by Sara Rosett
“I know, but I have you on my side. He’s probably twice your age, not to mention that you’re nearly twice his size. I think you can take him, if you have to.”
“Oh, so now you’re happy to have me on your side?”
“I’m always happy to have you on my side. Sometimes I just have trouble showing it.”
The man had stepped to one side of the front door. Zoe juggled the clipboard and the flowers as she unlocked the front door. She noticed that Jack stayed back from the man, giving him a wide berth. Zoe led the way through the hallway and into the formal living room, snapping on lights as she went.
“What a lovely home.”
Neither Zoe nor Jack answered him, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He took one of the armchairs across from the couch, sprawling back with a sigh as if he was glad to be off his feet. Zoe put the flowers and the clipboard along with her messenger bag on one of the end tables then went to stand across from him, behind the couch, arms crossed. Jack stayed on his feet as well, moving to the side and slightly behind the man. “So what is this about?”
“I suppose I should introduce myself. I know you, but you do not know me. It is unfair for you to be at a disadvantage.”
Zoe could see Jack practically grinding his teeth together. She didn’t blame him. She wanted the guy to get on with it, too. “And you are?” she asked.
“Oscar. I work for Mr. Darius Gray.”
He paused as if they should recognize the name. Zoe didn’t. She looked at Jack, and he raised his shoulders in a slight shrug.
“I’m afraid we’re not familiar with this Mr. Gray.”
Oscar sighed. “I thought as much. Otherwise, why would you...well, I’m getting ahead of myself.” He rearranged his body, sitting up straighter. “You have something that belongs to Mr. Gray. He wants it back.”
“Ah, no, we don’t. How could we have something that belongs to him when we don’t even know him?”
“Let me be more specific. Mr. Gray wants you to return his painting. Now, I’m sure you didn’t realize it was his because no one takes what belongs to Mr. Gray. He’s giving you the opportunity to return it before he...takes action.”
“He’s accusing us of stealing,” Jack said from the back corner.
Oscar swiveled to him. “Not stealing. At least, not intentionally. You saw an opportunity and took it. I’m sure you had no idea you were taking Mr. Gray’s property. That is why he’s willing to show some latitude.”
“What is he going to do? Press charges?” Zoe rubbed her forehead. Her head was throbbing again, and she wished she’d taken the nurse’s offer of pain medicine. “This conversation is absurd. He can talk to the police all he wants. We don’t have any paintings, so we can’t have one that belongs to Mr. Gray.” Zoe gestured to the collage of snapshots she’d taken in London. “A few photos like those, but that’s it. Our budget doesn’t run to anything on canvas.”
“You can protest all you like, but Mr. Gray knows you visited a dealer in Paris four days ago and inquired about selling the painting.”
“Paris? That’s crazy. I haven’t even been outside Dallas for months.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “I wouldn’t bother denying it. You’re very memorable with your long red hair.”
“But it wasn’t me!”
“Like I said, you can deny it, if you want. Doesn’t matter to me. No matter how discreet you thought you were, information can always be bought. If you look hard enough, there’s usually someone who saw or overheard something. The shop assistant, a very attractive young lady, was very willing to provide your name and description once she realized she’d be amply—and discreetly—compensated.
“But—”
“Yes, I know. I know.” He waved his hand in a circle. “You weren’t there.” He slapped his palms down on his thighs and prepared to stand. “That is of no importance now. All that matters is that Mr. Gray gets his painting back, seeing as how it’s payment for services he’s already rendered.”
“What kind of services?” Jack asked.
“That’s not what matters here. He knows you saw an opportunity in Germany and took the painting. He wants it back.”
When he said the word Germany, everything clicked into place as if someone twisted a key in a lock and opened a door. Her gaze flew to Jack’s face. She could see he remembered, too. Zoe swiveled back to Oscar, who was now standing.
“You’ve got the wrong person. Yes, we were there in Germany, at the castle, but we didn’t take the painting. We saw who did, though. It was the woman who was there—the secretary. What was her name?” Zoe looked to Jack.
