Worth Killing For

by Jane Haseldine

  A fat, brown worm poked its head out of the latest shovel of dirt, and then was tossed over the parks-and-rec worker’s body as Ahote thought through his busywork. Ahote realized his new boss wanted Duke Gooden, first and foremost, not the daughter Julia, but Ahote hoped that when it came down to it, he could get Julia alone to see if she carried the same spirit of her brother, who had eluded him so many years before. As for the Sarah woman, he was glad when she didn’t show up in the parking lot, as they had thought she would. There was something off in Sarah’s spirit that Ahote could detect merely from the photograph his new boss had shown him. The darkness of another being’s soul intermingles with one’s own if you take its life, like drops of thick mud that are mixed into a crystal clear glass of water.

  Ahote finished burying the man and made his way back through the woods to his trailer, dragging the shovel behind him as he walked. The old scar on his face seemed to throb anew as if Duke Gooden had just carved it with that straight-edge razor he had sliced him with so many years before. The fresh pain from the old wound meant only one thing to Ahote: Duke was close. Duke and Ahote would be together again soon, and the circle would finally close.

  The dense packing of trees cleared and Ahote slowed as he saw his new boss’s car parked by his trailer. He knew he was in trouble for coming up empty-handed once again, not to mention the still-brewing situation of his killing the city councilman’s nephew. Ahote knew he might run the risk of dying for his slips in judgment, but he refused to go down without a fight. Ahote pushed his shoulders back, grabbed the shovel in both hands, and held it in front of his body like a battering ram as he approached the vehicle.

  Two car doors opened simultaneously, and Ahote watched as the boss and another man, whose face looked hard and angry, got out of the car.

  “What the hell is this?” the new boss asked, and jerked his thumb toward the city parks-and-rec van.

  “It was a decoy. The guy got in my way and started to cause me trouble in the park. I figured the city van would be better anyway.”

  “You idiot. You left your piece of shit vehicle behind at the crime scene. This is a big problem, Ahote. A really big problem. The cops matched your plate to surveillance footage from a convenience station that places you at the Home Depot where the city councilman’s nephew was picked up.”

  “I thought the security video was taken care of,” Ahote answered.

  “That was only a temporary fix,” the other man answered. He wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and then turned his attention to the new boss. “Why am I here cleaning up your shit? I took care of Max when I had to, and, believe me, that was the last thing I ever wanted to do. Max promised me my debt was paid.”

  “Max is gone. There’s a change of guard now. Your debt is paid when I tell you it is,” the boss said. He reached inside his own jacket, pulled out his gun, and shoved the barrel against Ahote’s temple. “What good are you still to me? Tell me, screwup.”

  “Give me another chance. I’ll bring you Julia Gooden, and I’ll hurt her real good. She’ll give up her father. No one can get people to talk like I can.”

  The boss seemed to consider Ahote’s proposition and then smiled.

  “Bang, bang,” the boss said as he put his gun away.

  “Do you think Duke knows the truth about what was in the box that Lemming gave him?” the other man asked.

  “I doubt it. He was only trying to unload the painting when he thought he was in the clear after Max died.”

  “What’s the other thing worth?” Ahote asked.

  “Fifty million. At least,” the boss answered. “Bring me Julia Gooden if you can’t bring me Duke first. The sister Sarah’s in the wind. But be careful, idiot. Your van’s plates trace to St. Louis. I’ve got a work-around, so you may be okay.”

  “You didn’t say anything about the reporter,” the other man said. “I don’t have any problem with whatever you want to do with Duke, but she hasn’t done anything.”

  “Tough guy loses his swagger about hurting a girl. Don’t worry. You’ll get your cut when this is taken care of.”

  “I don’t care about the money.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Everybody cares about money and everyone has a price. Even you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Julia felt the muscles in her back tense as she sat folded on the seat of Duke’s car with her head tucked down by her knees. She was about to protest being forced into this position for the past ten minutes, again, until Duke offered her a reprieve.

