by Ryk E. Spoor
CHAPTER 12
Mystery of a Brother
“Sure, Syl—I’d love to go out tomorrow. You want a movie or something else?”
“How about Sabers of Twilight? I’ve heard that one’s a lot of fun and just up your alley, Jason.”
I grinned into the phone. “Because of the pretty girls in interesting costumes? Sounds fine. Odd how you don’t mention the pretty boys in tight leather outfits.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t up my alley too,” she said with a laugh. “All right, after we lock up tomorrow then.”
“See you!”
I turned back to the pictures on my screen. This is a real possibility.
Verne had given me the go-ahead to both start figuring out how to put select pieces of his collection onto the market, and how to start helping him find proper clients that he could patron. The first part was not terribly hard; it was more a matter of deciding how much should be sold and how much should be donated, since a lot of the really valuable stuff was considered national treasure by places like Egypt. While Verne’s possession of these treasures was (obviously) far before the cut-off date at which such possession would be considered theft, it was still a matter of political delicacy and publicity; giving the treasures, at least the most high-profile ones, back to their original owners for display would earn Verne a lot of respect.
If, of course, we could keep people from asking too many of the wrong questions.
Finding clients was somewhat more difficult. In the long run, Verne would probably do the selecting himself—he was, after all, the guy who was supposed to be the patron and knew a lot more about art than I ever would. But he was also busy . . . rebuilding himself, I guess would be the way to put it. The Verne Domingo I now spoke to was rather different than the one I’d first met, and I knew part of that was through making an effort to reconnect with his older self, and with the people who had followed him through history.
I’d remembered an art show I’d gone to with Syl some time back, and seeing the paintings online confirmed my memory. There was something special there, even to my casual eye. This Sky Hashima was a good candidate, and even better, he was local.
The door chimed, and I glanced at the clock in surprise. It is that time already.
Xavier Ross sat down nervously. “So . . . did you . . .”
“You were right, Xavier,” I said without beating around the bush. Taking the laptop from the drawer where I’d kept it, I handed it back to the young man. “There were other entries during that period of time. Someone deliberately erased them, and a large amount of other data too, before the police got their hands on the machine.”
He leaned forward. “Is there . . . anything that tells us what he was doing?”
I shook my head. “Not much. There were quite a few missing entries—looks like he was on the trail of whatever-it-was for at least three months. A couple of earlier entries had been modified after their apparent date, so probably there were hints even as long as five months ago, but from what you said, your brother knew how to keep a secret.
“What’s in those entries, though . . . I can’t get much of anything. Whoever did the erasure knew what they were doing. I only got a few cryptic phrases out of dozens of entries. I’ve collected them here.” I handed him an envelope. “And one last interesting point.”
“Well?”
“I managed to get enough out of the most recently tampered-with files to see that they were written in the format he used as a tickler file for travel. He had apparently bought himself a ticket to JFK Airport in New York City—he was supposed to be leaving within a few hours of the time he died. Since the police didn’t seem to look into it, I’d guess he’d purchased the ticket with cash, under another identity.”
“Really? Where do you think he was going?” Xavier blinked. “Wait, another identity?”
“Not entirely unheard of for people looking into dangerous stuff. He probably had used this other ID several times.”
“Can you . . . find out more about what he was doing? Track him, now that you know something?”
I frowned. “I . . . guess I could do a little more searching. If I can figure out his alternate ID or IDs, that’d make it a lot easier. But that’s way out of the work we’d already agreed on.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
I hesitated. He’s really . . . obsessing over this. I could tell by the intensity in his gaze that this was desperately important to him. I’d also checked with Renee about the case, so I knew that Xavier simply didn’t agree with their conclusions.
I also was aware that Renee wasn’t entirely happy with the way the Los Angeles police had closed the file, either, but she had no say in the matter. It was their jurisdiction; this was just where the victim’s family lived.
“All right,” I said after a moment. “I’ll see if I can trace where he went and what he did. That’ll be a one-thousand-dollar retainer, though; I have no idea how hard this will be.”
After I ran his card and he left, holding the laptop tightly to him, I stared out the window for a while. I didn’t have whatever weird sense Syl used, but I was very used to trusting my instincts. Most of the time, when the police investigate a case and close it, it’s because they’ve actually found the perpetrator and the case is closed.
But my gut said that in this case, Xavier Ross was right to be uncertain; it wasn’t just what I’d found on that machine, but what Renee had said. If Lieutenant Renee Reisman wasn’t happy with the way a case had been solved, that was enough for me; something wasn’t right. Unfortunately, while the answers the police had given Xavier didn’t take into account this evidence, getting them to reopen the case based on what amounted to stuff that wasn’t there would be a tough, tough call.
Okay, Jason. Let’s see if we can trail someone who didn’t want to be found.
CHAPTER 13
Interview With the Artist
The apartment door opened in front of me, at least to the limit that the chain on it would permit. Two bright blue eyes looked up at me, framed by blue-black hair and set in a pretty, well-defined face. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I’m Jason Wood.”
