“Hey, Sarah. As far as I can tell, this is the most expensive piece in the gallery.” Carter pointed to a framed painting of a sailboat.
$16,500. I gasped. “Who can afford to spend that much on something you hang on your wall? My Toyota cost less than that,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I appreciate the talent, but seriously. What makes this painting worth over sixteen grand?”
Carter shrugged. “Probably the signature.”
Elizabeth returned and handed Carter a computer bag. “Here’s everything.”
Carter accepted it. “I'll need a retainer of four thousand dollars and you'll need to sign a contract. Once that's out of the way, I'll start making calls and conduct interviews. I'll send you updates every day via e-mail or in person.”
Elizabeth nodded and returned to the desk where she promptly wrote out a check. “Again, thank you for taking this on.”
Carter took one last look around and headed toward the door. “We'll be in touch.”
* * *
We made our first stop at one Chip Brenner's apartment, AKA The Hacker. For a price, Brenner could perform miracles when it came to computers. Carter had used his services on many occasions.
A kid in his early twenties – arms covered in tattoos – Brenner ushered us inside a dorm-sized room of a rundown apartment building. “Dude, what's up?”
Carter handed him the laptop. “The guy who owned this laptop is dead. We have his wife's permission to access the information.”
The kid shrugged as if it didn't matter. “What do you need? A password?”
“Yep. Once I get in, I'm good.”
Brenner quickly assessed the device. “2005 Mac. Should be a piece of cake.” He went to work while Carter hovered over him. There was nowhere for me to sit so I leaned against the far wall and watched the kid click away on the keyboard. I glanced around the room. Posters of rock bands adorned the walls and pot paraphernalia was strewn about the unmade bed. It was beyond my comprehension how youngsters – especially those who were perpetually high – had so much knowledge with gadgets when I could barely understand any of the functions of my smartphone.
Within six or seven minutes, the kid pumped his fist in the air. “Got it.”
Carter regarded him with awe. “You got the password already?”
“Mockingbird.”
Carter pulled out his wallet and extracted a fifty-dollar bill for Brenner. “Thanks, buddy. You never fail to impress.”
* * *
Back in the Buick, Carter massaged his temples. “Okay, so maybe Glenn had a thing for birds. Do you think Mockingbird has any significance?”
“Does it have to mean anything?” I said. “I've used bastard as a password.”
Carter laughed. “I'll go through Glenn's computer files later. Since we're out, we should go talk to the other gallery owners.”
Chapter 2
Carter and I strode past the cafes in the town square and continued three blocks north toward the river. The Caswell Gallery was located within a cluster of buildings that looked like a reproduction of an English village. We made our way through a path lined with blooming pots of daffodils and tulips. The other establishments within the micro village included a hair salon, a pottery shop, and a bakery.
A woman in her sixties was sitting behind a desk with a laptop in front of her. There was no one else in the shop.
“Good morning and welcome,” she said, looking up, “Please let me know if I can answer any questions.”
“Good morning,” Carter said. “Are you Gillian Caswell?”
She fondled the long braid that cascaded down her shoulder, the silver in her hair sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the window. “Yes I am.”
“I'm Carter. This is Sarah. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding the robbery that occurred here last month.”
Gillian rose to her feet. “Who are you? Reporters? I really prefer not to speak to reporters.”
Carter jabbed a thumb in my direction. “Sarah, please show Ms. Caswell your credentials.”
I fished my wallet out of my purse and begrudgingly held out my new Private Investigator's license. When she leaned forward to inspect it, her eyes grew wide and she looked up. “Private detectives? Who hired you?”
“Elizabeth Fleming asked us to look into the robberies,” Carter replied.
At the mention of her name, Gillian put a hand over her mouth. “Elizabeth hired you?”
“Correct.”
“I attended her husband's funeral about three weeks ago. It was a lovely ceremony. I feel so bad for them.”
Carter nodded. “The police are scarce on leads, so we've agreed to dig a little deeper.”
Gillian invited us to a sitting area with a coffee table. Once we got settled, she fondled her braid again as if the simple act comforted her in some way. “Of course I want to help you, but I've already given my statement to the police. Several times, in fact. I don't expect I'll ever retrieve the stolen paintings. Besides, I've already filed the insurance claim.” Gillian paused for a moment. “I can certainly understand why Elizabeth needs closure with all this. I wouldn't be able to rest until that burglar was behind bars.”
“Mind if I record our conversation?” Carter showed her his cell phone.
She hesitated. “I guess.”
He pressed a button and placed it in his lap. “Thank you. What were you doing just before the robbery on Friday evening, March 29th?”
“It was around four-thirty. I hadn't had a customer in the shop for several hours so I decided to close early. I remember it was raining like crazy that afternoon. Most of the other shops closed early, too. I called my husband and told him I was on my way home, and I went out back and shut off the lights. As I gathered my things to go, someone walked in. It was rather dark so I didn't get a good look at him. He locked the door behind him and I got a bad feeling. His face was covered with something. He pointed a gun at me. Said he wouldn't hurt me as long as I did exactly what he told me.” Gillian closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “He told me to lie down on my stomach and put my hands behind my back, which I did. He taped my hands together then put a piece of tape over my mouth.”