  “Okay. You’re good. You can sit up,” Duke said.

  Julia took a quick look at her surroundings and knew she was in downtown Detroit as Duke’s car cruised along West Fort Street, which paralleled the Detroit River to the right.

  “Tell me about this Phoenix Pontiac,” Duke said.

  “He claims Ben reached out to him. Phoenix had the charm bracelet Ben gave me.”

  “Your seventh birthday. I remember. I snatched ten dollars from you then and never paid you back. Birthday money,” Duke said, and began to reach for his wallet.

  “Are you serious? Don’t insult me. Ten dollars doesn’t mean much to me anymore, but it did back then. That was Ben’s money. He worked so hard for it and you took it from me. Who does that to a kid?”

  “Are you always so hard on everyone? I remember when you were a little girl, you were so sweet, like you thought the world was one big beautiful place and everybody was your friend.”

  Julia’s instinctual response was to snap at Duke, but she stared out the window, instead, and watched silently as a sign for the Ambassador Bridge slipped by.

  “You want to hate me forever for all the things I did, go ahead. But don’t let the true part of who you are get ruined in the process, because it was real pretty, something beautiful inside you, girl. Don’t let someone else’s mistakes take that away from you.”

  Julia felt tears sting the corners of her eyes and hated herself for her vulnerability over hearing her father’s words.

  “You care about the cop?” Duke asked.

  “Navarro? Yes, very much. I was married before, to an attorney. His name was David. I thought David was everything you weren’t, but he tricked me. David was more like you than I realized. Navarro is a good man, the best I’ve ever known,” Julia said. “So what’s your next move? You’re going to pick up your picture and take off?”

  “The van Gogh is mine. No question about that. But before I leave this time, I’ll make sure things are taken care of. What happened to Ben and your mom, I’m sorry for that. I ran away from it for a long time, but I know what I did now.”

  “So Duke Gooden has finally gained a conscience? I’m pretty sure I can see a pig flying over the Detroit River. What’s your plan? Are you going to keep Sarah on lockdown and swoop in when one of your guys comes for me, Dad?”

  Duke smiled at Julia, and this time, it wasn’t the fake ear-to-ear grin, but rather one that looked relaxed and like he really meant it.

  “What are you smiling about?” Julia asked.

  “That’s the first time you’ve called me ‘Dad’ since you were seven.”

  “Don’t read too much into it. The van Gogh painting, you never told me about it. Is it a self-portrait?”

  “No. It’s pretty ordinary, in my opinion, nothing like that famous one van Gogh did, The Starry Night. The one I got is just a picture of some tree with purple flowers and a little girl sitting underneath it. You can’t even see the kid’s face.”

  “Something about this whole situation seems off to me. You said the van Gogh is worth five million dollars. That’s a lot of money for someone like me, but for the people who are after you to go to such extremes to find you and the painting, it seems excessive. Maybe the painting is worth more than you think.”

  “No, I had it appraised, and I check all the time to see if it’s gone up in value,” Duke said.

  “That’s all Lemming gave you? Just the painting? When you told the story about Max Mueller
looking at what was inside the box, you said he used the word ‘they.’ He said, ‘They’re beautiful.’”

  “There was something else in the box with the van Gogh, but it was one of those stupid things Max liked to collect. It looked like junk to me, but I figured it might be worth a couple thousand bucks, so I held on to the original and had my forgery guy make a copy that I stuck in the box with the fake painting that Mueller took. I figured Max might get suspicious if his shipment from Lemming wasn’t intact.”

  “What else was in the box?” Julia asked.

  “Some old, dusty notebook. A leather journal, as I recall. Its cover was cracked and it was filled with someone’s handwriting that looked like gibberish. I didn’t bother to get it appraised because, like I said, it looked like junk. When I dropped the painting off with Chip, I almost tossed the notebook in his garbage can, but at the last minute, I stuck it in with the picture.”

  “How did your forgery con make a copy of the journal?”

