Claws for Alarm

by T. C. LoTempio

  “Julia was working with the police, Taft. How long do you think it’ll be before this all blows up? If I were you, I’d think long and hard about what you want to do—about your future.”

  I’d gotten to him at least a little—I could tell from the way his face paled—but I had to hand it to him; he didn’t flinch one bit, just picked the rag back up and continued wiping. “I think we’re done here,” he muttered and then moved down to the far end of the bar, putting the kibosh on our conversation. I pushed back the half-empty mug, slapped a bill down on the bar, and slid off the stool, giving Ollie a brief nod as I sailed past. I walked outside and over to the SUV, where I paced back and forth for a few minutes before I saw the tavern door open and Ollie emerge. He hurried across the street, and we both got into the SUV.

  “Nice work,” he complimented me when we were both seated. “I think you really rattled him.”

  “He’s a cheater, and he’s got an alibi for the time of Julia’s murder, but he did seem pretty shaken up over her death—far more than if she were merely a casual acquaintance.”

  Ollie raised an eyebrow. “You think maybe they were involved sexually?”

  I frowned. “It’s hard to say, but somehow I doubt it. One interesting thing I did learn, though—even though he denied having a close involvement with Jenna Whitt, it seems she’s the one who got him the job at the gallery.”

  “Really?” Ollie’s eyes became slits in his mocha-colored face. “Now that is interesting. It would appear Jenna has closer ties to the gallery than anyone might suspect. What might they be, I wonder.”

  “Beats the heck out of me.” I ran my hand through my hair and tugged on an errant curl. “She lied to me, Jenna did. The first time I met her, she said she’d never gone to the gallery, because they’d never displayed any of her work. She also said she’d never met Kurt Wilson, but if she got Taft that job . . .”

  “Logically, it would follow that she’d know him—now what’s wrong?” Ollie demanded, leaning in to peer at my face. “You’ve got one of those cat that ate the canary expressions. What gives? What idea’s popped into that brain of yours?”

  “I’m just thinking logically. It would seem dear Jenna has a vested interest in the gallery, what with hiring people and making deliveries, so . . .” I twisted in my seat, grasped my purse, and hauled it onto my lap. I rummaged around, found my cell, and quickly dialed Peter’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “You must be psychic,” he said. “I was just about to call you. They’ve moved up Lacey’s trial date from Thursday to Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday? That’s tomorrow!” I wailed. “Why so fast?”

  “As I’ve said, the DA really believes it’s open and shut. I’m confident I can get a postponement until Thursday, but I’m afraid that’ll be it. It’s an election year,” he added, as if that should explain it all.

  “Great. Listen, do you think you’ll have time to look up something for me? It could help Lacey.”

  “I’ll do my best. What do you need?”

  “Can you get me the names on the deed for the Wilson Galleries?”

  Brief hesitation, and then, “I should be able to. I know a girl in the property records office. But how will knowing that help Lacey?”

  “I’ve got a hunch.” I raked my hand through my hair. “It’s complicated, but I promise to explain just as soon as I get confirmation.”

  I rang off, started up the SUV, and guided it into the stream of traffic.

  “Care to share your epiphany with me?” asked Ollie.

  “No. It’s a long shot, and I could be wrong.”

  “You could be right, too.”

  I chuckled. “We’ve got less than twenty-four hours before Lacey goes to trial. I think Julia found conclusive proof of the goings-on at the gallery. Her call to Samms confirms that. I think one of the people involved silenced her for good; maybe the same one who killed Pitt, maybe a different one. There’s proof lying around somewhere. I just know it. And I need to find it.” I expelled a breath. “We’ve got one more stop to make, Ollie. I need to find Julia Canton’s address.”

  He whipped a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and dangled it in front of me. “I had a feeling you’d want it. While Agatha was busy with the oh-so-charming Professor Foxworthy, I sneaked it out of her Rolodex.”

  I beamed at him as I made a quick left. “Ollie, you are a wonder. I do believe you are almost as perceptive as Nick—the feline one.”

