by Alex Ames
“Not too shabby,” I remarked. “Two homes in posh areas. And I am struggling with my shop.”
Juanita sighed. “Aren’t we all? But first looks can be deceptive. The penthouse and the gallery both belong to a foundation that his mother created for his benefit. So it is not really his directly. On the other hand, he doesn’t pay rent. Plus, it allowed him to build the gallery from scratch.” Juanita flipped over a page of her notebook with one of her ridiculously long fingernails. “Now, for the juicy part. He was not allowed to alter the basic substance of a historic building in the SD Gaslight district when he first opened his gallery. But Mr. Altward got it anyhow, so he could build his safe. The word in the city administration is that a very warm handshake took place ten years ago.”
“He bribed the building commissioner?” I asked to clarify.
“Yes,” Juanita smiled at my shocked expression. “Welcome to the world, girl. According to his tax filings, the value of the gallery is around ten million dollars, mostly defined by the inventory, meaning the artwork. Sound about right to you?”
I made a quick mental calculation and nodded slowly.
“You don’t look convinced, Calendar?” Ron asked.
“Do you know anything about company valuation?” I asked them. Both gave me a blank look. “Since I have a small store and workshop, I have to know a little bit about it and because I took some night classes I know a little more about bookkeeping than the average Jane Boutique.”
Ron settled back in his chair and yawned but Juanita said, “Go on.”
“The value of a company is defined by some factors, basically the sum of liabilities and debts plus money in the bank, assets like a house, revenue and inventory. In a gallery, it is tricky to valuate the inventory.”
“Because the value of the pictures or sculptures changes?”
“That’s right. Like your personal valuation may change with time because the prices of the stock in your equity portfolio changes. The work of a trendy artist is worth nothing when you start representing him. After the first exhibition—the prices may soar. After the first major auctions of that artist—the prices may explode. A picture with a virgin valuation of a thousand dollars may jump to ten thousand up to one million within years.”
“This is madness. Why is anyone investing in the stock market if you got that?” Ron asked amazed.
“Because stocks usually represent a belief in a company that produces something or services customers, creating value today and in the future. But a piece of art is always at the mercy of a collector or the buyer. The market is much smaller because good, lasting artists are hard to find and even harder to develop.”
“Could we please leave the subject and come back to the valuation of Altward’s gallery?” Juanita insisted.
“Excuse me, I got carried away.” I collected my thoughts. “Depending on the value of the art, the gallery is worth more or less. Got that?”
“Got it down. But who defines the value of a piece.”
“That is exactly the point. In the end, it is Altward himself or the auditor of his books who decides. Once a year, they look at each piece of art and decide on the value. That is based on the price Andrew Altward had to pay for it when he bought it. It additionally depends on the last sale of a similar piece by the artist or one of his peers. If we take our murder weapon, he might have bought it for two hundred thousand dollars a year ago. A comparable piece might have brought three hundred thousand a week ago at an auction. So, what is the value?”
Ron frowned. “Maybe somewhere in the middle?”
“Good assumption. So you put two hundred fifty into the book as the current value.”
“Coming back to Altward, if we value the gallery building as, let’s say, two million. Does eight million of inventory sound like a realistic number?”
I smiled at Ron. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t get much easier.”
“It depends, right?” Ron groaned. He passed a look at Juanita. “I hate these consultants.”
“Make love not war, Ron,” I said. “The thing is, with a little creativity, you can modify your inventory value by several factors. In Altward’s case, it may lie somewhere between four and eight million.”
“Hang on, just to get this right, Altward currently states his inventory at the upper range of his ‘legal’ manipulation possibilities.”
“From what I can tell with my shop-owner semi-layman knowledge, yes,” I nodded.
“Is it legal?”
I shrugged. “Ask my bookkeeper or an auditor. Certainly not if you are a publicly traded company with many investors to attract. For a small Mom and Pop outfit, it mainly has taxation issues and credit issues.”
“So Altward is cheating on his taxes,” Ron rapped his knuckles on the desk.
“Or he needs money from the bank,” I stated. “If Altward needs a large credit, the bank likes large securities.”
“What should he need money for? He has Mom’s foundation in the background and that could secure plenty,” Juanita said.
I gave her a look and she said to herself. “Oh, that is right, we are the police and we are supposed to find out.”
“Maybe he wants to expand and buy another gallery. That’s most likely. Or maybe he wants to buy a spectacular piece of art and needs money for that. Whatever it is, one thing is clear, because he had to fix his inventory to do it, he had to plan it a long time in advance. I bet, if you look back a few years, you will find that his inventory value was much lower.”
“Anything else?” Ron asked.
Juanita was still scribbling furiously on her pad. “My homework list just got much longer. Why do I hunt after stolen TV sets and table silver when companies can steal millions by just restating the value of pieces of junk-anything?” She turned back to the other notepad. “Andrew indeed had some loans going. Compared to the eight million dollars in inventory, it didn’t look like a lot at first, it is about two million dollars in long term debts, but with Calendar’s input, it may look significantly different.”