  “He had a buddy who ran a printing press. Some lithography thing, I think it was. Anyway, the pages, the copies, looked like the original, with the weird handwriting, and he distressed the leather enough on the cover, so I guess it worked. Max bought it at first anyway. I would’ve loved to have seen the expression on his face when he found out the van Gogh that was in my trunk was a forgery.”

  “This notebook, do you think the writing in it could have been Danish?”

  “Danish? How would I know? It’s not like I speak the language. Spanish, yes. Danish, I haven’t got a clue.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Julia said. “Where did you stash it?”

  “Nice try, but no,” Duke answered as he took a quick turn into the Greyhound bus terminal. “Here’s your stop.”

  “The bus station? That’s the best you can do?”

  “I like to travel. The open road, there’s nothing better in the whole world. And there’s nothing wrong with buses,” Duke answered. He reached into his pocket and tossed Julia her phone. “I should have a trace on the number and more information on Phoenix Pontiac soon. I’ll be in touch.”

  Julia got out of the car and watched as a line of people carrying backpacks and suitcases unloaded from a recently arrived bus. She felt frozen in time as she recalled the last time she saw her mother. It was at a bus station in Sparrow. Marjorie had handed Julia a Hershey bar right before she boarded the bus to find their father, the candy her final parting gift.

  Julia’s gaze locked onto a mother clutching the hand of a little girl as they walked into the terminal, and then she called Navarro.

  “You just tell me where Julia is, and I’ll see what I can work out with the Feds,” Navarro answered on the first ring.

  “Navarro, it’s me. I’m at the Greyhound bus station on Howard Street.”

  “Are you hurt?” Navarro asked.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “I’m five minutes out.”

  “I’ve got some news on the Angel Perez case.”

  “So do I. Weird coincidence, too. The van we found at Stinson Trail, the plates match the ones in the video by the Home Depot where Angel Perez was picked up. Russell and I were able to get the video in its entirety from the convenience store, since they had it on backup. We tracked the owner of the plate to a company called American Adult Entertainment. The guy owns a bunch of strip clubs and dive bars in St. Louis. His name is . . .”

  “Louis Lemming. He’s connected to my dad.”

  “The Angel Perez murder has to do with your father?” Navarro asked. “You’re kidding me.”

  “The van is owned by a man named Ahote, who I told you about. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  * * *

  Four PM, the city’s rush hour was starting to heat up as Julia sat in the passenger seat of Navarro’s Chevy Tahoe, having just debriefed him on her meeting with Duke and the recent call from the person claiming to be Ben.

  “One thing I’m sure of in all this, my brother was either killed or wound up with Lemming,” Julia said. “Are the St. Louis cops bringing Lemming in, since the van’s plate was a match to him?”

  “Lemming is claiming the van was stolen three days ago, but he didn’t file a report about it going missing until this morning,” Navarro said. “He claimed it was a company car.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “I know, but he’s got a good lawyer.”

  “Did you put an APB out on Ahote?”

  “Already done. His full name is Ahote Chogan. No record, if you can believe it. We brought Liam Mueller in again, and he swears he hasn’t seen Ahote in a couple of days. Russell told Agent Kenny that your father cuffed him to his car. Kenny knows for sure now that your dad is alive and that you left the park with Duke. You’re going to have to talk to Kenny. No way around it. Kenny wants to arrest you for obstructing a federal investigation. I don’t know why you’re protecting your dad.”

  “I’m not. I need information from my dad to figure out what happened to Ben. I’m not trying to put you in a bad spot. I know I have to talk to Kenny, but I need to make two stops first.”

  “Really, Gooden? What are they?”

  “The Detroit Institute of Arts and then your apartment. I’ve got clothes at your place, and I don’t want to be hanging out in my shorts and tank top while I’m being interrogated. I’m betting we’ll get some answers at the art museum. Ahote, my dad, Angel Perez. They’re all connected.”

  “Why the DIA?”

