“Oh, damn,” Bradford said.
“Then you do know something about it?”
“Yes, sir. But I had no part in it.”
“That’s what we have to dig into. There’s a meeting at 1600 with a Navy lawyer, an assistant district attorney, and a San Diego Police detective. Before then we need to have all of our answers, and we want to know everything you do about this situation. Hold it until we get to the commander’s office.”
Murdock stood up to go as the phone rang. He hesitated, then picked it up.
“Missed you this morning for breakfast,” a familiar female voice said. “Can I count on you for lunch at your place?”
“Hey, wondered where you were.” Murdock motioned Bradford out of his office. “Yeah, you’re late. I’ve been home almost twenty hours now. What happened?”
Ardith Manchester laughed softly, and Murdock felt that surge of delight at simply hearing her voice. “I knew you were coming, I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive. You’ve been all over the newspapers. This is the first time, since this one was not covert at all. Your platoon has been hailed as heroes in a dozen different countries.”
“Good, but that and a five-dollar bill will get you a double latte at a coffee shop. Great to hear that you’re in town. Lunch at home for sure. I’m in the middle of a big brouhaha with one of my men and the San Diego Police. Trying to get to the bottom of it. Call you later about lunch for sure. Got to go.”
“See you then. I have a surprise for you.”
“Can’t wait.”
They hung up, and Murdock hustled Bradford straight over to the commander’s office. They were shown directly in.
“What the hell is going on, Bradford? I’ve got cops and district attorneys all over me. Take it from the start and tell us what this is all about.”
Bradford gulped once, then twice. “You say there’s a warrant for my arrest? I don’t see how.”
He told them about his painting, how he’d teamed up with the other artists and rented this run-down building almost a year ago. He told them about the other artists in the group.
“Yeah, yeah. But what about this girl Xenia? Doesn’t she have a last name?”
“No last name. A lot of artists do that. She’s good. She sells some. I’ve been selling some, but we hadn’t been making the nut on the rent and utilities. I guess she had been paying the rest of the tab. I didn’t know that. I didn’t ask where the extra money came from.”
“Now you know,” Masciareli said. “You sleeping with her?”
“I don’t see how that—”
“Bradford, it will come out, so you might as well get used to it,” Murdock said.
“Yes, I’m sleeping with her. She’s good at her painting, and I’m learning from her work.”
“You knew she was faking the old masters?”
“Not until two weeks before we left for the Philippines. That’s the first I knew about it. I never sold any of her paintings, never arranged to sell them. I don’t even know that guy in Santa Barbara who evidently is the middleman on the scheme.”
“Then you swear that you didn’t know about this until two weeks before we left for the Philippines, that you never acted as her agent to sell or place any of the paintings, and that you never received any kind of compensation in relation to these fake old-master paintings that she created?” Masciareli asked.
“Correct,” Bradford said. “Absolutely true. I don’t know how they could charge me with anything like this.”
“The charges were made by Xenia,” Murdock said.
Bradford scowled, shook his head. “Not a chance. You’re joking. Why would she make up a lot of bullshit like that?”
“Why?” Masciareli asked. “To spread the blame. To give the cops another victim they could prosecute. To make her a little less guilty-looking. Lots of reasons. Maybe she was mad because you wouldn’t marry her. Maybe she wanted a baby and you said no. Who knows how a woman thinks?”
“Is she out on bail?” Murdock asked.
“Yes, and restricted to the county area.”
“I want to talk to her,” Bradford said.
“Not a good idea,” Murdock said. “But I’m going to. She should be at that studio?” he asked Bradford.
“She lives there.”
“Okay, Bradford,” Masciareli said. “Let’s go over it again from the top. Everything that happened since you started there with the other painters. I want it all. We’ll have a lawyer here this afternoon. He’s Navy, but since this is a civilian warrant, the Navy can have no part in the case. He’s here as a personal favor to me, to see what we can do before you get arrested. If what you say is true, he may be able to help us blow enough holes in the girl’s testimony to get your charges reduced or maybe withdrawn. No guarantees.”