“Turning to the victim,” Juanita continued, “the preliminary reports of the coroner came in. Isn’t it fabulous what the promise of a date can achieve.” With a look in my direction. “Budget cuts, understaffing, too many deaths. Real life autopsy and the results documentation usually take weeks.” She curled a strand of hair around her index finger. “Wally Eastman died as a direct consequence of heavy bleeding inside the head and massive shock to the brain and nervous system, inflicted by the aforementioned mobile. Broken skull, part-patterns of the mobile indeed fit the impact area. Death within seconds, or minutes, no other wounds except for secondary ones when the body hit the floor. Quick screening for drugs and alcohol was negative. In short, he was artfully murdered.” She giggled and Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, how I wanted to deliver that one.”
Juanita flipped over to the next page, organized. “The technicians from the alarm company are still trying to figure out how the fool-proof system got fooled. No word from them yet. The fingerprint and fiber analysis is still ongoing, the gallery is a public, dirty place and the cleaning woman comes in the mornings, so there were about four trillion prints and particles. None by Wally Eastman, which shows that he didn’t touch anything in the safe. He apparently entered the area and was killed immediately.”
We were silent for a minute, each of us thinking our own thoughts.
Ron looked around, “Any insights?”
“Neither Phoebe nor Altward look like violent types to me. There are some open questions but nothing… ” I was searching for the right word, “… solid.”
Ron gave me an amused look. “Good guess. Too little input.” He looked at Juanita.
“We will wait for what the dealer network of SD and Southern California bring up in the next days. I will dig into Altward and the daughter’s finances to see if I can find a money motive.”
“The case is going down the drain,” Ron exclaimed and then explained for my benefit. “The first 48 hours are
over.”
“Am I dismissed now?” I asked.
“No, there are two more bits of news—the missing partner, Paul Faulkner, has turned up again. Plus, we found the ex-wife, Mrs. Ex-Andrew Altward.”
Ron said. “Usually ex-wives are a valuable source on the dirty laundry of their exes.”
So we went.
Chapter 12
MARION ALTWARD COULD be best described as a trophy wife past her prime. Although the DMV entry had her age at 35, her breasts looked younger and the back of her hands looked older. She lived in a condo-complex near SD Marina. The guest parking spots in front of the complex were occupied but Ron simply clipped on the red magnetic light and parked right in front of the baffled doorman who was sweeping the entrance.
“Did you do this to impress me?” I asked.
“Always works,” he said as we went directly to the elevator, ignoring the protests from the front desk.
Mrs. Altward had kept her ex-husband’s name. Personally, I found that suspicious after a divorce but who was I to argue. She offered us ice tea; we declined and sat around a coffee table that hosted several coffee table books of art photography
“You are into photography?” I asked, pointing at the stack.
“I am working on it. I used to have a gallery before I married Andrew. Now, I am trying to pick up where I left off.”
Ron said, “I explained the situation to you on the phone. We just want a little more background on the business of your former husband.”
“You mean that you want to pump me for dirty information, Detective?” Licking her lips, she raised an attractive eyebrow at Ron. Competitive hormones flushed into my bloodstream.
“You made me, Mrs. Altward. Or is it Miss Altward?” Ron politely noticed her weightless boobs.
Marion Altward’s smooth California laugh came right out of the book. “It is still Mrs. Altward. My maiden name is Smith; it is clearly an advantage to keep the Altward-tag in the California art community. It has a better brand value,” she shrugged, boobs bopping.
“Ah, I understand,” Ron said, not.
Marion Altward moved forward to better show off her wonder breasts. “OK, shoot.” I almost laughed out loud at that remark.
Ron was unfazed and he asked questions about the general setup of the gallery, the artists and the daily dealings. Marion Altward leaned over a lot, managed to hitch up her skirt by two inches, without manual intervention, but could not give us anything that we didn’t already know.
“Your ex-husband recently picked up bank loans for about two million dollars. Any idea what he needed the money for?”
Marion shook her head. “But I bet he had a little cash problem after our divorce a year ago. I didn’t strip him but my lawyer got me a nice package.”
“Do you know what he needed the money for?” Ron asked again.
“I can only speculate. Maybe he has a good deal on hand that he needs to finance. Or he needs money up front to prepare a new show? Whatever?”
“You’re still in contact with your ex-husband?”
“Not really, no. We meet now and then at charities or social events and we exchange pleasantries. Or an occasional coffee. But that’s it.”
Ron looked over at me for additional questions. I decided to give it a shot. “What kind of business is Andrew doing with Thomas Cornelius?”
“Is he still around? Cornelius turned up about 18 months ago; I never really got to know him. Andrew and I had already separated and had started fighting for the lot. They worked on some kind of jewelry deal; it was supposed to be a big thing, another breakthrough.” The rolling of her eyes told us what she thought of her ex-husband’s deals. “I don’t know any details, though. There was another partner involved, someone named Max.”
“Max who?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know, but I heard them drop the name several times.”
“Would Mr. Faulkner know anything about it?”
“I assume, him being partner of my former husband.”
“You know anything about the jewelry involved?”
