by Ted Clifton
“Why do you want to know about Hawkins?”
Vincent’s radar lit up. He does know Hawkins. “Just domestic snooping for the rich and famous. He’s involved with someone, and her family’s checking on him. It’s lousy work, but I have to make a living.”
“They should be checking—he’s not what he seems. Look Vincent, I’ve already said too much, but just tell that family to grab their daughter, or whatever she is, and run. Run away as fast as they can.”
“My god, Romano, you can’t just say that and not give me somethin’ more definite.”
The cop looked unhappy. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve got to promise me—this is just between us. He’s never been arrested, and I haven’t been involved in anything related to him. I’ve heard his name mentioned. Mostly it’s bar talk about him being under suspicion for drug dealing. This is high-end shit, mostly for famous people. But if it gets out that I mentioned anything to you, I’ll lose my goddamn job.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it quiet. Who’s running the investigation?”
“The feds. As far as we know, he’s clean in Denver. This is a New York-and-LA investigation. And I’m not sure the feds really know how he’s involved, but they came to us to help with surveillance on him. It was described to me as some kind of club, or group. You pay a big, fat fee to become a member, and then you get what you want in terms of drugs. Plus, there seems to be sex stuff, too.”
The whole story reeked of bullshit. “You’re making this shit up to just yank my chain, aren’t you?”
“Hey, I don’t know whether it’s true or not. I shouldn’t have said anything, okay?” Romano was nervous, which also made him irritable. “Just forget it, will you?”
“Sure, fine. I won’t report it to my client. But, look, if something does happen, you need to call me and let me know.” Vincent pulled out a card and told Romano he was still using the same cell phone number he’d had for ages. “Remember, if you find out something for sure about this guy, call me. Maybe I can help the girl if he’s really bad.”
Romano groaned like he was in pain. “Me and my big mouth. Yeah, if I find out anything for sure, I’ll call you. Where the hell are you now, anyway?”
“Santa Fe. Call me.”
Vincent went back to the hotel and checked out. He knew he should stay one more night and head back in the morning, but something told him he would sleep better if he wasn’t in Denver.
Bobby involved in drugs? That doesn’t make sense—but the part about hobnobbing with the rich and famous does. Jeez, is everybody pushing some kind of scheme? Probably. You’d think I’d know that by now.
So, is he giving Ilse drugs? Should I call Tucker and let him know about this little bit of gossip? I need facts first—real facts, not just rumors. How’m I going to separate the truth from the bullshit? Well, if you want to know somethin’ about a horse, go to the horse’s mouth.
Vincent spent the night at a Holiday Inn Express in Pueblo, where he got a great night’s sleep, and woke up before dawn feeling energized. He grabbed a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich at the drive-thru, and headed for New Mexico. He thought about his preference for McDonald’s, and decided it was just plain smart—the best bargain available, and Vincent was no food snob. He sipped his coffee, and wondered why the hell they always made it so hot.
He decided his first stop in Santa Fe would be the hospital. No one had called with an update on Ilse, which could mean nothing had changed, or simply no one thought of telling him. He needed to know her condition before going ahead with his other plans. He entered the hospital and stopped at the information desk in the main lobby.
“Ilse De Vries’ room, please.”
The elderly lady smiled at Vincent and began typing into the computer. “Sorry, sir, we don’t have a patient by that name. Maybe I spelled it wrong. Is it DeVries?”
“I think it’s two words, ‘D-E and V-R-I-E-S.”
She typed again. “No, no one by that name. Maybe the patient was discharged?” She seemed to want to help.
“Thanks, maybe so.” Vincent walked away, pulled out his phone and called Jerry. “Hey, Jerry, this is Vincent. Just got back into Santa Fe and stopped by the hospital to check on Ilse, but they don’t show her as being here now. Did she check out?”
“No. Well, I guess I don’t know. She’s not here, and her mother didn’t say anything about it this morning. Something sounds wrong.”
“Yeah. Is Bobby there?”
