The Killing Green

by David Deutsch

  "Fair enough," I said.

  "I'm glad you approve," Lee said.

  Eric was busy chatting with the ladies. I hadn't even noticed the moment when he had decided to check out of Lee's and my conversation. It was just the two of us now. The shark and what he must have thought was the minnow. He had used the soft sell. The we don't really care if you work with us, but it sure as hell would be a smart move on your part if you did. I use it all the time, but I mean it when I use it. In my prior life, I'd offer up money based on the terms that I wanted. If you wanted it too, then great. If not, no problem. We'd live. There'd be other deals down the road. But I wasn't getting the same sense from Lee. Despite his custom suit, his gaudy watch, and his pretentious airs, he needed my money. I just wasn't sure why.

  "I've read over the materials that Eric had passed along. It is very impressive."

  "I would tend to agree with you, Max," he said.

  "But," I said.

  "There's always a but," he said.

  I laughed. "Always. I used to be the one who waited for that word to pop up in a conversation."

  He laughed. "Hey, it's normal. Sorry to interrupt, go on."

  "But I just need a little time to think it through and discuss it with my better half," I said.

  Using Imogen as the scapegoat worked. It was a nice perk of marriage.

  "But of course, Max. I wouldn't expect anything less. Take your time," he said. "Let me give you my card with my cell number so you can reach me anytime."

  I thanked him for the card, which he handed to me with a big, bright smile showing off his perfectly straight, whitened teeth. Perhaps they were veneers. Wouldn't have surprised me. I put the card in my back pocket without even looking at it, as was my custom, and returned to sipping my wine.

  Eric, perhaps sensing that the chat between Lee and myself was over, reentered the conversation. The ladies were still gabbing amongst themselves, and I sipped my wine. The waiter eventually came over, and we all ordered. It looked like I would be able to enjoy this meal after all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Imogen and I were huddled in my office. Hunkered down. Ready to debrief. Last night, when we arrived home after dinner, we crashed. We barely even had a conversation before our eyes closed. I do remember making it up the stairs and into bed. Imogen must have done the same because when we woke up this morning we were sleeping next to each other. Imogen had nothing on, and I was in a pair of boxer briefs only. At least we were sober enough to take our clothes off before passing out.

  I was sitting on the couch, and Imogen was in the club chair. Her choice.

  "It's rather comfortable," she said.

  "I'm glad you like it," I said. "It can be your seat from now on, if you like."

  "I've never seen someone so upset at a piece of furniture."

  I sipped my giant cup of coffee. "I'm not upset. I just don't like it."

  She shook her head and drank her own caffeinated beverage.

  "You know Tori mentioned Carl last night."

  "Lee's wife, Tori?"

  "Yes, do you know another?"

  "No," I said.

  I was trying to remember Tori. I know that we were introduced, but I felt like I didn't even share a table with her last night. Lee was busy chatting my ear off, while Eric interjected a chuckle here and there.

  "She said that Carl's wife hasn't been out of bed since his murder. She's devastated."

  "That's understandable. It was a horrible thing," I said. "How does she know that?" I asked.

  How would Tori know about Carl's wife, Heather? Tori and Lee weren't members of the club. They didn't live in Manors. What was the connection?

  "I thought the same thing. So I asked."

  "And?"

  "And Carl worked for Endicott Investments. He was some high-up guy. She didn't say, but it seemed like he might have been Lee's right-hand man."

  "Funny, Lee didn't mention Carl at all."

  "Tori didn't either. It just came up," she said.

  "Interesting. Might be worth running by Lee at some point."

  "Might be worth running by Lee sooner than later," she said. "It's an odd coincidence that Carl was murdered when Lee was in town."

  "I don't know when he arrived. All we know is we had dinner with him last night. Maybe he had just come in that day."

  I got up from the couch, walked over to my desk, and picked up Lee's card. I had thrown it there when I walked into the office this morning. I hadn't even looked at it.

