by Martin Clark
“I certainly don’t have any art,” Joel told her. “I’m not following you.”
“Bear with me for a moment,” she said. “When a piece of fine art disappears, the local agencies contact us and we place the information in our system. We even have a website now. Obviously, we enjoy a close working relationship with galleries and dealers and collectors—and insurance companies.”
“Makes sense,” Joel said. It seemed to him that Hobbes had slipped nearer, was erect and rigid and cutting off his view of the room. Agent Woods had also crept forward.
“In June of 2001, a Chagall painting entitled Over Vitebsk was stolen from the Jewish Museum in New York City. It was on loan from a private collection in Russia, and we very much want to recover it. We want it because it’s quite valuable, but also because this is embarrassing to the museum and to law enforcement in our country. People won’t lend us their art if we can’t protect it, and that’s a bad thing for everyone, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t have it,” Joel said. “I promise. You can check my closet.” He noticed Hobbes’s annoyance and instantly regretted being flippant.
Anna Starke smiled. “We know you don’t. But what you do have, Mr. King, is a diamond and ruby ring that was stolen at the same time, from another display that was also on exhibit there. And we want to know where you got the ring so we can find the painting.”
“My mother,” Joel lied. “She gave me the whole collection.”
“No one here believes that,” Woods said.
“We really aren’t after you, Mr. King,” Starke assured him. “Not really. But you’ll leave us very few options unless you tell the truth.”
“Why do you think my ring is the stolen one? It looks like any other ring to me.”
She wasn’t fazed by his protest. “Not so. There were two rings taken at the same time as the Chagall. They were given to two daughters by their father, and we refer to them as the red and green sisters. One is set with rubies and diamonds, the other with emeralds and diamonds. The red sister is the ruby piece, the one you took to the State Farm agent here in Missoula. The—”
“You can’t tell something such as that from a picture,” Joel interrupted. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“Oh, but you see, I can. I can indeed, because the sisters have been examined and photographed extensively over the years. Moreover, both were photographed and catalogued before they were lent to the Jewish Museum. I know what the filigree down each side looks like, I know the number and sizes of the stones, I know the setting type and most of all I know there are three tiny initials—NWT—inside the red sister’s band. When we enhanced the photos taken at the State Farm office and the lab people did their magic, I can see an N and part of a W in the photo. You’ve got the red sister, Mr. King, and I’m sure of it.”
“So . . . so . . . What you’re saying is the jewelry I have—had—is stolen?” Joel sounded truly surprised, and his shock caused a barely perceptible grimace to hurry through Hobbes’s face.
“Precisely,” she replied. “That’s correct. I’ll even say it for you: The ring you took to State Farm was stolen from an exhibit at the Jewish Museum. Stolen on the same day as a very important painting and stolen by the same people.”
“And we want to know where you obtained it,” Hobbes added.
Joel was stunned, speechless. His fingers were entwined so desperately that the blood had fled his knuckles, blanching them.
“This is your day, Mr. King,” Woods encouraged him. “We’re after the big fish, not you. But you stick to this bullshit, and we’re gonna send you to prison again. Comprende?”
“Yeah,” Joel said. “Are you planning on arresting me now? Today?”
“It’s certainly a possibility,” Hobbes answered.
Joel slumped well into his seat, struggling to think, to arrive at a sound decision. There was a thumping inside his head, a drumming that pulsed and surged and ached as far down as the bridge of his nose.
“What’ll it be, Mr. King?” Anna Starke asked. “Seems to me you’ve only got one option.”
Joel looked at her, then began a progression along the line of faces and merciless expressions. “You know,” he said when he reached Hobbes, the last of the four, “I think I want to speak to my lawyer before I say anything else.” His voice cracked on several of the words.
“Ha!” Hobbes bellowed. “Your lawyer?”
Woods shut his eyes and wrinkled his lips, released a peeved, disgruntled sound.
“Yes. I’m not trying to be uncooperative, but I’d like to have someone here to speak for me. Someone on my side.” Sa’ad’s voice was burned into his mind, surfacing through all the muck and confusion: I want to speak to my fucking lawyer. I want to speak to my fucking lawyer—that’s the mantra, Joel.