“I haven’t seen him this morning. Hold on, let me look outside and see if his car is here.” There was a pause, and Vincent could hear Jerry open the front door. “No car. Want me to check his room?”
“Nah, not right now. If his car’s not there, then I’m sure he’s gone. Let me get more information, and I’ll call you back.”
He returned to the smiling information lady. “I wonder if I could talk to someone who would know about the patient I mentioned?”
“Well, let’s see who the doctor is.” She began to type. “Hm. Not sure about this information. Maybe if you could just wait over there I will get someone to talk to you. Your name, sir?”
“Vincent Malone. I’m a friend of Ilse and her mother.”
He walked over to a waiting area and took a seat. He was getting a bad feeling. When the wait stretched into ten minutes, he figured something was up. He was about to get up to ask the nice lady what her game was when he saw the police chief headed his way. Something was definitely wrong. “What’s happened?”
“She left. Not sure exactly when, but hours ago. My guard was apparently having some bathroom issues, and was in the john several times during the night. During one of his breaks, she took off. I was just going over the security video when they told me someone was here asking about her. I was up to the point where Bobby Hawkins came into the hospital at about three-thirty in the morning. I think we’ll soon see what time they left. Want to join me?”
“Sure.” Vincent followed the chief to the basement and a cramped, dark security room with numerous monitors. The chief introduced the security officer for the hospital and asked him to restart the video. Soon they saw Ilse and Bobby leaving the hospital, with the video showing a little before four a.m. timestamp. Ilse didn’t look good.
“The nurses didn’t realize she was gone until almost six in the morning. And my guard never thought to check the room until then, so that’s when he found out he’d screwed up. We put out an alert on the car and both parties and contacted the state police, all around seven o’clock. But a head start of three hours could put them close to another state by then. So far, we haven’t informed any other states.”
Vincent caught a whiff of something and looked at the chief. “Now it’s almost ten. What’s the issue with contacting the other states?”
The chief looked unhappy. “I’ve asked someone in the AG’s office to clarify something for me. You see, technically, we never charged her. Because she was in the hospital and unconscious at the time we determined we would charge her for the murder, we never had a chance to actually follow through. I was reluctant to put out an APB regarding a murder suspect when we had hardly even questioned her, or read her rights to her. Sure would hate to have some overly eager Colorado Highway Patrolman shoot her as a murder suspect, and then find out she had a solid alibi. But I’m going to have to do something real soon.”
Vincent nodded. “Do the doctors think she’s at any risk medically?”
“They’re hedging their bets, giving me wishy-washy answers, so I’m guessing she is. But they’re just not sure how serious. They were running an IV, but apparently it was mostly to rehydrate her after the procedures they used to clean the drugs out of her system. They said she’d definitely be very weak and sleepy.”
“If she hasn’t been charged, I guess that means that Bobby didn’t aid a fugitive. Are you going to charge him?”
The chief shook his head. “This is one big fuck-up. I’m not sure what I’ll do. Probably won’t charge him if
we can get her back. Where do you think they might go?”
“I really have no idea. Bobby lives in Denver, but I think that’d be the last place they’d go. Ilse is from the Netherlands, and as far as I know, her only connections to this part of the world are Bobby and Santa Fe. So, if they’re running, I guess they could head anywhere—there’s no place that’s more or less likely than any other. The big question in my mind is, why run? Does that mean she killed Anna?” The chief stayed silent, which let Vincent think a moment before he went on, “There are other possibilities. Bobby may be rescuing her from her mother as much as the police. She just tried to kill herself. It may be her mental state that they’re trying to run from.”
“Whatever the reason, they’ve made a huge mistake.”
“What are you going to do about your guard?” Vincent smiled, even though it wasn’t really funny.
“The doctor gave him something for his stomach problems, and I sent him home. It’s hard to find anyone to take these jobs, and this guy is actually one of my better men. Guess I just ignore it and hope he’s learned a lesson.” The chief chuckled, also with little humor.