“Oh, right, Dad’s expecting you! Hold on, I’ll get the chain off here.” The door closed. I heard rattling, and “Dad! Your guest’s here!”
When the door opened, I saw Sky Hashima walking towards me, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mr. Wood, please come in.” He shook my hand. “This is my daughter, Star,” he said, and I shook hands with the girl who had greeted me. “Star, we’ll be in my studio—this probably won’t take long, but please don’t disturb us.”
“Okay, Dad. You want anything to drink, Dad, Mr. Wood?”
I smiled at her; she obviously knew my visit was important. “A soda would be nice—ginger ale?”
“We’ve got that. Dad? Water for you?”
“For now, yes. Thank you, Star.”
Sky led the way into his studio; his hair was longer than his daughter’s, but other than traces of silver here and there, was just as night-dark. Their features were also similar enough; there wasn’t any doubt about who his daughter was, and in this case, that was a good thing for Star. “A very polite young lady.”
Sky gave a small chuckle. “Ahh, that’s because she thinks you might be a good thing for her dad. If she thought you were trouble, you’d have needed a crowbar to get inside the house.”
“And when she’s old enough to date, I’m sure you’ll be just as protective.”
“Star will be old enough to date when she’s ninety. I’ve told her that already.” We shared another chuckle at that. “I recall meeting you at that little show I did at one of the libraries, Mr. Wood, but I didn’t think you were really interested in art.”
“I’m not, really,” I confessed. “Thanks, Star,” I said, as she came in, handed us each a glass, and left. “I came to that show with Sylvie, who is interested in art and found some of your pieces quite fascinating. But I do have a few other acquaintances who have m
ore than a passing interest in art.”
“And . . . ?”
“And it so happens that one of them is looking to find people to sponsor—to be a sort of patron of the arts. I remembered you and wanted to see what kind of work you were doing, and (a) if you are serious about it, and (b) if you are willing to meet with him to discuss it.” I studied some of the canvases set around the studio. One thing that impressed me was Sky’s versatility. I saw paintings that were, to my uneducated gaze, random blots of colors, shapes, and streaks; others which were landscapes or scenes of such sharp realism that you almost thought they were windows rather than paintings; and still others that fell somewhere in-between—didn’t follow the accurate shapes or lines yet somehow conveyed the essence of the thing he was depicting.
Sky had an expression that was almost disbelieving; I realized that this must sound like that classic Hollywood myth: working in a restaurant and being discovered by the famous director who stops in for a cup of coffee. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Would you like to meet him, then?”
“If he’s ready, I’ll go right now.”
I laughed. “Not quite that fast—I have to let him know, then he’ll either set up the meeting, or have me do it. He’s a bit eccentric—”
“That’s almost a requirement for being a private patron these days. Patronage used to be standard practice, back in Leonardo’s day, but those days . . . long gone.” He took a gulp from his glass and looked at me. “The answer to the first question is yes, I am serious about it. I make an okay living from my framing work, but if you look around, you must realize that the stuff I’m producing represents a major investment of time and effort. I could do an awful lot of other things with the money I spend on my art, but my art’s worth it to me.” He smiled again. “That doesn’t mean I’m at all averse to start seeing my art make money rather than take money, however.”
I grinned back. “Excellent. Now, why don’t you just show me a few of your favorites here and explain to me what you’re doing, so I can give my friend a capsule overview and he’ll know what to expect.”
Sky was only too pleased to do that, and I spent a good half-hour listening to him describe his intentions and techniques in several of his works. I noticed that he, like almost all artists I’ve ever met, mentioned all the myriad ways in which his works failed to live up to his expectations. It’s always been a source of frustration that someone can produce something that’s clearly amazing, and all they can think about is how it is flawed—often in ways that no one but they themselves can see. It does however seem to be an almost required characteristic for an artist.
Finally, I shook hands with him again and left. “Thank you, Sky. I’ll be getting back to you very soon. Nice meeting you, Star.”
A short time later, I pulled up into the curved driveway which was becoming increasingly familiar to me, and smiled to Morgan as he opened the door. “Good evening, sir. Master Verne is in the study.”
“Morgan, do you ever get tired of playing the butler?”
He gave me a raised eyebrow and slightly miffed expression in reply. “Playing, sir? This is my place in the household, and I assure you it is precisely what I wanted. I have, with some variation in regional standards of propriety, been performing these duties for considerably longer than the Pharaohs endured, sir, and had I found the task overall onerous or distasteful, I assure you I would have asked Master Verne for a change.”
People like Morgan gave the phrase “faithful retainer” an entirely new, and impressive, meaning. “Sorry. It’s just that it sometimes strikes me you’re too good to be true.”
He smiled with a proper level of reserve. “I strive to be good at my job, sir. I feel that a gentleman such as Master Verne deserves to have a household worthy of his age and bloodline, and therefore I shall endeavor to maintain his home at a proper level of respectability.”