“Anna. Anna Whitmore, I believe.”
“That’s right.” Zoe turned back to Oscar. “We saw her. She came in the room where we were and switched contents of a leather carrying tube, which had been in the room, for the contents of a cardboard tube she’d brought with her. After the switch, she took the cardboard tube away with her.” Zoe glanced back at Jack. “It must have been a painting. It wasn’t stiff like a roll of paper. It was softer, with some flexibility, like canvas. She left with it. We have no idea where it is.”
Jack nodded, but Oscar spread his hands. “This is a good yarn you’ve spun. Not bad, especially considering that you’ve come up with it on the spur of the moment, but it doesn’t change the fact that you contacted Gallery Twenty-Seven about selling Marine.”
He held up a hand as Zoe opened her mouth to speak. “Mr. Gray has also seen the financial transactions involving Verity Trustees. We all know that Mr. Costa purchased the painting, but, interestingly, he had the financial records altered so that your name is listed as owner of the company that paid the invoice for the twelve million dollars to buy the painting. Quite a merry little chase he put Mr. Gray’s computer experts through, but, in the end, financial records show you bought it. I suppose you uncovered the set-up and took the painting, not realizing it was intended for Mr. Gray?”
Zoe felt lightheaded. “Twelve million dollars?” She never thought she’d dislike a number like twelve million dollars, but that was the amount of money that had gone missing from Jack’s business account and set off a fraud investigation. She and Jack had found proof that neither one of them were involved in the financial slight-of-hand that made the money disappear, and last she’d heard, the FBI was running down all the accounts the money had been sifted through. Her heartbeat spun into high gear. What if this guy was right and the money trail did lead back to her? That sounded exactly like something Costa would do. Unsavory didn’t begin to describe his character, and Zoe didn’t doubt for a moment that he would set up a scheme to implicate someone else to hide his activities.
She closed her eyes briefly. Costa was dangerous and ruthless, but the FBI knew all about him now, and if he’d set up some sort of scheme to finger Zoe for using stolen money to buy a very expensive painting, wouldn’t the FBI have come knocking on her door? They’d never been shy about asking questions before. “That can’t be true. If it were, the FBI would be here, asking me about it.”
Oscar snorted. “The FBI is bogged down. Budget cuts, you know. Their tech services division has been cut in half. Also, I believe higher priority cases keep bumping yours down the stack, so to speak. I’m sure they will get to it. Of course, if you help Mr. Gray, he would be willing to make sure all of Verity Trustees’ transactions disappear. In fact, he could make it as if Verity Trustees never existed. Records can be lost...”
Oscar reached in a pocket of his leather jacket, and Jack tensed. “No need to be so jumpy.” Oscar removed a business card and reached across the empty couch to hand it to Zoe.
A single phone number with a Dallas area code was centered on the heavy white cardstock.
Oscar took a few steps toward the hall. “You have three days. Mr. Gray understands that you probably have the Monet in free port in Geneva or Singapore and that it will take some time to retrieve it. Call that number when you have the painting in your possession. You will be informed
where to bring it.”
Zoe shot a desperate look at Jack. This guy would not listen to them.
Jack said, “You don’t seem to understand. We can’t do this for you. We don’t have any idea were the painting is. We can’t help you.”
“Oh, I think you will.”
“Those financial transactions will be disproved, once the FBI digs into them,” Jack said, and Zoe knew he was saying it for her as much as he was to make a point to Oscar. Just hearing the words in his steady, reasonable tone made her feel better. “We’ve already proved to the FBI that we weren’t involved in the fraud and that we didn’t have access to the money. They’ll know the transfers are faked.”
Oscar’s lips puckered as if he’d eaten something tart. “That could possibly be the case,” he allowed. “But I think you will still help us.”
“Why?” Zoe asked. Did this guy ever quit?
He looked toward the clipboard on the end table. “Because of Lucinda McDaniel.”