Vincent left the hospital and sat in his car a while, thinking. He pulled out his phone, but his call went straight to voice mail. “Bobby, this is Vincent Malone. You should know that you could be making a big mistake. The police aren’t certain yet what to do, but this isn’t going to just blow over. Once they decide on a plan, they can track your phone and your credit cards. Your smartest move would be to come back to Santa Fe. I’m pretty confident that if you come back now, there won’t be any consequences.” He wasn’t so sure about sticking his nose in, but getting them to come back still seemed like the best course, so he went with it, but added an option. “On the other hand, if I needed a place to rest and recuperate, I’d look at Durango. If you ever happen to be in that neck of the woods, you might want to look up my good friend George Younger. He’s in the book, under ‘attorneys.’ ”
Vincent couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he disconnected. He called Younger and left a voice mail saying a friend might be calling, and if he did, to let him know. Finally, he called Tucker.
“Sonofabitch, that is so fucking stupid. The police will zero in on her for sure, now. What do you think the chief will do?”
“I think all he wants is Ilse back, either in jail or in the hospital under guard. I don’t think he cares about charging Bobby, mostly because he’s not real sure there’s a charge that would stick. He’ll probably sit on this for a bit, but eventually he’ll go after Ilse because he thinks she did it. And at that point he’ll go after Bobby, too, if he gets in the way again. What do you want me to do?”
“Not sure yet. How did things go in Denver?”
“Okay, I think. I’ll give you a more complete report later.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Ilse’s hired us to help with the money side of things, so I think that’s what we should concentrate on until we know more about the murder charge. I’ll talk with Jack, but for now why don’t you nose around the gallery, and talk to that butterfly Clive to see what you can find out?”
“You know, I think calling Clive a ‘butterfly’ is some kind of slur.”
“Who gives a fuck?” Tucker clicked off. He was getting back into his old ways.
Vincent parked across the street from the gallery. He could see a lot of activity. Occasionally he would glimpse Clive directing some workmen who seemed to be crating the large paintings, but he wasn’t sure if that was what should be happening. They might have been some of the paintings that were sold, in which case they’d be packaged up for shipping to the new owners, which would be perfectly normal. Clive, butterfly or not, seemed to be in complete command. Vincent had gotten some background about Clive online, and knew he was well respected in the fine art field. One article said hiring Clive had probably saved the Howard Marks Gallery from bankruptcy.
He’d done some research on Francis Mitchell, too, but hadn’t found anything other than court documents from his divorce, besides bits and pieces related to his CPA practice and his Santa Fe address. He didn’t notice Francis at the gallery, and decided to drop by his house to see if he was home.
The address wasn’t far from downtown, in a quiet neighborhood of small, mostly adobe houses. They were different from what Vincent was used to. Most of them had an enclosed courtyard in front. Not a bad idea. As he approached, he noticed a doorbell button and intercom speaker next to the gate in the tall, adobe wall around the yard. He pressed the button. There was some delay, and he was about ready to conclude no one was home when he got a response.
“Yes, what do you want?” The voice wasn’t very friendly.
“My name’s Vincent Malone. I’d like to speak to Francis Mitchell.” No answer. He was about to say something else when the voice came again.
“I don’t want to talk to you, go away.” If a door had been opened, metaphorically, it had just been slammed in his face.
“I work for Ilse De Vries. I’m with the Johnson, Johnson and Hill law firm. We’ve been hired to look into some financial matters. If you don’t want to talk now, we’ll have a summons issued by the court. It’s your choice.”
A wise person would have just left Vincent standing there and gone about their business. But many people had an irrational fear of courts and the law. A summons, they imagined, meant they’d done something wrong. A page straight out of the lawyer’s—and politician’s—playbook; feed people bullshit to get them to do what you want.
“Okay, just a minute.”
Vincent wondered if Mitchell was calling someone to see what he should do. Or maybe, as was often the case, the mousy guy would turn out to be more dangerous than he seemed. Maybe old Francis was getting his twelve-gauge and would come out blazing. The thought wasn’t entirely serious, but he tensed, anyway.