Murdock stood. “I’m going to see that girl. When is the attorney going to be here?”
“Fourteen-hundred. Be careful with the girl. Tell her nothing about what Bradford just told us. Tread carefully.”
“I’ll be back for the 1400 meet.” Murdock picked up his floppy hat and hurried out to his office. Senior Chief Sadler was running the show at Third Platoon. J.G. DeWitt had been sent on a three-day leave to let his arm heal. Lam was back at Balboa, where his leg was being checked over again. They might need to take the cast off and reset the bone.
“Make it an easy day, Senior Chief,” Murdock said. “A five-mile training run this morning, and a five-mile swim this afternoon, then early release at 1600. Bradford will not be here. He’s in a meeting.”
“Heard about the charges,” Sadler said. “Sound phony as hell to me.”
“Yes, to me too. I’ll be back tomorrow, Senior Chief. You’ve got the con.”
It took Murdock almost forty minutes to get out of Coronado, across the sweeping bridge into San Diego, and then downtown to the studio. He’d been there twice to showings, and remembered where it was. The door was locked, so he pounded on it until he heard someone coming.
“Yes, yes, what do you want?” A woman’s voice. There was no glass in the door. It opened slightly, then all the way.
Xenia stood there with two artist’s brushes in her hand. The smock she wore had smudges of a dozen different shades of paint, and there was one small spot of blue on her cheek.
“Oh, it’s you. I remember you from the showing. Bill’s friend.”
“Bill Bradford’s commanding officer. We need to talk.”
“My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone.”
“I’m not Bradford’s lawyer. I’m not anyone’s lawyer. I want to know why you’re trying to ruin the life of a fine young man when you know that you’re lying right through your fucking teeth.”
She stepped back a bit, then smiled. “You SEALs always talk so colorfully. How do you know that it isn’t Bill who’s lying?”
“Because I know Bill. He and I have put our lives on the line for each other a dozen times. We’re bonded in a way you never could be, that you couldn’t even understand. You shit on my friend like this, you shit on me and I don’t like it.”
She took another step back. “Commander, are you threatening me?”
“Hell, no. If I threaten you, young lady, you damn well will know it for sure. I could snuff you right here and get away with it. Nobody would ever know. And you’d be dead and rotting in some garbage dump. I’m not threatening you. In fact, I’m trying to help you.”
“Help, oh, shit, yes, you’re a big help.”
“If you maintain that Bill was your sales agent, we can shoot that down in the first hearing. Then the judge and a jury will go twice as hard on you, and there could even be additional charges brought against you. Whoever your lawyer is must know this. Remind him about it before the preliminary hearing. You must have some feelings for Bill since you’ve been sleeping with him. Why drag him down to your level?”
“I have my reasons.”
“He wouldn’t marry you, would he?”
She turned and flounced away, looked back
at Murdock, and threw both slim artist’s brushes at him. “Fuck, no, he wouldn’t marry me. I pleaded with him. He said not quite yet. Too dangerous a job, he had. He said people shot at him, tried to kill him. I said, sure, sure, show me some newspaper clippings. So, he was my contact man for the old masters that we ‘found.’ Nothing on paper, all verbal. Lots of cell-phone calls to Santa Barbara. Easy to trace. Check it out. Yes, that stupid son of a bitch wouldn’t marry me.” She grabbed a painting off an easel and threw it at Murdock, then ran up the stairs to her studio.
Murdock figured the room above would have a lock on the door and it would be a good one. At least he had talked to her. Maybe planted some doubts in her mind. Now to see what the DA and the cops said. He didn’t see how they could have anything more than the girl’s word against Bradford. That wouldn’t hold up in court. Trouble was, Murdock didn’t want this to get to court. No way it should get that far.
Time to get home for lunch with Ardith. Murdock began to grin; it spread across his face, and was still there when he pulled to a stop in front of his apartment in Coronado. He ran up the steps to the second-floor unit and barged in the door.