The flyers. It seemed like it had been hours since she’d first caught sight of them on the clipboard. “What does this have to do with those flyers and with Lucinda?”
“Lucinda—or more precisely—her body is the incentive for you to give the painting to Mr. Gray.”
“What? What are you talking about? Her body is missing.”
“No. Her body is buried in your backyard under a new row of hedges along your privacy fence. They look quite nice.”
“That’s absurd,” Zoe said, but inside she felt a curl of doubt as Oscar stared at her impassively.
“I assure you. It’s true.”
Lucinda was missing. The man had been in the backyard. There had been a backhoe on the trailer of the other truck. No one was home for several hours this afternoon...
Everything seemed to blur for a moment—Oscar’s voice faded to an indistinct murmur, and the room went hazy. The walls seemed to curve around her. She braced her hand against the back of the couch.
Jack’s voice cut through the murkiness. She felt his hand on her back. “Are you okay?”
She breathed deeply and the room settled back into its normal orientation.
Jack slipped a hand under her arm. “I’m not going to faint or anything, but I’m not okay if someone I know is buried in my backyard. How could that even happen? Someone would see you.”
“Your six-foot privacy fence allowed us to work unobserved. Collecting the body unnoticed wasn’t difficult at all. Once we put you in your car, we simply pulled into the driveway of Ms. McDaniel’s home. A lawn maintenance crew is unremarkable. All we had to do was gather up the flyers and the bloody lounge cushion, zip everything into a body bag, place it in with the hedges, flowers, and bags of mulch in the trailer, and bring it here.”
“So what about before? You killed her?” Zoe felt a warning pressure as Jack’s hand tightened on her arm, but she had to ask.
Oscar shook his head. “No, that was my associate. I am a little slow for a job like that.” He chuckled, and Zoe could only stare at him. He cleared his throat. “You see how it is now. You will collect the painting and call us. You are connected with Ms. McDaniel’s death. You were at her house shortly before she died. You had an argument last week, and—”
“What? No. We never argued.”
He shook his head, his expression pitying. “You really don’t understand how this works yet? One of the employees in McDaniel Realty overheard the argument and will be happy to speak to the police. Remember what I said about information being bought for the right price? It can be created, too.”
“But that’s not true,” Zoe said.
Oscar continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then there are the flyers, which have your fingerprints on them. The rest of them are buried with the body.”
“Why are you doing this? You killed a woman for a painting?”
“We considered holding one of your friends, like Helen, or a relative—your Aunt Amanda or your mother—and demanding the painting as ransom.” Zoe closed her eyes. This was a nightmare. This man knew everything about her.
“However, Mr. Gray believes individuals always work harder to rescue themselves than to rescue others, no matter how close the relationship. Saving your own skin is the highest motivator. And that is exactly what will happen if you bring us the painting.”
“You’re going to magically make Lucinda’s body disappear from my yard?”
He frowned at her. “No. We will remove it in a way that draws no attention, insure it is found, and that there is no connection to you.”
“What about her family, her friends, her business? You can’t fix that.”
“No.” His phone beeped, and he reached inside his coat for it. He checked the display as he said, “Collateral damage is often unavoidable.” He replaced his phone. “I really must go now. I’ll see myself out.”
Chapter Five
––––––––
“I can’t quite believe it.” Zoe and Jack stood side-by-side staring at the new hedge along the fence. “It just seems so bizarre. Should we...check?”
“I think we have to. I’ll get a shovel.” It was fully dark, and the porch light threw their giant-sized shadows across the backyard.
While Jack was in the garage, Zoe edged up to the row of bushes as if there might be a rattlesnake in the woodchips. Jack returned and poised the shovel under the leaves of the first bush. He put his foot on the edge of the blade. “Ready?”
“Not really.”
“You can wait inside.”
“Are you kidding? This is my mess. I should be the one digging.”
