I passed it over. “Try not to laugh. They wouldn't retake the photo.”
The corners of his mouth twitched as he inspected my card. I could tell he was struggling to stay composed. “It's ... not that bad.”
“Oh, please. It's the worst picture ever taken of me in my life.” I snatched the license back and looked again. Disgusting. My long brown hair hung limply around my face like I hadn't washed it in weeks. One eye was wide open, the other half shut. A toothy, crooked smile made me look like a demented beaver. “Is yours any better?”
“I never bothered to get it reinstated when it expired years ago.”
“How come?”
“Why bother?”
Truth was, Carter had been a P.I. for over ten years. He wasn't a stickler for rules, and therefore probably didn't need validation to prove he was a worthy detective. We worked as a team, although I knew my place as a rookie. Carter was in control, and that was fine with me.
Carter didn't have an office with a fancy sign and he saved money on rent by conducting most of his business at the Hometown Diner. As a bonus, the place had decent coffee, inexpensive food, and window booths.
Carter consulted his watch then looked across the table at me and said, “We're meeting a potential new client at her husband's art gallery downtown. Told her we'd be there at ten.”
“What's the case about?”
“Her husband was killed during a robbery last month. Police have no leads, apparently.”
“That's awful.” I added a little more sugar to my coffee and stirred. “How was he killed?”
“He was shot. I remember reading about it in the paper last month. Two other local galleries were robbed the same night.”
“Does she feel the police aren't doing their job?”
“She didn't want to discuss it over the phone.” Carter looked distracted as his eyes roamed the diner, probably hoping the waitress would materialize with our bill. “We should get going if we want to be on time.”
* * *
Bridgeport, New Hampshire – a cozy seacoast town known for eclectic restaurants, boutiques, galleries, and historical homes – was practically a ghost town during the winter months. It was April, and like most hearty New Englanders know, the sun-drenched days were still a month or two away.
Carter parked his brown, late model Buick—not so easy on the eyes, but perfectly inconspicuous for stakeouts – in the designated lot next to the Fleming Gallery, which appeared to be an old reconstructed barn. Rustic and charming, the cobblestone walkway led us to the entrance where a woman was waiting.
Elizabeth Fleming had the kind of radiant red hair that must have been the result of an unfortunate chemical experiment in the salon. It was hard to guess her age, but the lines around her eyes and mouth placed her in her late fifties. Her clothing—a casual, pale linen pantsuit with matching flats—suggested she was a woman who valued comfort as much as style. She smiled and welcomed us into the gallery.
“You must be Carter and Sarah,” she said in a calm voice.
Carter extended a hand. “Mrs. Fleming?”
“Yes. Please come in. Have a seat if you'd like.”
The place was smaller than it looked from the outside. There was a desk to the left, but the rest of the space was open. Each of the four walls was decorated with various styles of artwork. A few chairs were set up in the left corner next to the desk, so we headed toward them and got settled.
Elizabeth smiled wearily and cleared her throat. “I wanted you to come to the gallery because this is where my husband was killed during the robbery. As you can see, I haven't begun to take the artwork down.”
“We're very sorry about your husband,” Carter replied.
“Thank you. I know it's taking me forever to decide what to do with this gallery, but I just don't know if I can keep it going. Artists and clients have been calling every day. I need to deal with it, but … it's so difficult.” Elizabeth took a breath while her fingers tapped nervously on her lap. “My daughter Kimberly lives in California. She’s trying to get me to sell everything. Wants me to move in with her and my grandson.”
Carter nodded. “It’s good to have family.”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly, tears seemingly imminent. “Yes it is, though Kimberly isn't Glenn's daughter. I had her with my first husband who died when she was only five.”
“How long were you and Glenn married?” Carter asked.
“Would have been thirteen years next month.”
Carter leaned slightly forward in his chair as if he'd like to get down to business. “Do the police have any suspects for your husband's shooting?”
“An eyewitness claims he saw a man drive away in a green truck around the time of the shooting. Unfortunately, he didn't catch the make or model and the police have no other clues or leads. It’s been almost a month, and I’m afraid they've just given up. A friend suggested that I call you. I’ve never had to hire a private detective before, so I’m not sure how this works. Do you take cases like this?”
Carter cleared his throat. “Normally, Mrs. Fleming, we don’t like to get involved in cases the police are currently working. We prefer to let them do their job. I'm sure they're doing everything they can. Who is the detective in charge?”
“Detective James.”
“Good.” Carter paused to look at me since I'd worked with Detective James on our last case. “Maybe you can go to the station and see if he'll give you any information. He seems to like you.”
“I can try,” I said.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I should probably tell you that Detective James is away for a few days. His secretary told me when I stopped in to get a copy of the police report yesterday.”