  “I think my dad picked up something, along with the stolen van Gogh, that could be at the heart of this. Five million dollars is a lot of money, but this deadly full-court press to find my dad, there’s got to be more at stake than what we think.”

  “You’re killing me, Gooden,” Navarro said, and did a quick U-turn toward the DIA.

  The Detroit Institute of Arts, on Woodward Avenue, was one of Julia’s favorite places in the city. Scrappy Detroit’s art museum boasted one of the top six art collections in the country, but Julia’s personal favorite in the museum was Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry, a series of glorious frescoes that made up twenty-seven panels and was a tribute to the city’s manufacturing base, including Ford Motor Company.

  Julia knew the museum’s current director, John Hastings, from a previous story she’d worked on and hoped he’d bite.

  Navarro parked his car, and he and Julia made their way inside the museum. Navarro flashed his badge at a wide-eyed ticket taker and the two were ushered through, posthaste.

  An attractive woman in her sixties, who was impeccably dressed, hurried up to them as Julia and Navarro passed the ticket booth.

  “I’m Betsy Candler, the public relations director for the museum. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “We need to talk to your director, John Hastings. Please tell him Julia Gooden is here to see him. I’m a newspaper reporter, and John helped me on a story a few years ago.”

  Betsy disappeared into the museum and returned a few minutes later with Hastings, who was about ten years older than Julia. He was trim, with blond hair and a matching, close-cropped beard.

  “Julia Gooden, I remember you from the story you wrote about the attempted robbery here,” Hastings said, and extended Julia his hand. “Thanks for not misquoting me. I would’ve preferred the incident not run in the press, because it could’ve made us look like we had lax security and we could’ve become a target, but you handled it well.”

  “Thank you. Sorry for my casual outfit,” Julia said, pointing to her running gear. “But I have a few questions. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  Hastings’s eyes hung on Navarro, who Julia knew emanated “cop” by just standing there, breathing.

  “This is Ray Navarro. He’s a friend of mine,” Julia said. “We’re working together on this.”

  “I’m a detective with the Detroit Police Department.”

  “Is there some situation I need to be privy of?” Hastings asked.

  “Nothing that has to
do with you or the DIA. We need background information on a possible stolen painting, and we’re looking for an expert to fill in the details,” Navarro said.

  “Any information I provide, will it be part of an article or made public as part of a police investigation?” Hastings asked.

  “No. Everything we talk about is off the record,” Julia said.

  “I’m not looking to jam you up. Like Julia said, we’re just looking for your expertise to help out on a case,” Navarro said.

  “I have a few minutes before I have to go to another meeting, so if I can be a help, by all means,” Hastings said, and led them to his office.

  Hastings shut the door and took a seat behind his desk. “Please sit down. What’s this about a stolen painting?”

  “I need to know about any van Gogh paintings that were stolen around thirty years ago,” Julia asked.

  “Well, we have five van Goghs here, including his self-portrait,” Hastings said. “Stolen van Goghs are not uncommon. Van Gogh’s works are generally stolen the most frequently, because they’re usually prominently displayed. At least thirteen of his paintings have been stolen and recovered, two of them twice. Another eighty-five works have been lost and are still missing, and three other paintings are still at large.”

  “Do you happen to know if one of the missing paintings is a picture of a tree with a little girl sitting underneath it?” Julia asked.

  “No. I’m not familiar with that one. But you have to be careful with forgeries or paintings cropping up with false claims that they were done by a master.”

  “What about a notebook van Gogh might have had, maybe a journal he kept? Do you know if one existed?” Julia asked.

  Hastings’s eyes seemed to shine as he answered. “Well, that would be something.”

  “What would it be worth?” Navarro asked.

  “A Leonardo da Vinci notebook sold for over thirty million a few years ago. If a van Gogh journal really did exist, and it included his personal writings leading up to his mental break, I couldn’t even estimate the worth. Maybe fifty million dollars, but I’m just guessing here. Some of his sketchbooks are in collections and then there are the letters he wrote to his brother, Theo, but a diary, that would be quite a find.”