  "Lee Endicott. Principal. Endicott Investments." I read the card aloud. "Here we go, New York, New York. His office is in Manhattan."

  I sat back down on the couch. Jabber was sitting up by the armrest. I was stroking the top of her head.

  "He probably lives there too, I would imagine," Imogen said.

  "You're probably right. He doesn't strike me as the commuter type," I said.

  "Neither does his wife," Imogen said.

  "I bet they live in some crazy penthouse," I said. "They're a bit on the flashy side."

  "I bet you're right," she said.

  "If that's true, he could have just popped over to Manors anytime. We're only thirty minutes away," I said.

  "We need to meet with him," she said.

  She was right. We did need to meet with him. And probably Tori too. She seemed to be the chatty one of the pair.

  "Nothing like a two-million-dollar carrot to score a meeting," I said. "But before we go and set up another meeting, we've got a few things to take care of."

  "Like?"

  "Like calling John. Like figuring out how to get a look in Bill's shed. Like tracing Alese's death threats. Like looking at that scheduling book image again. Like—"

  "OK, OK. I get the point," Ginny said. "Can I at least finish my coffee?"

  "I insist. While you do that, I'll call John," I said.

  Imogen reclined in the club chair and put her feet up on the table. Her Prada heels were pointing at me like I had done something very wrong. I pulled out my phone and dialed John's number. I sipped my coffee while it rang.

  "Carrington," he said.

  "John, hi, it's—"

  "Max. How are you, pal?"

  I had started to feel self-conscious. Was my voice that distinctive?

  "I'm good, John, and you?"

  "Doing well, Max. So, what's going on?"

  "I need a favor," I said.

  "What kind of favor?"

  "We've got a case that we're working on and—"

  "Alese Steiner?" he asked.

  "Why, yes. How did you—"

  "She came in here the other day, and I sent her over to you guys. I'm glad she took my advice."

  "Well, thanks for the referral," I said.

  He laughed. "We're colleagues now, remember?"

  He didn't let me answer.

  "So what can I do for you?"

  "You're familiar with the case?" I asked.

  "I am, Max."

  "She received a death threat on her voicemail," I said. "And I was wondering if you could help trace the call."

  "What number came up on the caller ID?"

  "Private number," I said.

  "That's what I thought. We can try, Max. I'll need her number, the day and time of the call, and whatever cell phone company she uses."

  "I have all that," I said.

  "But it's not as easy as it seems. It will take a long while to get the info. The cell phone guys aren't the most helpful when it comes to releasing that sort of information."

  "Even if a crime has taken place?"

  "There was no crime, Max. A threat, yes, but not a crime."

  "How about a hate crime? Calling someone a Nazi and threatening their life could fall into that category, couldn't it?"

  "I forgot you're a lawyer, Max," he said, laughing. "Yes, I suppose technically it could be a crime. But, we'd need a prosecutor to believe that and a judge too. Let me see what I can do, and then we'll talk."

  I gave John all of t
he pertinent information about the call in question. He thanked me for it, and then he disconnected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Campbell House was only a short drive away. Imogen had set up a meeting with her friend Sarah who was one of the directors and also held a doctorate in art history. They had met at University and now both lived in the United States about ten minutes from each other.

  Go figure. The world is a very small place these days.

  We had a late morning meeting, so our plan to interviewing potential receptionist candidates was off the table for now. Not that we had anything lined up. Which wasn't a promising sign, as our last interviewee didn't bother showing up at all. Not even a disingenuous email to cancel.

  Imogen, Sarah, and I were sitting around a large circular wood table in Sarah's office. As you would imagine, there were paintings hung on the walls as well as a giant bookshelf with, after a quick glance, what were hundreds of art books lining the shelves.

  After Imogen and Sarah were done catching up and simultaneously ignoring me, we began our discussion concerning Alese Steiner and Schubert at the Piano.