Ardith Manchester had heard the car stop and had seen him coming. She stood waiting for him.
Murdock stopped just inside the door and stared at her. She was tall and slender, with long blond hair, a face with high cheekbones and perfect eyes, so beautiful it made him wince and wonder at his luck. She was a lawyer working in Washington, D.C., for her father, the senior senator from Oregon. She was so smart and quick and just plain nice that it made him gulp in a quick breath.
“Hi there, sailor.”
“Hi, beautiful lady. I thought you said something about lunch.”
“Maybe just dessert.” She hugged him and put her head on his shoulder, pressing against him hard so he wouldn’t leave her again.
“I have a whole envelope full of Washington Post clippings about our daring SEALs, the hostage busters.”
Murdock grinned again. “Yeah, for once we’re out of the closet. Feels kind of good.” He looked around. “You mentioned dessert?”
She unwound herself from him, caught his hand, and led him toward the bedroom.
“It’s in here,” she said. “I’m it.”
29
Murdock was five minutes late getting to the meeting at Commander Masciareli’s office at 1400. A Navy lieutenant commander was there looking worried. Melvin Price was tall, with a wide body that looked like it was all muscle and tendons. He carried himself like a pro linebacker, and his nose had been broken more than once. He had a flattop haircut, white-sides, thin lips, nervous blue eyes, and the demeanor of a caged lion.
“What the hell do we have here, Bradford?” Price barked.
“Sir, it’s a total fabrication. I have never done any of the things that she charged me with or that are in the warrant.”
Price read part of the papers in front of him and looked up. “She says here that everything you did was verbal, that there will be no records.”
“That also means she has no possible way to prove that he did do anything that she says he did,” Murdock said. “It’s merely her word against his.”
“Who are you?” Price demanded.
“Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, Commander. I’m Bradford’s CO. These charges are totally ridiculous. It’s a case of a spurned woman flailing out in desperation to get her own charges reduced.”
Price frowned. “Could be, but the DA isn’t going to jump at that explanation. Bradford, can I see some of your work?”
Bradford opened a large portfolio case and took out three of his unmounted marine oil paintings. One was of a pair of seagulls on a fishing boat at the wharf. Another one was the waves breaking over the Ocean Beach Jetty. A third showed a pair of Navy SEALs paddling for shore in a rubber duck.
The lawyer stood and walked up and down in front of the paintings. “Yes, not bad. They are not old-master quality, but the quality of your paintings is not at issue here.”
“Sir, I have my telephone bills for the past six months showing all of my long-distance calls. There are a total of five, all going to my parents’ home. I also have my bank statements for the same period showing my savings and checking balances. All miserably low.”
The lawyer brushed the records aside. “Means nothing. You could have a dozen other accounts around town under your own or other names. You could use a pay phone to call in orders to Santa Barbara.”
“Commander, doesn’t the DA have to have some proof of the charges before they can make an arrest?” asked Murdock.
“Not necessarily, if they have enough suspicion and think they can prove the charge later. Depends on the DA, and the cops. In this case, I’d think they must have some solid evidence that what the woman says is true. Otherwise, why go to court with a case that they know they will lose?”
“Exactly my point, Commander. The woman has said all of the transactions were verbal, nothing written. What possible proof could she have of what she says? Bradford denies categorically that he knew anything about her counterfeiting until two weeks before we went to the Philippines. Just because he knew about it is not criminal. There was no conspiracy, no intent to harm or mislead, nothing of a criminal nature whatsoever.”
Lieutenant Commander Price chuckled. “Murdock, are you sure you weren’t a lawyer in some former life? You make some good points. But until we know what the police have, we don’t have much to work with. I’ll be at the meeting this afternoon at 1600, but not in any official capacity. I’ll be an observer, and if I have any suggestions I’ll make them in whispers to Commander Masciareli. This is a civilian matter; the Navy can have no part in it whatsoever. The Naval Criminal Investigation Service has no jurisdiction. And despite what you may have seen on television, the JAG lawyers have no say here as well. All I can do is advise you when we see what they show.”