“He made a lot of phone calls to Mexico.” Another shrug, she was bored.
Ron’s notebook page—after intensive interview note taking, showed ten doodles and three words: ‘Max, Mexico and Faulkner,’ which summed it up nicely.
“Thank you very much for your time, we appreciate it,” Ron snapped his notepad shut.
Marion gave him an extra deep look into her front end as we got up. We shook hands and on the way out she said, “By the way, how did that little tramp take the death of her father?”
“Excuse me,” Ron looked at her, bewildered, and for once, dropping his already-know-it-all attitude.
“You know, the California baby doll, Phoebe or whatever her name is, that Andrew went to bed with.”
Ron caught himself in time and said politely, “Miss Eastman is devastated, that is for sure. But I bet your former husband takes good care of her.”
After Marion closed the door behind us and we stepped into the elevator, we exchanged high fives.
“Son of a gun. Andrew shagging the daughter of the night watchman.”
I almost kicked his shins but thought about my consultant status. “Why didn’t they tell us?”
“We didn’t ask!”
“You were too busy interviewing her breasts!” I said and quickly held my mouth shut, not believing what I just had said.
“They answered. Did they not?”
Chapter 13
PAUL FAULKNER WAS the missing partner who turned up again. Although he lived close to Andrew Altward, his accommodations were not as posh as those of his companion. He had a nice condominium with a doorman and reception, but no penthouse, and it was about half the size of Altward’s. Another look at the ocean, Coronado in plain view.
“Must be a nice view after dark,” I mused after the introductions.
Faulkner gave a broad smile, pleased that someone noticed. “You are right. It is like a string of glowing pearls over the different shades of black that make out land and sea. Plus the occasional ship. Very relaxing after a hard day’s night.”
“Also attractive for the ladies?” Ron threw in. We had taken our successful roles again.
Faulkner gave him the expected irritated look but gave me a wink that let me know that Ron had been dead on the money. “Sure, impresses the hell out of them.” He said.
Faulkner was younger than his partner Altward was. He dressed a little more casually with an expensive Piquet shirt, Ralph Lauren slacks and Todd’s on the feet. Where Altward, with his trustful European style, tended to deliver better to the older customers, Faulkner probably connected better to the middle aged. Maybe the assistant, who looked a little gay, took care of the Yuppie wallets. Good setup. Faulkner had thick blonde hair, a broad large teethed American smile and a deep resonant voice that personified the convictions of trust and friendship in a salesman. If he hadn’t become an art dealer, he may have become a real estate agent, a car dealer or a politician. Anything involved with selling.
We agreed to some soft drinks and settled around the coffee table.
“Just got in?” Ron started.
“Late last night. Had to finish some business first down in Mexico.”
“Even though there was an emergency at the gallery?”
Faulkner shrugged. “Andrew and Serge were there. And what could I help with? But anyway, terrible thing.”
“You were down in Mexico to prepare that deal with Max?” Ron asked into the blue.
Faulkner looked at Ron and then at me, obviously confused. “Max, who? I attended an auction and visited some artists. Who told you?”
Ron ignored him. “Did you know Mr. Eastman, the dead night watchman?”
“What a silly question, Detective. We are a small outfit, Andy, Serge and me. We know the cleaning ladies, the windows cleaners, the florists and, yes, we also know the night watchmen, Wally and his colleagues Simon and John.”
“But you didn�
��t know him better?”
“You mean on a personal basis? No. We said ‘Hi’ and ‘How are you’ but that was about it. A tip around Christmas.” Did we detect a hint of hesitation before he answered?
“How do you think the murderer and thief managed to open the safe room?”
“I haven’t got the slightest idea. We, and the insurance company, were always convinced that we had a secure setup.”
“Why do you think that only the Montenhaute was taken?”
“I presume the thief panicked after the murder of the night watchman,” Faulkner shrugged, “and just left with what he had so far.”
Ron continued with more of the same questions he had asked Altward, but with meager results. Then he explored a little more left and right.
“How do you get along with your business partner Mr. Altward?”
A slight smile around his mouth. “We are a good setup. Managed to combine our forces a few years back, Southern California doesn’t need two of us, so we formed a regional monopoly of modern contemporary art, with some niches on the side.”
“Business is good?”
“Sure is,” Faulkner nodded, “we are currently preparing an exhibition with my old employer, the Getty in Malibu. They bring their paintings and we throw in the jewels. Makes a good combination if you see the pictures of old royals and rich people and then, in real life, you see the jewelry that they wore in the paintings.”
He probably expected a ‘Good combination, sounds interesting’ comment from Ron but instead he got a, “When would you have told us that Mr. Altward has a relationship with Phoebe Eastman, the daughter of the dead night watchman?”
Caught in an uncomfortable situation, Faulkner’s face showed some white spots. “I… I would. I didn’t see the connection.”
“Do you know Phoebe Eastman?” Ron interrupted.
“Sure, she’s my partner’s girlfriend. She didn’t hang out at the gallery but occasionally we would go for a double date, dinner, movie, events.”