  "Did you meet with her?" Imogen asked.

  "I did. I was floored," she said.

  "Floored how?" I asked.

  "Really, Max, it's a priceless painting," Imogen said.

  "No, it wasn't that, Ginny," she said.

  It was nice to hear someone else call her Ginny too.

  "I mean, yes, it's priceless," she continued, "but it was more like seeing a ghost. I mean, this painting was supposedly destroyed, and here I was standing in this woman's house looking at it. I couldn't believe my eyes."

  "I understand," I said. "I felt the same way when we saw it."

  "You saw it?" she asked.

  "Yes, luv, we saw it at Alese's house."

  "Really?" she asked.

  "You sound surprised," I said.

  "I am, Max. She said that she wanted to keep the painting quiet. Didn't want anyone knowing about it."

  "Well, you're talking to us about it," I said.

  "This is all off the record, Max. Ginny and I go way back. I can trust her," she said.

  "And me?" I asked.

  "I'll give Ginny the benefit of the doubt," she answered, chuckling.

  "Thanks for that vote of confidence," I said.

  The ladies giggled like schoolgirls. It was cute.

  "Well, we're helping Miss Steiner out on a case, and she invited us to her house to see the painting," I said.

  "So Imogen says. That's why I told her that I'd be happy to chat with you both. Maybe I can help in some way."

  "That's exactly what I was thinking," I said.

  "It was a beautiful painting," Imogen said. "We saw it at her house. It was hung in the most divine spot. The room was magnificent. Honestly, I couldn't keep my eyes off of it."

  It was as if the ladies were dishing. Sarah leaned both elbows on the table and held her jaw.

  "I know. I know. I felt the same way," she said.

  "So why does she want to sell it?" Imogen asked.

  Sarah thought for a moment. Frozen with her elbows still on the table. Then she moved and sat back in her chair.

  "I, well, don't really know. All she said was that she felt it was time to sell the painting and asked if I could help and keep this inquiry discreet. She didn't offer any more of an explanation."

  "So what did you say?" Imogen asked.

  "I told her that of course we could keep this discreet and that we'd have to examine the painting and try to authenticate it before we could bring it to auction. We'd also need legal involved because there was a previous owner that is pretty well documented, although it was in a museum or a home for safekeeping at the time of its supposed destruction. Either way, there are some complex legal hurdles to jump through."

  "How did she take that?" I asked.

  "I couldn't tell. She didn't really react."

  "What did you think when you examined it?" Imogen asked.

  "I didn't really examine it. I had a chance to look at it for a bit at the beginning of our meeting. Like you did," she said.

  "Bloody hell, Sarah, I'm not an art historian! It looked like a beautiful painting to me."

  Sarah laughed.

  "Well, it looked, um, right to me too. The brush strokes looked spot on. It has been preserved well, so it didn't show signs of abuse that one would expect from a painting that old that hasn't been cared for as well. It all looked the way it should. But, all that being said, I would want to examine it further. Look closely for some things that can't be seen at a first, second, or third glance. Types of paint and other things, you know."

  "Not really," I said. "I don't know."

  "I just mean really delving into the painting to make sure that it is what Miss Steiner is claiming it to be. I couldn't in good conscience put this painting up for auction at our house if I wasn't, and my colleagues weren't, 100 percent sure this was Schubert At The Piano painted by Klimt in 1899."

  "Of course, of course," I said.

  "Yes, Sarah, I completely understand, luv."

  "So, what do you think?"

  Sarah looked deep in thought.

  "I just don't know, Max. It's really one of those things that you just have to examine and see where it leads."

  We weren't going to get a straight answer from Sarah concerning her thoughts on the painting's authenticity. I couldn't blame her. I was going to try another line of questions.

  "Do you think she'll be back?" I asked.

  "Dunno," she said. "Maybe. That is, if she really wants to sell it. People have second thoughts all the time. Selling a painting like that is like losing a friend."

