by L C Hayden
Chapter 24
Bronson sat still, watching the painting committee drive away. He put his boots back on as he grabbed the cell resting on the front passenger seat. All of this time, it had been on speaker mode and he hoped Cannady had heard the conversation. “Is anybody there?”
Silence.
Shiiit.
Bronson thought about disconnecting but then decided to add, “Hello? This is Bronson. They left.”
“Thank God you’re okay.” Bronson recognized Cannady’s voice. “You are okay, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine, just pissed off. Wish I had my side arm.”
“As often and as easily as trouble follows you, I’m glad you don’t have one.”
“I’d only use it to get out of trouble.”
“Yeah? I’m not sure that’s how it’d work out.” A small pause followed. “I’ve got a visual.”
Bronson glanced at his side view mirror. He could see two trooper cars heading toward him. “Sorry to have dragged you out here for nothing. They’re gone.”
“Wasn’t a complete waste. We ran that license plate you gave us. Its owners reported it stolen two days ago.”
“Naturally.”
“At least now we know the make and model of the car.”
“Bet you that if they haven’t yet, they’ll ditch that plate real fast.”
“Unfortunately, you’re probably right.”
The lead trooper, Cannady’s car, pulled in behind Bronson’s parked Cruze. The other vehicle sped past Bronson. Bronson waved at the trooper, hung up, and pocketed the cell. He stepped out, leaned against the car, and watched Cannady walk toward him. “Again, my apologies for wasting your time.”
“Our job is to serve and protect. You needed us. We came. It’s all part of doing our duty. Where are you headed?”
“Ellen’s making dinner tonight. I promised her I’d be in time to enjoy her efforts. Why did you ask?”
“I didn’t want you to get any stupid ideas like paying Amanda Wellington a visit. They more than hinted that she sent those hoods to threaten you. Even though she probably sent them after you, I want to remind you that we’re the troopers, not you. We will follow up. You’re to stay away from Ms. Wellington. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear.” Bronson meant what he said. He would stay away from Amanda. Instead, he would pay the “I Will Paint Anything” artist a visit. Bronson realized he had never mentioned the artist to Cannady. He should, he knew, but he’d do so after the visit. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Have a good dinner.”
He planned to, after he’d talked to the artist.
Cannady walked away and Bronson drove off. Guilt consumed him. He had promised Ellen to be there for dinner but now he was planning to pay the artist a visit. If he did, he might not make it in time for dinner. He called Mike and told him what had happened. “What do you advise?”
“This is strictly selfish advice, but if you don’t make it for dinner,” Mike said, “Ellen will have another reason for hating the job. Come over, have dinner, then we’ll both pay the artist a visit. On the way over there, I’ll even fill you in on my day at the school and at the lawyer’s. Just no business talk during dinner.”
Bronson agreed.
* * * * *
The large sign predominantly displayed at the entrance read: Sam Glass, Attorney at Law. Inside, a blend of oak furniture offset the aubusson rug that shimmered on the dark tile. Glass waited until his secretary—in fact, until after everyone—had left before making the call.
The phone rang three times before Miller picked up. “I Will Paint Anything for You. What’s your pleasure today?”
“Cut the sales pitch. This is Sam Glass. We may have a problem.”
The artist waited for the lawyer to explain. When he didn’t, Miller said, “What kind of problem?”
“Mike Hoover was here this morning.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a Dallas detective and Harry Bronson’s ex-partner. Bronson was also a detective in Dallas but is now retired.”
“Bronson?”
“Yeah, as in Lorraine Bronson’s brother.”
“What did Hoover want?”
“Asked me what my connection with Lorraine was. Naturally, I played ignorant. I told him she was Wellington’s special friend and Wellington has been my client for years, but other than that, I had no ties to her.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Seems to. He asked me if I had prepared a will for her. I told him, truthfully, no. He thanked me and left.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Hope you’re right,” the lawyer said. “Still, I wanted you to know. Maybe Bronson is trying to connect the dots.”
“I’m an artist. You’re a lawyer. What could possibly link us together?”
“The painting.”
“Except no one knows what we’ve done.”
“Lorraine knew and look where she ended up.”
“That was her fault for butting in where she shouldn’t have.”
Chapter 25
Bronson and Mike kept to their agreement. During dinner, neither mentioned anything relating to the ongoing investigation. Bronson knew Mike wanted to hear the details about his day, and he certainly felt eager to learn what Mike had found out about the school and the lawyer. But neither mentioned anything. Instead, they talked about mutual friends, the economy, Carol, and even the weather. After the main course, Ellen surprised them both with home-made apple pie.
The meal had been extremely satisfying, and Bronson wished he could kick back and watch T.V. Instead, both he and Mike helped clean the dishes. But even that, Bronson enjoyed. He liked seeing Ellen and Mike together, thrilled at their special relationship. Made him miss Carol more than ever.
“I’ve got some DVD’s we can pop in and watch.” Ellen opened a cabinet door revealing an extensive collection of movies.
Mike wrapped his arm around her. “Sorry, sweetheart, Bronson and I’ve got an errand to run.”