  He laughed. “That is a compliment indeed. Now, might I ask just how you intend to get into Julia Canton’s apartment?”

  I grinned back. “You sure can. How are you at breaking and entering?”

  EIGHTEEN

  As it turned out, Julia’s apartment building was only about a mile away from Taft’s complex. I parked on the quiet street and surveyed the five-story brownstone building. I glanced up and down the street as I exited the car but saw no sign of any police cruisers, although there could just as well have been an unmarked car hanging around. After all, Samms’s vehicle was an unmarked Ford Focus. And not even black. His was more of a silvery beige.

  Ollie and I went up the stairs and into the vestibule. We looked at the names above the bells. Of course Julia’s apartment would be on the top floor. We found the door marked STAIRS and about ten minutes later emerged on the top floor. Julia’s apartment was catty-cornered, all the way at the end of the long hall.

  I tried the door. Locked. I made a sweeping gesture with my arm at Ollie. “All yours.”

  He knelt in front of the door. “Got a credit card?”

  My eyebrows rocketed upward. “A credit card? Really?”

  “What, you thought I carried burglar tools around in my pocket? It’s either that or ring the super’s bell, say she’s got something in her apartment of yours you need pronto. It would be somewhat less of a misdemeanor but much more attention calling.”

  “Which is what I want to avoid. Fine.”

  I fumbled in my purse and drew out my credit card holder. “Any card in particular?”

  Ollie shrugged. “They all work pretty much the same.”

  I selected my American Express card and handed it to Ollie. He slid the card into the vertical crack between the door and the frame and wiggled it up and down. Nothing.

  I expelled a breath. “Great. Did you happen to notice where the fire escapes are positioned? You know, just in case we need to make a quick getaway?”

  He shot me an indulgent look over one shoulder. “Now, now, little bird. Patience. It’s evident housebreaking was never on your resume.”

  I watched as Ollie repeated the first steps and then bent the card the opposite way. I thought I heard a slight pop, but when I tried the knob, nothing. Zippo, zingo, zilcho.

  “Well, at least we know we’ll never make it as petty thieves. Our victims would all have to leave their doors unlocked.”

  Ollie ignored me and slid the card in again, wiggled it some more, and then stopped as we both heard a very distinct click. Ollie straightened, handed me back my card, and gave an exaggerated bow.

  “After you.”

  “One second.” I reached into my tote and pulled out two pair of plastic gloves. I handed one set to Ollie. “So we don’t leave prints.”

  He gave me an approving nod as he slipped the gloves on. “You’re learning, Nora. Trust me, you’ll make a great PI someday.”

  I twisted the knob, and the door slowly swung inward. I stepped inside and took a quick glance around. The apartment was furnished in modern style—glass and thin chrome end tables and coffee table, a long black sofa flanked by two black chairs. There was a large black chrome and steel entertainment center with a forty-two-inch flat-screen TV along one wall, and near the window a recessed bar. There were no personal items visible, no bric-a-brac, no souvenirs, collectables, photos, nothing. The entire room seemed
devoid of personality.

  “It feels off,” I said, scratching my head. “Like no one really lives here. It has a hotel room feel to it, doesn’t it?”

  “Like maybe this isn’t her permanent residence?” Ollie walked around the room, his eyes darting to and fro. “Perhaps she wasn’t a local gal. Perhaps she just stayed here while she was undercover.”

  “If she was a member of the local police force, why would she do that?” I mused.

  “It also appears, from the antiseptic state, that the police might not have done their search yet. I wonder why?”

  “Good question.”

  I moved through the living room and into the small kitchenette. The modern appliances here gleamed, still reeking of newness. The stove looked as if it had never been touched. I opened the refrigerator. There were a few bottles of diet soda, a package wrapped in saran wrap that looked as if it contained some sort of lunch meat, and a couple cans of beer. I walked over to the cupboards, opened them. There were a few dishes and cups in one, but the rest were empty. The Keurig coffeemaker had a mug sitting on it, but the water reservoir was empty.

  Apparently cooking wasn’t one of her skills. It seemed Julia had taken most, if not all, of her meals out.