“I'm sorry you had to go through that,” Carter said. “Please continue.”
Gillian nodded. “When he was done tying me up, he grabbed my purse that I keep under my desk. I could hear him dumping the contents out onto the desk. I figured he was looking for my wallet.”
Carter nodded. “Did he say anything else to you?”
“No. He was as silent as a mouse. Mind you, I was lying on my stomach and couldn't really see what he was up to, but I assumed he would take off with a few paintings since I didn't have much cash in my wallet. I don't keep cash in the store because most customers pay with credit cards. The thief didn't dilly-dally. He was gone in a flash. He probably wasn't in the shop for more than a minute or two. The guy was a pro.”
“Did anything about the burglar seem familiar to you? His voice? His demeanor? His build?”
“Not really.”
“What was he wearing?”
She shut her eyes again as if that would help her remember. When she opened them, her gaze was confident. “A black trench coat and black gloves.”
“If you were lying on the floor, did you see his shoes,” Carter asked.
Gillian tapped a finger to her chin. “Actually, yes. He was wearing black boots with pointy toes and silver studs.”
“Like cowboy boots?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“How would you describe his voice?”
“Lower pitched and sort of gravelly. It almost sounded like he was trying to disguise it. Or maybe he was a smoker.”
“Age?”
Gillian shrugged. “It was hard to tell because his face was covered.”
“What about his build? Tall, short, fat, thin?”
“Just … average. I mean, it all happened so fast. It's not like I could get a good sense of him.”
“Can you tell me about the paintings he took?”
“Two local artists, each worth about eight thousand dollars. A Carlton and a Zaviroff.”
“Any idea why he might have chosen those two in particular?”
“Not really,” she said. “They were relatively small in size. Maybe he was running out of time and just grabbed the closest ones. There were certainly more expensive pieces he could have taken.”
Finally, Carter turned to look at me. “Do you have any questions, Sarah?”
Surprised that he actually remembered I was there, I turned to face Gillian and nodded. “I'm curious about one thing. Are you usually here at the gallery by yourself?”
“Yes,” she said. “I can't really afford to have any employees right now. Once in a while, friends will fill in for me if I need to run errands, but usually I'm here between ten and five. Why do you ask?”
“Is it possible the thief knew you'd be here alone that night?”
“I don't know,” she said. “Maybe.”
“How long have you owned the gallery?”
She smiled. “Almost ten years.”
“Have you ever had a burglary before?”
She paused. “No. Never. Which is why I never bothered having surveillance cameras installed. This is a good neighborhood. I've always felt safe being here by myself. Now my husband insists on coming here to help me close up every night.”
“And there were no eyewitnesses who saw the thief leave?”
“The police already questioned everyone around here. Most of the local shops closed early that night, so I assume everyone had already left.”
“Do you happen to know the owner of the Trask Gallery, the other place robbed that night?”
“Jason Trask? Yes, we've met before. He owns the fancy shmancy place on the other side of town.”
“Have you spoken to him about the robberies?” I asked.
She shook her head. “If I may be honest, I'm not a big fan of Jason's. I don't like to speak ill of people, but Jason has a reputation of being a duplicitous dealer.”
“What does that mean?”
“These are just rumors, mind you, but I've heard he cheats artists out of commissions. I also know from personal experience, Jason will do anything to win customers. He's even stolen a few away from me.”
“He's stolen customers from you?” I asked. “How does he do that?”
“He spends a lot of money on advertising, and often hosts extravagant openings. I guess some people are impressed by that.”
“Sounds like a highly competitive business,” I said.
She nodded.
“Had you ever met Glenn Fleming?” I asked.
“Only once. He came over a few weeks before he died. He wanted to talk about getting all the galleries together to host an art walk. You know, drum up business for the upcoming tourist season. He even offered to do all the promotion stuff himself. I agreed to take part and offered to help out with whatever he needed. We were planning to do it the first week in June. Now that he's gone, I don't know if I have the heart to proceed. It takes a lot of planning, and honestly, going door to door to each of the galleries in town would be too much.”
I glanced around the gallery but couldn't think of anything else, so I gave Carter the nod.
He stopped recording, reached into his back pocket, and handed Gillian his business card. “Thank you, Mrs. Caswell. We'd appreciate a call if you think of anything else.”
“Sure,” she said. “Happy to help. And feel free to browse the shop. We're having a sale – twenty percent off everything until this weekend.”
Carter offered a smile and a friendly wave good-bye. “Would love to, but we're on a tight schedule. Maybe another time.”
* * *
“What do you think of Gillian Caswell?” Carter asked as we made our way across town on foot to Jason Trask's gallery.