Ellen smiled. “No problem. Maybe when you get back. In the meantime, I’ll watch a girlie movie.”
Mike kissed her goodbye and turned to Bronson. “Ready?”
“Ready.” Bronson tossed Mike the car keys. “You drive.”
“Glad to see some things never change.”
“You boys be careful,” Ellen said.
“It’s nothing like that,” Mike answered. “We’re going to talk to an artist named Miller. See if he can lead us to the missing painting.”
“With Bronson around, that could be a dangerous mission.”
“Now you’re beginning to sound like Carol.” Bronson kissed her cheek.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
During the drive to Miller’s house, Bronson told Mike about Serafin’s murder and the incident involving the painting committee. Mike listened and asked several questions. Then he told Bronson about the school and his meeting with the lawyer.
“What’s your gut reaction?” Bronson asked. “Do you believe him when he said he only knows of Lorraine but has never actually met her?”
Mike frowned. “Glass must be an excellent lawyer. I couldn’t read him. On the surface, he seems to be what he claims, Wellington’s personal lawyer, but if there’s a connection to Lorraine, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Do you think it’s worth pursuing?”
“No I don’t, at least not at this point.”
Bronson looked out the window. Some dirt bike enthusiasts enjoyed the rough trails the mountains provided. A car filled with kids pulled up to an empty picnic bench. A man with his camera captured one of the many breathtaking vistas. People everywhere, enjoying this mountain playground. One day, he too might be able to enjoy himself, but not now.
Bronson turned his attention back to his ex-partner. “Consider it dropped.” He leaned his head back on the head rest. “What about the boys at the school? Do you think we should pursue that?”
“Yeah, definitely. If they’re that upset, they must have known Lorraine quite well. We might get some insight that can help us.” Mike slowed down.
“I agree. Maybe we’ll do that tomorrow.”
“It’s a deal.”
Mike executed a left, taking them down a tree-lined street. All the trees had reached maturity and had probably been planted at the same time these houses had been built, sometime in the 1950’s.
Mike parked the car in front of a gray wood shake, U-shaped home. Two large windows, both facing the front, gave little opportunity for Bronson and Mike to arrive unannounced. A single-car garage made up the left part of the U and therefore offered no windows, but also no protection for Bronson and Mike.
“Wish us luck.” Bronson rang the doorbell and pocketed the car keys Mike handed him. Seconds sped by. Bronson was about to ring again when he heard the sounds of a bolt being unlocked.
A small, frail-looking man opened the door. “Yes?” A screen door separated him from Bronson and Mike.
“Are you Larry S. Miller?” Bronson took a step forward, reaching for the screen door handle, finding it locked.
“Who wants to know?” Miller asked.
“Mind if we come in for a minute? We need to talk.”
“About?” A mixture of shock and fear crossed his face. “You must be Bronson.” He simultaneously tried to slam the wooden door shut and pivot. He succeeded with neither. He stumbled, caught his balance and took off running, moving away from the front door.
“He’s probably heading for the back door,” Mike said. “I’ll cut him off.”
Bronson pushed the screen door until the flimsy lock gave in. He ran past the living room and into the dining room. Bronson saw that the door leading to the backyard was closed. He tried the door handle. The door was unlocked. He stepped into the backyard and looked over the wooden fence that screamed for repairs.
He saw Mike running down the alley. He shook his head and shrugged. He too had lost Miller.
Shiiit.
Where had the little prick gone? Bronson heard the neighborhood dogs bark. What had agitated them? He ran back inside the house, this time heading for the hallway. He opened the first door. The bedroom’s window stood wide open, its curtains billowing out in the wind. As he climbed out the window, he called Mike on the cell. “He’s heading south. I’m following the barking dogs.”
When Bronson reached the sidewalk, he could see a figure running down toward the end of the next block. Bronson would have a hard time catching up with him.
Bronson got in the car, drove to the next block, and parked parallel to Miller. Not bothering to take the time to turn off the engine, Bronson threw the door open and bolted toward Miller.
By now the artist was half-a-block away, but he lost precious seconds by often turning to see how far back Bronson was.
Bronson increased his speed. His muscles protested, reminding him he was no longer the youthful man he once had been. Bronson ignored his screaming muscles and visualized catching his prey.
Bronson gained on Miller. When he was within touching distance, Bronson tackled the artist with the determination of a linebacker intent on winning. Both went down, Bronson on top of him.
It took Bronson a few seconds to regain his balance and breath. He knelt but hung on to Miller. Bronson turned him over and frisked him.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing?”
“It’s not what I’m doing. It’s what you’re going to do.”
Mike arrived and helped Bronson and Miller stand up.
“W-what d-do you mean?” Wide-eyed Miller first eyed Bronson, then Mike, then Bronson again.
A middle-aged man with more muscles than brains stepped out of his house. He carried a broom. He took a couple of hesitant steps forward.
Bronson reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, and opened it, revealing his retirement badge. He flashed it toward the good Samaritan. “This is official police business. This man is armed and dangerous. Get back inside.”