“One other thing, Bradford. Did Xenia ask you to marry her?” Murdock asked.
“Oh, yes, every other week for the past two months. She wanted three kids in three years, and then she’d become a world-renowned painter. She got part of her wish. A lot of people around the world who bought her fake old masters are certainly going to hear about her.”
The meeting broke up then, and the linebacker lawyer and Bradford and Murdock went to have coffee until time for the meeting at 1600.
Murdock kept digging. “Did you ever meet any of her friends from Santa Barbara?”
“Don’t think so.” Bradford stopped. “Yes, once, a rather large man with a huge nose who always made jokes about his proboscis. Yeah, he could have been the one. Had on a suit he must have paid fifteen hundred dollars for, and shoes almost as expensive. I thought he was a rich buyer. He could have been the one making the forty-thousand-dollar sales of her fakes.”
“Don’t mention that unless they ask you.”
Price sipped his coffee and stared over the rim of the cup at Bradford. “Something has me puzzled. They say they have a warrant. All they need to do is show it at any military gate in the country, and the PD can march right into any facility and arrest the person named on the warrant. The Navy is without power or jurisdiction. So why didn’t they arrive this morning when they knew Bradford would be here?”
“How would they know?” Bradford asked.
“That’s right, you’ve been away. Your platoon has been front-page news with pictures every day and on every newscast on radio and TV for the past week. This was not a covert SEAL deal, so Navy PAO blasted it for all it was worth. They even released a picture of the platoon to the press. Those Public Affairs Office guys knew a good thing when they saw it. Great PR for the Navy. Now, were the cops a little afraid to charge into this base and grab a hero?”
Murdock began to smile for the first time since he had left Ardith. “Along with that, they may be doing some second-guessing about Xenia’s statements about Bradford?” he said.
“Right,” Price said. “So they come in with what they h
ave and request, that is, request, a meeting to talk over the situation face-to-face. Sounds tremendously flaky to me, like they almost want to get out of a bad situation.”
“What about Bradford? Has his name been mentioned in the news about Xenia’s arrest?”
“Curiously, no. He hasn’t been arrested, so maybe the press can’t get to it yet.”
Bill Bradford shrugged his six-two frame and 215 pounds and sat up a little straighter in the chair. The frown that had been on his face since early morning had started to make a slow and gradual withdrawal.
The 1600 meeting took place in Commander Masciareli’s conference room, where they had been earlier. There were pads and pens at each of the seven chairs, a tray of chilled soft drinks, along with glasses and ice cubes. Murdock, Bradford, and Price arrived ten minutes early, and found three tight-lipped civilians already at the table.
Introductions were quick. Ramona Jefferson, assistant district attorney, looked about twenty-eight, wearing her Thursday blue suit, man’s white shirt, and necktie. Sergeant Walter Jones, SDPD detective and arresting officer on Xenia, was in his forties, balding, twenty pounds overweight, and in a suit ten days out of the cleaners, rumpled and tired. Lieutenant Williams had no first name. He was lead detective on the case and shadow-thin, with a narrow face, heavy black brows, glasses, and nearly invisible hearing aids in both ears. There were no FBI men present. Had they given up on Bradford? Murdock wondered.
Commander Masciareli sat at the head of the table where he usually did, and directed the meeting. “Lieutenant Williams, do you want to get this started?”
The cop cleared his throat, stood, and looked at Bradford. “Mr. Bradford. We are here due to the statements of record of one Xenia, no last name, who has accused you of being a part of the swindle of art patrons in the creation and sale of fake old-master oil paintings. You have seen her charges. It is our position that before we move ahead with this case we need to hear from you and let you have your say.”
Murdock stood. “Just a moment, Lieutenant Williams. Is Mr. Bradford under arrest?”
The detective took a breath, frowned, and then shook his head. “Not at the present time. But that isn’t saying that he won’t be when this meeting ends.”
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