As Carter appeared to be thinking things over, I noticed Elizabeth examining him: his day old scruff, untrimmed gray hair, and tattered leather jacket. Underneath that jacket was a rugged physique, so uncommon for a man in his late fifties. I imagined that most women of a certain age found Carter’s unrefined manner to be sexy – like a William Gere meets James Dean – but I couldn’t tell what Elizabeth's thoughts were.
He finally looked up. “May I take a look at the police report?”
“Yes.” She reached over, grabbed a stack of papers, and handed them to Carter. “I figured you'd want to see it. I've included a copy of the newspaper article so you'd have a picture of Glenn.”
Carter flipped to the newspaper article, tilted toward me, and held it out for us to view together. Glenn Fleming had short hair that appeared to be thinning at the top. There was a soft quality to his face. I sensed gentleness in his mild features.
“That was Glenn's favorite picture of himself,” she said. “He thought it made him look scholarly. Personally, I prefer the pictures where he's laughing or at least smiling. It was his nature to be reserved. He had a generous soul and was always helping people. He'd give you the shirt off his back.”
Carter and I read the article below the picture:
Man Shot, Killed During Robbery At Art Gallery
by Jason Rosa
March 31, 2013
Bridgeport, NH.-A 55-year-old man was shot and killed during an armed robbery at Fleming Gallery around 7:00 p.m. Friday night, March 29.
Police said Glenn Fleming was closing his shop for the night when a man entered the gallery.
According to a witness, a shot was heard, and a man was seen fleeing the store reportedly with stolen merchandise.
The shooting occurred amid a string of armed robberies reported to the Bridgeport Police Department on the same night, including two other local art galleries.
Police are investigating the robberies to determine if they are connected.
Sam Williams, a neighbor said, “This is a safe neighborhood. I am shocked at this senseless crime. Glenn Fleming was a respectable businessman in this community, and he will be missed. Our hearts go out to his wife and family.”
Anyone with information is urged to call Crime Stoppers local chapter at 73-Crim
e.
Carter looked up. “I’d like to get your version of what happened that night.” He reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone and held it up, indicating his intentions. “Mind if I record this?”
“Yes, of course. Well, I was at home preparing dinner around six o’clock. Glenn was here at the gallery, I assume getting ready to close up, which usually happened between five and six unless a client was here. At seven I called the gallery to find out how much later he expected to be. He never answered the phone. I called again at seven-thirty. This time someone picked up, but it wasn't Glenn. It was a detective from the Bridgeport Police Department.” She paused to take a deep breath. “The policeman asked who I was, then told me to come down to the gallery. He told me my husband had been shot, but wouldn't say if he was alive or dead. When I got here, Glenn was already in the ambulance. They wouldn't let me see him until we got to the morgue.”
Carter remained silent for a few seconds as Gillian blew her nose and wiped her eyes. He gently touched her shoulder and handed her the box of tissues from the desk. “Did there appear to be a struggle inside the gallery?”
She nodded. “A few chairs had been knocked over and the items on his desk were all a mess. The detective told me it was likely the burglar resorted to violence when Glenn tried to resist the robbery.”
“So they found defensive wounds on your husband?”
“A few bruises on his forearms.”
“Where was he shot?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, like the words were stuck in her throat. “In the chest. At very close range.”
“Was anyone else around?”
“Apparently not.”
Carter rubbed his chin. “When the police secured the crime scene, did they find any DNA or fingerprints?”
“According to the other gallery owners, he wore gloves and a ski mask to disguise himself. But they found a muddy boot print,” Elizabeth said. “The same boot prints were found at the other two galleries. Unfortunately, the boot print is useless without a suspect.”
“What kind of gun was used?” Carter asked.
“A 45 caliber,” she said.
Carter glanced around the gallery and gestured to two empty spaces on the wall. “What was stolen?”
“Two paintings. Each one valued between six and eight thousand.”
“Any idea why the thief might choose those two specifically?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “There certainly were others more valuable he could have taken.”
Carter nodded. “What about cash?”
“Glenn kept a box in the bottom drawer of his desk. He never had more than a few hundred in cash lying around unless someone had paid cash for artwork. But that rarely happened. Most sales were credit card purchases. Anyway, the thief obviously found it and took whatever was in there.”
“Do the police have a theory they're working with?”
“They've consulted with the FBI, but I don't think they are so concerned with our little galleries. I guess the police are waiting to see if any of the stolen paintings turn up. Without any DNA, fingerprints, witnesses or even a weapon, there's not much else they can do.”
“Have you spoken with the other gallery owners who were robbed?” Carter asked.
“I spoke with Gillian Caswell. She was kind enough to attend Glenn's funeral. But I haven't spoken with Jason Trask.”
“Were paintings taken from their galleries as well?”
Elizabeth nodded. “That's my understanding.”
“Any idea why the thief may have chosen these three specific galleries?”
Elizabeth shrugged.
Carter looked around the gallery. “Your husband didn't have a surveillance system in place?”
She sighed. “Glenn had talked about it, but I guess he never … he never thought something like this would happen. This is not a high crime area. We've never been robbed before.”