“That’s your option,” Hobbes said, “but the longer you put us off, the worse things become for you. If we solve this little mystery by ourselves, you’ll have nothing left to barter.”
“I want to help, but I’m going to keep quiet until I have a chance to discuss things with my attorney,” Joel said. “I haven’t done anything wrong, so I don’t think waiting will affect me one way or the other.” He was able to mouth the words with a trace of confidence. “I guess you just need to go on and do what you have to do. I sure don’t want to be arrested, but if that’s what’s in the cards for me, so be it.”
Hobbes bent forward so his face was level with Joel’s, no more than a foot away. “Where are you from, Mr. King?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“Where are you from originally?”
“Oh. The Midwest. Indiana.”
“The heartland,” Hobbes said. His breath made it to Joel’s nose, smelled clean and cinnamony. “Me, I’m from North Carolina. Greensboro, North Carolina.”
“Okay,” Joel said.
“You follow wrestling, Joel?” Hobbes asked.
“Wrestling?”
“Yeah, wrestling. Professional wrestling.”
“Not really. Can’t say—”
Hobbes talked over Joel’s answer. “See, I grew up with it—‘Rip’ Hawk, Swede Hansen, Johnny Weaver, Chief Wahoo McDaniel, the Amazing Zuma, Andre the Giant. Came on Channel Eight when I was a kid, and a guy by the name of Charlie Harville did the announcing. Even traveled right to your hometown, had matches in the high school gym. Yessir. I’m not sure about Indiana, who your champ was. Might’ve been Dory Funk Sr., but don’t quote me on that.”
Joel wondered if Hobbes was threatening him, if he was on the verge of asking everyone to leave and close the door behind them and stay gone for five minutes. “I’m not familiar with any of those people,” Joel said with an uninflected voice. “Sorry.”
“I watch it to this day. It’s big-time now, sells out arenas. And you have to buy the good matches on Pay-Per-View.” Hobbes leaned away and allowed Joel some space.
Howard was spellbound by Hobbes’s narrative, waiting intently for the punch line.
“And you know what I’ve discovered watching wrestling for almost three decades?” Hobbes asked but didn’t wait for anyone to respond. “I’ve discovered that only the villains, the heels, have managers. I remember a fellow by the name of J. C. Dykes who managed the Infernos. All that sonofabitch ever did was help them cheat—he was constantly slipping them a piece of steel or distracting the ref or grabbing the other side’s tights or blindsiding some helpless opponent with his cane. It’s the same today. Your Jimmy Harts or your Bobby Henans—they’re there for one reason and one reason only. To cheat, to foul up a fair match, to help a lesser man prevail. And you know what?”
“What?” Joel asked reflexively.
“That’s what lawyers do, too. They’re the assholes in coats and ties trying to trick the refs or get their man into the ring with a loaded boot. To this day, I’ve never seen an honest wrestler with a manager or an innocent man who asks for a lawyer. You asking for a lawyer is just like saying ‘I’m guilty, I’ve got something to hide,
but I hope I can find a shyster to create a diversion and hit the system over the head with a folding chair when no one’s looking.’ That’s what you’re telling me. You’re the guy wearing the mask waiting for some mouthy lout to save you from a three-count, to rescue your pansy ass when you’ve been legitimately whipped.”
“Exactly,” Howard said, clearly impressed by the analogy. No doubt it would soon appear in his repertoire along with the cat-and-train fable.
“I’m not guilty of anything,” Joel responded.
“Then why are you squalling for a lawyer?” Hobbes said. “Why won’t you cooperate with us?”
Joel dallied before answering, rolled his wrist and checked his watch, toed a small puddle underneath his foot and stared at an ugly brown water stain on the white ceiling tiles. These people were going to do what they wanted, and his answer probably didn’t make a great deal of difference. “Isn’t all that wrestling stuff fake, just bad theater? Soap opera in briefs?”
“So that’s it?” Hobbes asked. “You’re shutting us down?”
“I’m not trying to cause trouble, but yes, for right now I am. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“I wish we could change your mind,” Anna Starke said.