“Not your mess. Our mess.” He shifted his weight, and the shovel sank into the ground smoothly. He transferred a scoop of earth and woodchips to the side and kept digging. “The soil is loose, like it’s been turned recently.”
Zoe nodded. Her throat felt dry. “I should get a flashlight,” she said, but didn’t move. Jack transferred several shovels of dirt and the bush tilted as the supporting earth was removed. Zoe pulled the bush to the side. The deeper he dug, the more carefully Jack maneuvered the shovel. About two feet down, he stopped. “I’ve hit something.”
“Rock?”
“No.” He probed the dirt gently with the shovel. “It’s soft.”
Zoe’s stomach twisted. “Don’t use the shovel.” She kneeled down and reached to brush the dirt away.
“Don’t use your hands.” She looked over her shoulder at him. With the porch light behind him, he was a silhouette. “Fingerprints.”
“Oh. Right. I’m not thinking clearly right now. Good thing I’ve got that whole head injury thing as an excuse. Let me get a spade or something.” She sprinted to the garage and returned with some gardening tools and gloves.
She used a spade to carefully sweep away a layer of dirt, revealing thick plastic. It was a silver color and contrasted with the dark earth. With shaking hands she removed more of the dirt until she uncovered a zipper. She sat back. “It’s true. That’s a body bag.”
Jack kneeled beside her.
“I can’t do it.” She swallowed hard. “I can’t open it, but we have to. We have to see if...Lucinda is really in there. It could all be a joke, right? Just some crazy weirdo playing a trick on us.”
“I’ll open it.” Jack pulled on one of the gardening gloves then inched the zipper open.
Zoe flinched backward at the smell, but not before she saw a tangle of dark hair and Lucinda’s pale face.
***
ZOE turned off the faucet in the hall bath with trembling fingers and dabbed at her sweaty forehead with the hand towel. She’d been sick. She managed to lurch away from Lucinda’s body to the other side of the yard before she threw up. She closed her eyes. Poor Lucinda. She wasn’t what you’d call a sweet person—she was mean, actually—but she didn’t deserve to be killed.
Zoe twisted the towel in her hands. Oscar hadn’t lied about burying Lucinda. Did that mean what he’d said about the financial records tracing back to her name was t
rue, too? What were they going to do?
The back door thudded closed, and Zoe hurried down the hall to the kitchen. Jack stood at the sink soaping his hands. “It’s all back in place, the soil, the hedge, everything.”
“What? Why did you do that? We’ve got to call the police.”
He rinsed his hands. “We can’t call the police, Zoe. Think about it. Lucinda is missing.” He turned the faucet off and swiveled to face her. “You reported to the police that you’d seen her dead body today. If we call them and tell them her body is buried in our backyard, but we didn’t put her there, do you think they’ll believe us?”
She realized she still held the towel from the bathroom and gave it to him to dry his dripping hands. “Okay. Okay. You’re right.” Zoe paced around the island. “I get it, but we have to do something. We can’t just leave her out there.” She stopped. “Wait. Mort. We can call Mort.”
“Agent Vazarri? Not a good idea.”
Zoe raced into the formal living room where she’d left her messenger bag, located her phone, and dashed back to the kitchen. “He’ll help us. He knows all about what happened before. He’ll believe us. He’s with the FBI. He can investigate this Darius Gray and figure out what’s going on.”
Zoe had been scrolling through her contact lists as she spoke. She found his name and dialed his cell phone. What did it say about the craziness of her life that she had an FBI agent in her contact list? He’d given her his card when he first began investigating the fraud case, and when she realized he might actually believe that she wasn’t involved in scamming people out of money—that he was on her side—she’d saved his phone number.
“Zoe.” Jack’s voice had a warning tone. “Think about what you’re doing. You could go to jail. Take it from someone who’s been the focus of a criminal investigation, you don’t want to do this. You’re putting yourself at their mercy. I know you think he’s nice, but he’s going to err on the side of the law.”
Zoe waved him off. A female voice answered. Probably his wife. “May I speak to Mort, please?”