Carter tapped his foot on the tile floor, still focused on the police report. “Does it surprise you that Glenn tangled with the burglar?”
Fresh tears fell and she wiped them away. “I was surprised. Glenn was not a confrontational sort. I'll never understand why he risked his life over a bunch of paintings. The paintings were insured.”
“Have you already filed a claim?”
“Not yet. It took me a while to actually figure out which paintings were stolen. Glenn didn't keep the best records and I haven't been able to get into his computer to access the information he had on it. ”
Carter coughed nervously. “Sorry to ask, but what about life insurance?”
“Yes. We got a policy after I retired last year. Truth is I didn't want to retire, but my company was laying people off anyway. But Glenn felt positive that his business would pick up. He had just taken on a few new artists and seemed very encouraged about the future.”
“Did Glenn seem nervous or distracted in the days prior to the burglary?”
“Maybe a little,” she said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“So he was ordinarily a nervous, distracted kind of guy?”
“Glenn was hard to read. Even after thirteen years of being married to the man, I often wondered what went on inside his head.”
“Was anything else going on in Glenn's life that might have caused him stress?” Carter asked. “Health problems, for instance?”
“I don't think so. He was as healthy as a horse, especially for fifty-five. He'd suffered from depression in the past, but seemed to have it under control.”
Carter paused. “Depression? Caused by what?”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly while staring at her hands. “He had a rough upbringing, didn’t get along with his parents. He also had a drinking problem when he was younger.”
“Are his parents alive?” Carter asked.
“Apparently not. Glenn said they died many years ago. In any case, I don't think he ever had a good relationship with them.”
“Any siblings?”
“He had a sister, but I guess she died when they were young. Again, not something he liked to talk about.”
“You mentioned Glenn was an alcoholic. Did he also have drug problems?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I don't think so. Since we've been married, he hasn't had a drop to drink. I never smelled pot. Unless he was very good at hiding it.”
“Has Glenn ever been in trouble? Arrested?”
“No. I suspect you can't take my word for it so I assume you'll do a background check on him. And on me, for that matter, so I might as well be honest. I was arrested back in my twenties for shoplifting. I was young and stupid, and so were the friends I was with. I had to pay a fine and do some community work. Other than a few speeding tickets, that's all you're going to find.”
“We all make mistakes,” Carter said. “But I'd still like to know more about Glenn. Did he have any enemies?”
She jerked her head back in surprise. “Not possible. Like I said, everyone who knew Glenn loved him. Just ask his friends. I made a list of those who live locally for you to contact.”
“I appreciate the fact that Glenn was well liked, but that doesn't mean ...” Carter gave her an apologetic smile. “Everyone has secrets. We need to know Glenn's secrets.”
Elizabeth rubbed her hands together nervously and took a deep breath. “Okay, fine. I suppose you'll find out eventually. Glenn had a problem with gambling about a year ago. He lost a small fortune and we had to take out a second mortgage on our house. He was ashamed, but he got help. I took control of our finances, including the checking accounts. If he was taking money out, I'd know.”
“Glenn could have borrowed money from a friend to continue his habit.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I don't think so. He promised me he'd never do it again.”
Carter leaned toward her slightly and tilted his head. “Maybe you're right, but if you want me to help you, be prepared for the fact that your husband may have been at it again.”
“What does his gambling
have to do with the robbery and his death?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
She raised her eyebrows, encouraged. “So does this mean you’ll take the case?”
Carter took a moment, apparently going over the details in his mind. “I’ll need all the information you have about the robberies, contact information for the other gallery owners, a list of clients, and names and addresses of personal friends and associates of your husband. I'd also like to take his laptop.”
“Like I said. I didn't know his passwords, so I couldn't get in.”
“The police never asked for his laptop?”
“No.”
“Have you tried using nicknames, wedding date, birthdate, maybe names of pets, or his favorite artists?”
“I've tried everything I could think of,” she said. “Nothing worked.”
Carter nodded. “I have a guy who's good with computers, though his services aren't exactly legal.”
“I don't care. Whatever you have to do.”
“It's possible that Glenn actually knew the person who shot him. Someone in the art community, or possibly a client, so naturally I'd like to talk to everyone Glenn had recent contact with.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” Carter said. “Have you gone through all of Glenn's belongings? His car, his clothing, all of his pockets?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not yet. I haven't even gotten around to selling his car.”
“I know it's hard, but you need to look through all of his things. If something appears out of the ordinary, please let me know.”
“I understand,” she said, getting to her feet. “Just give me a few minutes to get everything together for you. I'll look through his personal things tonight and tomorrow.”
While we waited, Carter and I walked around the gallery to observe the artwork. The only thing I knew about art was that I couldn’t afford it. In my forty-four years, the only artwork I ever owned came from my son’s art class in grade school. Now that Brian was away at college, I cherished those finger paintings like they were priceless Picassos.
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