  "I can see that," Imogen said.

  "Some people just can't do it when push comes to shove."

  After gleaning all of the information that Sarah had, Imogen and Sarah talked a bit more about some personal stuff, and then we all thanked each other for taking the time to chat. Sarah and Imogen promised to meet soon for lunch, and Sarah then also promised to keep us in the loop if Miss Steiner returned. I knew we'd already be aware of that fact, if indeed, it did come to fruition. But we thanked her anyway, again, and then exited the building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  "Should we have called Mr. Endicott?"

  That is what Ginny asked me once we were back at the office. I told her that I didn't feel like meeting with him today, getting trapped into going to some sort of dinner or taking a drive into Manhattan. After some convincing, she agreed.

  "So what do you want to do instead?" she asked.

  I was sitting on the couch in my office and Imogen on the club chair. I was still trying to figure out why she liked that thing.

  "I figure that we could take a trip over to see Bill and his shed."

  "I thought the plan was to take a look through the shed alone."

  "Yes, of course it is. Here's what I'm thinking," I said. "You get ol' Bill out on the course, and I poke around in the shed."

  "And how do you expect me to do that?"

  "Golf lesson."

  Imogen laughed. Then sat up in that hideous club chair.

  "In the middle of the day, Max? Without an appointment? You must be mad."

  "Use your feminine wiles. Flirt, for God's sake."

  "Flirt with an old man. You're losing it, Max."

  "Didn't you notice the other day he was flirting with you?"

  I had sure noticed.

  "No. I most certainly did not notice."

  "Well, he was. So flirt a little, and get him out on the course."

  I was begging at this point. And Imogen was not complying with my request. I asked a few more times, rephrasing for added emphasis. Then, finally, she relented.

  "Just this once. But you owe me," she said.

  "Anything," I said.

  "You just might be sorry you said that, Max."

  "I'll take my chances."

  With that decided, Imogen and I headed back to the house in order to c
hange. She needed to get into some golf gear, and I, well, just wanted to accompany her. Like a good husband. She changed, and off we went to Delmar.

  When we arrived, there was a foursome checking in with Bill, so we waited in the clubhouse and plotted our strategy.

  "You have to convince him to leave with you," I said.

  "Yes, Max, I get it."

  "I know you do, but you've got to do it. I'm going to wait here."

  "Max, one more time and I'm going to take this nine iron and—"

  I interrupted her. "They're done. OK, my love, you're on."

  "Watch this," she said.

  Then she strutted out, heading toward the golf shed.

  She's a wonder. And she's beautiful.

  She had on a cute white golf skirt and a pink, collared golf shirt. She was even sporting a white visor.

  I watched her approach Bill. She looked bubbly. Animated. You could see her talking, laughing, trying to use her charms to pry Bill away from the shed. This went on for what seemed like ten minutes. She'd say something and then laugh, flip her hair, laugh again, flutter her thick eyelashes at him. She then pretended to take a stroke without a golf club in her hand. She said something to Bill, and then before I knew it, he was out of the shed, behind her, positioning her hands, and then touching her hips. Pointing something out about her stance. She feigned some sort of confusion about what he was showing her. Then Ginny picked up her clubs. They both hopped into a golf cart and drove away. It was go time.

  Once the cart was out of view, I quickly, without trying to look suspicious, walked out of the clubhouse and headed over to the shed. Luckily there wasn't anyone around, so I proceeded to open the sliding wood door and slip into Bill's world. I didn't know how much time I had. Who knew how long Bill would tutor Ginny. A stroke correction could take five minutes, even one that was created specifically for today.

  I quickly looked at the schedule book. It looked like there was another group set to tee off in forty minutes. Hopefully that meant that I had some time. I started rifling around the shed. First under the counter. There was a small fridge under here. I opened it up, and there was a six-pack. The same beer he was drinking the other day.