But they didn’t arrest him, thank goodness, merely asked him when he wanted to meet again and gave him business cards and warned him about departing town and browbeat him for a few moments more and finally let him walk out of Howard’s office. Still, it was fair to assume the moment was drawing nigh when Hobbes and Woods and two or three others would appear at Sophie’s and take him to jail, slap the cuffs on his wrists and cinch them so they left pink imprints in his skin. It was also a given that his phone line was now tapped and someone would be following him wherever he went. He stopped at a pay phone about a mile from Howard’s office, called Sa’ad and left a message, told the secretary there was an absolute emergency in Missoula—he needed a private face-to-face conference about legal matters. Sa’ad was out of the office, and Joel advised her he’d call again, that he was being tailed by the police, his calls most likely monitored by the FBI.
It didn’t stop there. Yet another fierce snowstorm had arrived while Joel was being eviscerated at Howard’s office, and he lurched and spun his way home, barely able to see the road through the sheets of white that unfurled from the sky. He hit a patch of ice and skidded two wheels into a ditch, fishtailed and slipped and nearly got stuck for good before the tires gained traction again.
The house was comfortable when he finally arrived, the temperature agreeable, and he changed clothes, put on jeans and a flannel shirt and wiped his face with a warm washcloth. He was so agitated that he simply paced, rambling around the house without any intent or route. He tried to recover in bed but couldn’t lie peacefully. He wasn’t hungry, didn’t eat, and time was painful, wouldn’t pass, seemed to accumulate in bottlenecks and refuse to leave. The snow kept falling, had piled three inches high on the Taurus’s hood by one o’clock.
The phone rang at fifteen after one, and Joel expected to hear Sophie when he answered, assumed she was calling about Baker and school’s early dismissal or a change in her own plans because of the weather. Instead, he was surprised by a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize, asking if he was Joel King who used to live in Roanoke, Virginia. Joel wasn’t sure why he was being quizzed, and he wasn’t able to think clearly, was edgy and apprehensive and so discombobulated that his mind short-circuited for a moment, went haywire.
“Mr. King?” The woman’s voice.
He was lost, didn’t respond.
“Mr. King?”
“Huh?” he finally muttered. “Yes?”
“Please hold for Detective Hubbard.”
“Who?” Joel stammered.
A male voice came over the line. “Mr. King, this is Detective Louis Hubbard with the Roanoke City Police. How are you?”
“Fine,” he lied.
“I’m glad to hear it,” the man said.
Joel pinched his cheek until the intentional pain sharpened his attention and jarred his senses. “Who is this?” he asked.
“Detective Louis Hubbard, from Roanoke. Do you remember me? I handled the case involving you and a Miss Christina Darden, a girl from your former church. I interviewed you a couple times and testified at your sentencing hearing.”
Joel recalled gray hair, blue eyes, an odd nose. “Yeah. Yes. But I’ve served my time for that. I’ve been released. I’m living with my sister, working every day.”
“Excellent.”
“Why are you phoning me?” His mind was mostly in synch again.
“Do you care if I record our conversation?” the detective asked.
“I guess not.”
“You have to give me a positive answer, a yes or no, so there’s not any doubt.”
“You can record if you want to—it’s fine by me. Is this about the jewelry? I’ve already talked to the FBI.”
“Pardon?”
“The, uh, jewelry . . .” Joel stopped, censoring himself. “We were robbed, my sister and I. Lost some things. But the police here are already looking into it.”
“No, I’m calling about something else. About our friend Miss Darden.”
“Uh-huh.” Joel’s answer was a grunt, two run-on raspy syllables.
There was a pause while the policeman waited to see if he would volunteer more. “You seen her recently, Mr. King?” Hubbard asked, ending the calculated silence.
“Recently?” Joel asked.
“Yeah. When’s the last time you had any contact with Christina Darden?”
“Contact . . . well . . . uh, let’s see.” Joel was delaying. “There in Roanoke, but I couldn’t tell you the exact date. I saw her at a deposition— she sued me and the church because of what happened.”