The man did as told.
“Bronson, are you crazy?” Mike spoke loud enough so only Bronson and possibly Miller could hear.
“Crazy enough to beat the shit out of this asshole unless he starts talking.”
Chapter 26
The call came just as Cannady was about to leave. She immediately picked up. “Did you get a match?”
“What? No ‘Hi, Elaine. How are you? Thanks for moving heaven and earth to help me.’”
Cannady rolled her eyes. “Hi, Elaine. How are you? Fine? That’s great. Me, too, I’m fine. How’s the family? Good. Mine, too. Well, not really. I don’t have a family. I live alone. Now that that’s out of the way, can we get to the purpose of the call?”
“Yes.”
Cannady immediately picked up on Elaine’s curt answer. She closed her eyes and rubbed them. “I’m sorry. I really appreciate you going out of your way for me. I’ve gotten very little sleep in the past few days and it’s catching up with me. Still, that’s not an excuse for rudeness. I apologize.”
“Apology is accepted, and I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have barked at you.”
“Apology is accepted.” Both laughed. Cannady said, “Glad we’re friends again.”
“That, we are and always will be.”
Cannady smiled, straightened up, and returned to her business mode. “What’ve you got?”
“It’s a match. The rifle you found under the bed was used to kill Lorraine Bronson.”
Cannady formed a fist and gave the air a victory punch. “You’re sure?”
“I’m as sure as day follows night.”
Prior to his death, Cannady had interviewed the suspect. He had no way to verify his whereabouts at the time of Lorraine’s death. He had known the deceased and claimed to have loved her.
“Did she love you?” Cannady had asked.
He bit his lip and looked away.
Love gone wrong—always a motive for murder.
Cannady made the thumbs up signal and smiled at Elaine. “That’s great news. I’ll notify Bronson.” She turned, heading back to her desk. Mario Serafin killed Lorraine and someone killed him. Was there a connection? Had she actually solved Lorraine’s murder?
* * * * *
Bronson and Mike, each on either side of Miller, dragged him back to his house and dumped him on the couch.
Miller began blabbering even before Bronson and Mike released him. “I—I didn’t do a-anything. P-please, don’t hurt me.” His lip quivered.
Bronson slammed his fist several times into the palm of his opened hand.
Miller whimpered.
Mike bent down, violating Miller’s personal space. His face was barely three inches away from Miller’s face. “Let me tell you how it goes. Me? I’m the good guy. I wouldn’t hurt you. But my buddy here? He’s got a real mean temper. He snaps and I can’t control him.” Mike backed off.
“I’m listenin’,” Bronson said.
Miller wet his lips. His eyes narrowed and he looked ready to cry.
“My patience sure is wearin’ down.” Bronson took a step forward.
Miller covered his head with his arms. “Don’t h-hit me. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Begin with the paintin’.”
“The . . . the painting?”
Bronson took another step toward Miller.
Miller once again cowered. “Okay, okay. It wasn’t my idea. Lorraine came to me. I didn’t ask her to come. I d-did nothing wrong.”
Mike placed a reassuring hand on Miller’s shoulder. “Take a deep breath.”
Miller did. He kept his gaze glued on Bronson’s face.
“Now begin at the beginning.”
“All I know is Lorraine gets this La Carcé painting worth close to a million bucks. She tells me she’s desperate for money so she wants to sell it. Problem is this guy she cares for gave her the painting and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
Bronson rubbed the bridge of h
is nose. Why would Lorraine need money—especially such a large amount? Wellington would give her anything she asked for. “What was her plan?”
“She figured if she sold it, and he found out, he’d be pissed and hurt. So she asks me to paint the same picture. She hangs up the copy in her house and sells the original.”
“Did she have a buyer?”
“Yeah. Sa—somebody arranged that for her. Don’t know who.”
“Do you have the painting?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, not here, though.” He bit his lip. “I’m almost finished with the second copy.”
Bronson glared at him. “You painted two copies?”
Miller gasped. “No, no.” He waived his arms sporadically. “I meant first copy. The original is one. The duplicate is two. The second copy.”
Bronson looked down the hallway. “You have a studio here?”
Miller nodded. “Last door, down the hallway.”
The door to the studio was closed. “You’re sure that when I search that room, I won’t find the paintin’.”
“N-no or yes. It’s too valuable to keep here.”
“Mind if we take a look?” Bronson asked.
“Go ahead, but you ain’t gonna find it.”
“Where is it, then?”
“I have another studio. No one knows about that one.”
“Take us to it.”
“No. That’s my secret place. I will go there, tomorrow at ten. I’ll get the picture and bring it to you. Meet me here at three.”
Chapter 27
A few minutes before seven in the morning, Bronson parked the Cruze four doors down from Miller’s house. The early morning sun glinted like aluminum foil, and a gentle breeze blew, flicking a small branch against the car’s window pane.
Bronson reached for the large thermos filled with coffee the way he liked it. He poured himself a cup and returned the thermos to the passenger seat. He was early, he knew, but he didn’t want to miss the chance to follow Miller to his other studio.