold one, as well, but Sidnë—" She paused for breath.
We rounded the corner of the display holding Trés' charcoal portraits and I caught a glimpse between panels of a woman striding toward the door. Prissy called out, "Sidnë! Wait, I want you to meet Charles. Jaime, don't you open that door."
The security guard obeyed Prissy, so at the closed door Sidnë turned.
She wasn't pretty in the conventional sense: her eyes were too large, her mouth too wide, and her body too bony. Instead, she was stunning in an unconventional sense. She was intense and fully wired; from her naturally shining fingernails to her flat abdomen, it seemed high-voltage current danced just beneath her light mocha tan, unencumbered by such trivialities as makeup or hair spray. Her turquoise tank top matched the shade of her huge eyes and showed off small taut breasts, perfectly aligned without need of restraint, and her golden denim skirt matched her shoulder-length frizzy hair. Flat leather sandals matched nothing, not even her white canvas shoulder bag.
The effect was a zap of sexual electricity and the male animal within me stirred. She was a woman to admire, respect, throw atop a mattress, but not to coo over or cuddle — completely at odds with her sultry artwork. It was impossible to judge how much of her appearance was studied and deliberate; then, surprised, I wondered the same about her painting.
Her clasp was firm but her hand was cold. "Captain Ellandun, a pleasure to finally meet you." Her voice wasn't warm and encouraging, either.
I paused at her slight emphasis on finally. There was an undertone here, something charged. Somehow I'd offended her. Was it not meeting her on opening night?
"Give us some room here, would you, Prissy?"
"She's already gone." Sidnë slung her carry-all back over her shoulder and folded her stick-thin arms beneath her breasts. "I suppose we should settle this."
Or was it something that had happened, or not happened, since then? I was tempted to match her body language, but instead thrust my hands into my black fatigue pockets. They were an unusually tight fit and again I was reminded of those kid-leather gloves. "What is there for us to settle?"
"Are you sure you won't change your mind about me?"
I just stared at her. I had no idea what she was talking about.
"Why are you wearing gloves, Captain?"
Finally I understood. "You've been eavesdropping, haven't you? You listened to my conversation with Prissy just now and you overheard us speaking the other day."
She shrugged, setting her breasts rocking. "I have sensitive hearing. It's not my fault if your voice carries. You said you were certain you wouldn't change your mind about me. I could only assume you meant you'd honor your dear aunt's wishes and never sponsor me again."
And now I was angry, at my own gullibility as well as her brazenness. "You set me up. You cast suspicion on me to deflect it away from yourself. Did you really see someone in Aunt Edith's car that night or did you make it up so you would have something to tell the police?"
She tossed her hair off her shoulder. The view was just as enticing but this time I wasn't tempted. "There was someone in her car. I didn't make it up."
"For your information, Ms. Righetti, you completely misunderstood my conversation with Prissy. I encouraged her to report that argument to the police, yes, but I said if it damaged your career, I'd sponsor your shows for as long as it took to recover."
She stood very still. Her eyes, already huge and now dominated by black pupils, glittered in the fluorescent lighting. "I don't believe you. And I prefer to be called Sidnë."
"I don't care." I yanked off the gloves and stuck them in my pocket.
She stared at my hands for a long moment. "That's a really nice ring, you know."
And suddenly I'd had enough of her. "That's what Aunt Edith had against you, wasn't it? The fact that you're so studied, so pretentious, I mean. How many different concepts did you try and discard before you decided on a sexy, feminine persona for your art? Did you think it would sell better than whatever it is you truly prefer to paint? That's an artistic lie, and that's odd, considering how forthright your conversation is. Aunt Edith was right, Sidnë: you're a snake. And your hidden meaning is dead on: this is an ugly ring. I never will sponsor you again."
I suppose my anger radiated ahead of me to the entry, for Jaime had the door open before I reached it. On the stoop I glanced down at that spot and then back, past the line of Trés' charcoals. Sidnë stood where I'd left her, near Danny Vasquez's big signature piece, and her stunning face was twisted and ugly. At that moment it seemed impossible someone so cold and calculating could have painted her sensitive canvases.
That was what Prissy had wanted me to see in Sidnë's big signature piece, We Could Have Danced All Night. I wondered how I
could have missed it.
Yes, it was sensitive.
It was also two-faced.
But I wasn't going to think along those lines and instead made my way back to the car. Dealing with one snake at a time was enough.
Archive Fourteen
seven years earlier
I must admit, I was not immediately thrilled by my Army experience, either, particularly as my consistent and repetitive cheek earned me a lot of push-ups. However, this was rather different from Harvard and Cambridge; I couldn't simply make myself persona non grata and expect to be sent home as a naughty boy. Instead, to my delighted surprise, I found I developed some fairly nifty pectorals and biceps once past the painful stage.
The morning I looked in the mirror and first noticed that, another fundamental magnetic pole shifted within me, in the same manner as when I'd first met Aunt Edith. The delight I felt reached beneath the veneer of sophistication I fostered as a shield against judgmental relatives and Boston society; it actually touched my soul. There was more to Charles Ellandun, I realized, than being one of the family's black sheep. I was no longer stuck in the role where I was typecast.
For the first time in years, I liked myself.
After that morning, I engaged the Army, not as an experience to be survived so I could extract some revenge against Aunt Edith for even suggesting such an idiotic move, but rather with a keen desire to learn who this new person might be. The man I met was a natural marksman, a resolute fighter, and once physically conditioned, graceful even in combat boots. I also found that, when I smiled more, the guys in the barrack and the ladies in town liked me better, as well, in uniform and very much out of it.
Our training sergeant, after using me to assist his demonstration of unarmed combat techniques, seemed impressed when I made not a sound no matter how many times my anatomy was thumped, and we developed if not a cordial then at least a mutually respectful working relationship. With all my heart I wanted his whistle as a trophy; when I considered being caught by that bull-necked, competent man, digging through his personal gear, I left it alone. It was perhaps not coincidental that my first months in the Army concurred with my abandonment of trophy-hunting as an actively-practiced hobby, and it was the sergeant's recommendation that put me into Officer Candidate School and ultimately the Intelligence Corps.
Trophies Page 32