  We continued down the long hall into the bedroom. The bed was huge, a California king, and took up most of the space, slicked with what appeared to be genuine satin sheets the color of ripe cherries. A baby pink comforter was folded neatly at the edge of the bed. There was a dresser along the opposite wall. Its lacquered top was bare. I walked over, opened the top drawer. Several pairs of silk pants and thongs lay neatly folded, and a few bras. I opened the second drawer and found two nightshirts. The closet was next. It held several pairs of pants, blouses, and dresses, all on satin hangers. The floor was covered with shoe boxes, all bearing designer labels. I picked one up, opened it. Inside lay a pair of black Yves Saint Laurent Tribtoo suede pumps. I’d seen a similar pair in Glamour magazine not long ago. They cost over $400 easily. I set that box down, picked up another. These Dolce & Gabbana sequined slingbacks were close to $750 a pair.

  “Not much on material possessions, but it appears she had a fondness for designer shoes,” I observed.

  “And luxury bedding.” Ollie sat down on the edge of the bed and let his fingers skim the sheets. “These are satin. Pretty nice. Last time I slept on satin sheets was on my honeymoon, many, many years ago.” His grin was rueful. “When you’re a lowly PI, you spend a lot of time in low-priced motels. Satin sheets are hardly a staple. Of course, I’m sure Nick slept on his share of satin.”

  “So we know she liked expensive sheets and shoes in particular.” I pulled out a dress, a simple black sheath, and looked at the label. Dior. “She didn’t skimp on dresses, either.”

  Ollie looked around the room. “Doesn’t seem as if there’s anything much to find. The police might have been here already. Maybe if there was something of interest, they’ve taken it.”

  I reached for another shoe box. “I don’t think so. I’ve been with police when they go through a victim’s or a suspect’s apartment. Trust me, there’s always something out of order.” I shook the box, held it up to my forehead. “Okay, what’s in this one? There’s no designer label on this box. Atwood, Choo, Crew? Wait, I sense a pair of patent leather Louboutins. Only around nine hundred dollars.”

  Ollie shook his head. “What’s the big deal with women and shoes? You spend more money on ’em than I ever did on suits.”

  “The right shoe can make your legs look lean and long and help reduce butt size. It’s a confidence thing.” I sat down on the edge of the bed, box between my hands. “According to the box she was a size 7 wide. That’s my size. Do you know how hard it is to find good shoes in a wide width?”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re not seriously thinking of—”

  “No, of course not. But it’s a tempting thought.” I lifted the lid off the box, looked inside, paused, looked again.

  Ollie frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  I reached into the box and pulled out a .38 caliber revolver. “Smith & Wesson Model 10, blued steel,” I said. “I knew a cop on the Chicago force, and this was his favorite gun. Odd place to keep it, though. I mean, if she was a cop, why would she have to hide it?”

  “Unless,” Ollie answered, “this isn’t her gun.”

  “Ah, good point.” I sniffed the barrel. “It hasn’t been fired, at least not lately.” I replaced the gun in the box and knelt back beside the closet. I leaned in as far as I could and burrowed down, selecting a box that had been pushed to the far end behind a tall pair of suede boots. I pulled it out and sat back down on the bed. “I’m almost afraid to look. What do you think? Another gun or Jimmy Choo mules?” I pointed to the description on the side of the box.

  “It’s a fifty-fifty shot. Go on, open it.”

  I slid off the lid. On the very top was a manila envelope. Underneath it was a large leather book. I lifted both out of the box.

  “Okay, which should we open first?”

  Ollie picked up the envelope and slit the flap cleanly with the edge of his nail. He tipped it over, and one lone photograph slid out. I picked it up and frowned. It was a photograph of a sculpture, its two hands suspended in air, holding a face. I felt a niggling sense of familiarity as I looked at it, and another sense, too. Something felt off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I set the photo down and turned my attention to the book. “No title on the cover.”

  “Maybe it’s a diary,” offered Ollie. “Maybe she wrote notes in here about what she found out at the gallery, and what’s going down there.”