“All I know is that she must be a patient person to run an art gallery. Not one single customer walked in while we were there. How boring would it be to sit all day, with only a few looky-loos coming and going?”
“She could catch up on reading. And there's always Solitaire.”
“She doesn't seem like a typical gallery owner,” I said. “She reminds me of an aging hippie. If she's trying to cater to people with money, wouldn't you think she'd try to spruce herself up a bit?”
Carter raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to go back and give her some beauty tips? I can wait.”
I glanced down at my worn jeans, sneakers, and my favorite suede jacket with a missing button. “I guess I'm hardly qualified to give fashion advice.”
* * *
Ten minutes later we arrived at Trask Gallery, a brick building on a quiet street in downtown Bridgeport. Manicured Azalea bushes with fresh buds lined the entryway. The front door was open wide, welcoming all passersby to come inside and enjoy the offerings.
A small-statured man of about forty, -wearing a classic tweed jacket, khaki pants, and leather loafers, stood by the entrance. His hair was on the longer side, but trimmed to a fashionable style. He spoke with a pronounced Boston accent. “Mornin, folks,” he said cheerily. “Have you visited before?”
Carter smiled at him. “First-timers. Are you Jason Trask?”
“At your service. Is there a particular artist you're interested in?”
Carter scanned the room. “Actually, if you don't have any customers at the moment, we'd appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“Certainly. What can I do for you?”
“It's about the robbery last month.”
Jason tilted his head, confused. “Are you from the police department? Did you recover my paintings?”
“We're private detectives. I'm Carter, this is Sarah. We've been hired by Elizabeth Fleming.”
He paused. “Glenn Fleming's wife?”
Carter nodded.
He bowed his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It's a shame what happened to him. I wanted to attend his funeral, but I was out of town that weekend.” He looked up. “Why did his wife hire you?”
“To look into her husband's death.”
Jason hesitated then smiled. “How can I help?”
“Could you tell us your version of what happened the night of the robberies? If you don't mind, I'd like to record our conversation.”
“My version?” Jason said. “It's quite straightforward. A guy walked into my gallery and pointed a gun at my face.”
Carter said, “Please, Mr. Trask, I know it must be painful for you to talk about, but any details you can give us would be extremely helpful. Just start at the beginning and take your time.”
Jason let out a breath. “Okay, fine. I guess it was around five o'clock. I really didn't expect to get any more business that day because of the crappy weather, so I shut down my computer at my desk when someone walked into the shop. When I looked up, I saw someone shutting the blinds on the front window over there. I found it quite curious at first, but when I saw he was wearing some kind of ski mask … well, it was shocking. He pointed the gun at me, told me to lie face down on the floor. I was so stunned by what was happening that I simply froze. He came closer and repeated himself. I finally got my legs to work. I told him I didn't want any trouble, and I got down on the floor.”
“What happened next?” Carter asked.
“He tied my hands behind my back with duct tape and put a strip over my mouth.”
“But he didn't hurt you?”
Jason shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, he wasn't rough at all. I got the sense that he had no intention of hurting me, but I couldn't be sure at the time.”
“Okay,” Carter said. “Then what?”
Jason continued, “He took the wallet out of my back pocket. Then I heard him going through my desk drawers, probably looking for a cash box or something.”
“Do you have one?”
“Yes, but I don't keep it in my desk. I keep it in a safe under the … any
way, that's not important.”
Carter smiled and nodded. “Go on.”
“So after he went through my stuff, I thought I heard him take something off the wall. I couldn't really tell what he was doing, but he didn't stick around very long. When I heard him leave, I was somehow able to get to my feet. By the time I got to the window and looked outside, he was long gone. Luckily my cell phone was face up on my desk. I was able to speed dial the police. They got here within five minutes. That's when I noticed two paintings were missing from the wall. I was also pretty upset about another thing. A client had given me a Cuban cigar. It was on my desk, still in the silver tube. An Arturo Fuente. Very expensive. I was really looking forward to smoking it.”
Carter asked, “Was there anything about the thief that seemed familiar to you?”
Jason paused. “No. In fact, the only time he spoke was when he told me to get on the floor.”
“Do you remember what he was wearing, other than the ski mask?”
Jason shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I think he was wearing some kind of black rain jacket. And he definitely had gloves on.”
“What about his footwear?” Carter asked.
“I don't really remember.”
“Cowboy boots?”
Jason pursed his lips in concentration. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that's right.”
“So you never told the police about his boots?”
“I don't remember. They seemed more concerned with the gun. I couldn't help them with that. I wouldn't know the difference between a revolver and a pistol.”
“Was there anything else about the thief you remember?”
“Well, he had some kind of briefcase with him. I do remember telling the police about that.”
“What did the briefcase look like?” Carter asked.
“It was a hard case, not a soft one. Black, or maybe dark brown. That's probably where he put the paintings before he left ... so they wouldn't get wet.”
Carter said, “They must have been pretty small paintings to fit inside a briefcase.”
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