He heard an electronic buzz-clack that meant a remote lock had been released. The gate was apparently more than just ornamental. Why such a secure barrier in such a peaceful neighborhood? The voice came from the speaker. “Come in.”
The thought crossed his mind, again, that one of these days he was going to walk into something he regretted. How many times in your life could you open a door, not knowing what was on the other side, without eventually getting yourself killed? He shuddered, but he went in.
The courtyard he crossed before reaching the front door was beautiful. Vincent wasn’t really much for noticing beauty for its own sake, but the flowers were gorgeous. He wondered at the effort it took to grow plants so lush, with bright blue flowers, in high-altitude Santa Fe. The door to the small house was bright red, set in white adobe. While not uncommon in many places of the world, it still surprised Vincent to see how many people hereabouts used very bold colors for their front doors. It was both refreshing and unsettling.
As he approached the colorful door, it opened. Standing in the entrance was Francis Mitchell, dressed in a flowery housecoat that was quite beautiful and very feminine. He wore enough heavy makeup to make a Vegas showgirl blush. He also was packing what appeared to be a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum handgun in a side holster slung on over the housecoat. The combination was unsettling. Even by itself the Dirty Harry pistol was serious business. More a cannon than a gun, it could blast an impressive hole right through that heavy front door, and what it would do to a human body was an ugly thought, indeed. Unsure how to start, Vincent fell back on banality, ignoring the gun as best he could.
“Hello, Mister Mitchell. How are you today?” Might as well be polite if you’re about to die.
“I don’t have to talk to you. You’re not the police.” Mitchell looked smug and defiant, but his body language contradicted him. He repeatedly jerked his left shoulder upward in a nervous twitch.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m not the police. I just want to talk to you a bit about the gallery business. It’s my understanding that you’ve been the company’s accountant for quite a few years, right?”
Mitchell
nodded. “Yep. I worked for Howard for a lot of years. He was my first real client back in LA.” There went the shoulder twitch. “I helped him a bunch, especially in the beginning. Howard knew how to sell—really a great salesman—but he didn’t know much about accounting, or how to read financials. I worked with him on basic business stuff, teaching him how to use the numbers to run a better business. He was a big drinker, and sometimes when he’d get drunk, he’d tell me I was the reason he’d become so successful. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Howard was something of a con man, always playing the angles in one way or another—he even conned himself.” Mitchell turned a little sad.
“You helped him open up his other galleries?” He wanted to keep Mitchell talking because it seemed to mellow him out a little.
“Yep. I put together all the presentations for the banks while he was borrowing money to expand. I usually went with him to help with the meeting, in case there were financial questions. He’d often refer to me as his partner, although at that time I didn’t actually own anything. He just used me to make the banks feel more comfortable.” Mitchell looked up at Vincent as if he’d only just remembered who he was talking to. “What is it you want, anyway?”
“Just a little background information, is all.” Vincent paused and gave Mitchell his best I’m-a-good-guy-and-you’re-not-crazy smile. “So, when Howard Marks died, and his daughter inherited the business, you stayed on to help her?”
“Fuck, help her? Nobody could help her. She knew everything—at least, she thought she did. And I didn’t stay on. Howard left me an ownership stake in the business, and I was looking out after my own interests.” Mitchell’s rouged cheeks got redder.
Now, this was news. Mitchell owned a portion of the business? Vincent went ahead cautiously. “Did it surprise you that Howard Marks left you a piece of the gallery?”
“A little. He’d always said he was going to take care of me in his will. But I thought that was just Howard bullshitting me, the way he had for years. Anytime I tried to raise my rates, he’d say something along the lines of, I was helping him build the business, and he would take care of me when the time came—whatever the hell that meant. That was just Howard, though. Even when he had money, he was cheap. I’d sold my practice before he died, but I kept him as a client. I moved to Fresno, where my new wife lived, and after that I more or less worked full-time for Howard. So, I guess I thought he might leave me a little something. But I was shocked that it was a share in the business. And I’ll tell you, Anna went ballistic. She inherited all of her father’s stinginess, without any of his charm or smarts.”