  I shook my head dubiously. “You think she’d put that in writing?”

  “One way to find out.”

  Still, my hand hesitated over the cover. Ollie said, more gently, “It’s not an invasion of her privacy anymore, Nora. She’s dead.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. Besides, if we don’t read it, we won’t find anything that might help Lacey.” I took a deep breath and flicked back the cover of the book.

  For a minute neither of us spoke. Then I reached inside the hollowed-out interior and held up the leather case and badge that lay on top. The badge looked achingly familiar. I’d seen one like it not too long ago, on someone else. I opened the leather case and sucked in my breath.

  “Julia’s last name wasn’t Canton,” I said. “It was Campbell. And according to this, she’s—oh my God, she’s—crap, I should have figured it out the minute we knew forgeries were involved. She’s—”

  “Special Agent Julia Campbell, FBI,” said an all-too-familiar voice behind me. “Hello, Nora.”

  I turned and looked straight into the face I knew all too well. FBI special agent Daniel Corleone. He stood in the doorway of Julia’s bedroom, arms folded across his broad, muscular chest.

  And, double crap, he wasn’t smiling.

  NINETEEN

  For a minute you could have heard a pin drop in the room. I slid off the bed, plastering what I hoped was a bright smile on my face.

  “Daniel. Hey. Fancy meeting you here.” I attempted a laugh, which came out sounding more like the yelp of a nervous hyena.

  His frown deepened. “What are you doing here?” He paused, let his gaze rake over Ollie. “And you brought reinforcements along.”

  “Well, that’s easy to answer. She’s sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. Still, I might add.”

  I stifled a gasp as the burly figure of Leroy Samms appeared next to Daniel in the doorway. Samms shook his finger at me. “And here I thought we had an understanding.”

  Daniel looked from Samms to me. “An understanding?”

  “It’s no big deal,” I began, and then Samms’s baritone laugh cut me off.

  “True, it’s no big deal, Daniel. Just a tiny matter of Ms. Charles, here, impersonating an heiress and a police officer. She told m
e she’d learned her lesson and was going to leave the detecting to the trained personnel, but—” His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. “I knew she’d never keep that promise, even for old times’ sake.” His gaze fell on my hands. “At least you were considerate enough to wear gloves.”

  Daniel looked from me to Samms, his expression clearly puzzled. “Old times’ sake? Do you two know each other?”

  I swallowed. “It’s really not even worth mentioning,” I said.

  Samms turned to Daniel. “She’s right; it’s no big deal. We both went to U of C, and senior year we worked on the college newspaper.”

  Daniel’s eyebrow rose. “You studied journalism, Lee?”

  “English, actually. I thought about being a teacher or a writer.” He barked out a laugh. “Life took me in an entirely different direction from Nora.”

  “Well, well.” Daniel trained his gaze on me. “Seems as if you’ve been giving your old friend a hard time.”

  “We’re not friends,” I barked out, a little too quickly. “I mean, we haven’t seen each other in years.” I glared at Daniel. “You two seem pretty chummy, though.”

  “We’ve been working together,” Daniel admitted. “Because of Julia.”

  “Julia? Oh, of course.” I slapped my palm against my temple. “How stupid of me. Of course you’d know her. She’s FBI.” I dangled the badge in the air, then paused as a sudden thought occurred to me. “The case you said you were working on—was this it? The suspected forgeries?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No, this was entirely Julia’s specialty. She worked the Art Fraud Division. I got involved because she thought she’d found evidence indicating her case was connected to the one I am working on.”

  I struggled to remember what I knew about the Art Fraud Division. Back in the day, art fraud had traditionally been under the jurisdiction of local law enforcement, but the overflow of other crime—namely, murders, drugs, and other acts of random violence—had meant local law couldn’t spend quality time tracking down stolen or forged masterpieces. Enter the FBI, who decided to form a specialized unit dedicated to tracking art and art criminals. It made perfect sense, actually. Stolen and forged art was considered to be the third most profitable international crime, and it was often used to launder drug money and as collateral for arms deals.