“I’m aware of that. The court case and everything. You see her after the deposition, any other time afterwards?”
“No,” Joel said. “Absolutely not. Why would I?”
“You tell me,” Hubbard said. The connection waned for a moment, made his voice sound tinny, and a static surge caused buzzing electrical noises underneath the words.
“Excuse me,” Joel said. “I’m having trouble hearing you.”
The line cleared. “You’ve haven’t seen Christina since Roanoke, months ago? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Exactly. Correct. It’s been months. She sued me—why would I have any reason to see her?” Tut flew onto the kitchen window’s sill, began tapping the glass with his yellow beak. The hen fluttered up beside him, and they both looked inside, jumped their necks and heads from position to position with no stopping in between.
“I’m asking you,” Hubbard replied.
“I don’t know much more to tell you. I haven’t seen or spoken to the girl since we were at the law firm giving our statements. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yeah?”
“You mind explaining why you’re questioning me about her?” Joel was polite.
“Seems she’s gone missing.”
“Oh, really?”
“You surprised?” Hubbard asked.
“I’m nothing,” Joel answered. “I don’t really have any reaction. I hope she’s okay.”
“Me too. But, you know, it’s peculiar. She simply disappeared. Gone. Left her clothes, her car, her money in the bank. Vanished into thin air, we like to say. Rare for a person to up and leave and not take money or clothes or a car.”
“How long?” Joel wondered. “How long’s she been gone?”
“Eight days now. No contact with anyone, and no credit card activity.”
“Huh. Well, as I said, I hope she’s safe. She’s not a bad girl.”
Hubbard was silent for several seconds. “You ever see her before the shindig at the lawyers’ office, any time before you went over to Gentry, Locke to give your testimony?”
“Why’re you asking?”
“Why do you think I’m asking, sir?” Hubbard said.
“I’m not
sure.”
“Not sure of what—whether you saw her or why I’m asking?”
“Not sure,” Joel answered cryptically, his voice dying.
“You’re dodging me, Mr. King. You either saw her or you didn’t. Maybe, for instance, you met her at the mall and got into a bad disagreement.”
“The mall?”
“So did you meet with Christina Darden at Tanglewood Mall the day before your deposition here in Roanoke? Yes or no?”
“I think I’ve said enough. I haven’t done anything wrong, I haven’t seen her since the legal proceedings at the law firm and I don’t know anything—anything—about her disappearance or where she might be. That’s it, that’s the end, that’s all I’m saying.” Joel wanted to sign off as best he could, make sure the recorder captured his grand profession of innocence.
“Her folks invited us to look through her room,” Hubbard said, “to see if we could find any clues.”
“So?”
“So we found the cassette tape she took from you at the mall the day before you and her were supposed to testify, the one where you’re in a nasty, cursing fight and she threatens to report you to the police. You recall that, don’t you?”
“I don’t remember,” Joel answered.
“The fact you’re evading me doesn’t help any, Mr. King, causes me to think you know more than you’re letting on.”
“About what?”
“About her location or what’s become of her.”
“How’s there any connection? Are . . . are . . . you trying to suggest . . .” Joel wasn’t able to finish; he felt his esophagus clamp shut and air get scarce.
“Makes sense to me,” Hubbard said. “Sure.”
“Certainly you don’t think I’d do anything violent, that I’m involved with her disappearance?”
“Well, let’s see—she’s ruined your life and career, stuck it to the church you love despite you beggin’ her not to and is plannin’ to have you sent back to jail. You could find some reasons in that. A motive.”
An eruption of gut-bred anger replaced Joel’s choking, enfeebling fear. “For goodness sakes, Mr. Hubbard. Think about what you’re saying.” Joel was indignant. “It’s plain silly—the notion I’d do something to a teenage girl because of a lawsuit and a few days in jail. And why now, huh? Explain why now, the timing. She’s already testified, the damage is done and obviously she didn’t report me. And the church hasn’t lost a penny. It’s an insurance matter. You’re being foolish. You and I both know—and I’m not trying to be critical—that she’s probably on a party binge somewhere or shacked up with a frat boy.”