“And you succeed admirably, old friend,” Verne said as we entered. “Jason, every member of my household has chosen their lifestyle and I would never hold them to me, if any of them chose to leave. It has been a great pleasure, and immense vindication, that not one of my personal staff has ever made that choice . . . though on occasion, as of my recent descent into less-than-respectable business, they have made clear some of their personal fears and objections.” He put away a book that he had been reading and gestured for me to sit down as Morgan left. “I have been taking up some considerable portion of your time, Jason. I hope I am not interfering in your personal life—your friends Sylvia and Renee, for instance, are not suffering your absence overly much?”
I laughed. “No, no. Syl’s off on some kind of convention for people in her line of work and isn’t coming back for something like a week from now, and I only get together with Renee once in a while. Most of my other friends, sad to say, aren’t in this area—they’ve gone off to college, moved, and so on, so I only talk with them via phone or email. Really. So have no fear, I’m at your disposal for at least the next week or so; the only other big job I have at the moment I can work on during the day.”
“Excellent.” Morgan came in with his usual sinfully tempting tray of hors d’oeuvres and snacks. “By the way, Morgan, have there been any further problems from my erstwhile business associates?”
“No, sir. They have found that it is not easy to intrude here and have apparently given up after I was forced to injure the one gentleman at the store.”
“Very good. I shall send another message to Carmichael emphasizing that I will be extremely displeased if any more such incidents happen, but it does appear he has learned something about futility.” He turned back to me. “And how did your meeting go?”
“I think he’d be a great choice, Verne. He’s clearly serious about his work, and with my limited grasp of art I think his stuff is really, really good. If you want to meet with him, he’s willing to meet any time you name.”
“Then let us not keep him waiting overlong. Tomorrow evening, at about seven, let us say.”
“I’ll give him a call now.” Suiting actions to words, I picked up a phone and called Sky Hashima. As he’d implied, he was more than willing to meet then, and assured me that he’d be able to assemble a reasonable portfolio by that time.
“I’m glad you’re going to check him over yourself,” I confessed. “I know just enough about art to know that I really don’t know the difference between ‘illustration’ and ‘art,’ and that the latter is what you are interested in.”
Verne smiled. I was, at least, getting used to seeing the fangs at various moments, although I also had to admit that they weren’t that obvious; someone who didn’t know what he was would quite probably just assume he had oddly long canines. “You may be confident, my friend, that I would still wish to see for myself even were you an expert in all things artistic. If I will sponsor anyone, it will be because I am convinced the person deserves my support. Now that that is settled,” he said, pulling out a chessboard, “would you care for a game?”
I pulled my chair up to the table. “Sure . . . if you take black and a queen handicap. You’ve got a few years on me.”
“A queen? A rook.”
“You’re on.”
CHAPTER 14
A Sudden Trip Downstate
I opened the trunk and helped Sky get out his portfolio. Innocent that I was, I thought a “portfolio” would be a notebook-sized collection of pictures—reproductions, etc. Artists, as I found out, do not do things that way. Reproductions are often used, but they’re done as near as possible to full size as can be managed, and Sky had a lot of samples. He was trying to show a number of things about his work (most of which I could only vaguely understand) and accordingly had put together a very large collection of material.
Morgan bowed us in the door, and Verne came forward. “Mr. Hashima, it is a great pleasure to meet you.”
Sky smiled back and shook his hand. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
I nodded at Verne. “I’ll be off, the
n. I know you people have plenty to discuss and I won’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, Jason. Thank you for bringing Sky over; Morgan will arrange his transport home once we are done here, so do not trouble yourself further.”
I waved, said “Good luck!” to Sky, got back into Mjölnir, turned down the driveway and headed home.
It was only when I turned the key in the office door that I was bothered. I felt it click . . . but at the wrong time. The door had already been opened. Not having expected any trouble, I wasn’t carrying my gun. Then again, I supposed it was possible, though unlikely, that I’d forgotten to lock it. I pushed the door open, letting it swing all the way around to make sure no one was hiding behind it. Nothing seemed out of place. I went in and locked the door behind me.
With the lights switched on, I still didn’t see anything disturbed in the office—which was what I’d be mainly concerned with. I checked the secure room at the back; nothing. That left only my living quarters upstairs. I went through the connecting door.
Something exploded against my head. I went down, almost completely unconscious, unable to see anything except vague blurs. Rough hands grabbed me, dragged me out the back door, threw me into a car, and then shoved something over my mouth and nose.
By then I was focused enough to fight back, but these people were stronger than me and had the advantage. Eventually I had to breathe, and whatever they’d put in that cloth finished bringing down the curtain.
I came slowly awake, my head pounding like a pie pan in the hands of a toddler. With difficulty, I concentrated on evaluating myself. I could feel a focused ache on the side of my skull, where I’d been conked. My stomach was protesting, an interesting but unpleasant combination of hunger and nausea; some hours had gone by, I figured. There was the generalized headache, of course. Chloroform? Halothane? I supposed that the specific chemical didn’t matter, though it had felt too fast for classic chloroform. I’d been in too much pain to notice the smell clearly. I was sitting upright—tied up in a chair or something similar, because I could feel some kind of bindings on my arms, legs, and chest.