by Ted Clifton
He could tell from the exterior of the building, and the parts of the interior he could see through the window, that there had to be a large storage area connected with the loading dock—a secure area, for storing valuable paintings. He needed to get inside so he could determine what kind of security they had for that section. He pulled out his phone and called Clive.
“Hello.” Clive didn’t sound happy, even before he knew who was calling.
“Clive? Vincent Malone. I need to get into the gallery. Can you or someone come down and let me in?”
“Are you crazy? I’m not letting you in. You stay away from me, and stay away from Francis, or something bad is going to happen to you, you asshole.” With that, he hung up.
Clive sounded a lot more confident on the phone than in person. Maybe Francis had been in the room, making it show time for Mister Braveheart to act like a hero. Vincent didn’t bat an eye at being called an asshole—he’d called himself an asshole many times—but it did annoy him that he couldn’t get into the gallery. He called Tucker again.
“Hey, Vincent, I was just getting ready to call you back. What’s so urgent?”
Vincent filled him in about Ilse returning and going to the police. Tucker said he would chat with Jack Hill about it, but he would definitely be in Santa Fe in time to meet her at police headquarters. “I don’t have a problem with her making a statement, but only if I’m there to make sure the questions don’t get out of line. You planning to be there?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there, but at the moment I’m trying to get into the gallery to see what kind of security system they have. But Clive Walton—I guess he’s the guy in charge for now—said hell, no. Can we force him to open it up?”
“Hell yes, we can. Let me file something electronically with the court right now. We need to have access to the building so we can ensure that the paintings are properly safeguarded. I’ll file a request to have all the gallery’s assets frozen this afternoon, but you’re damn right. We need access to the building, immediately. Give me about thirty minutes, and you should be able to let Mister Walton know what we’ve filed with the court. Maybe he’ll be more cooperative.”
“You know there are millions of dollars of paintings in that building under the control of Clive or Francis or Taylor. Should we be concerned?”
“Fuck, yes. Just a minute, let me talk to someone.” Tucker was silent. A couple of minutes passed, with Vincent waiting, before he came back on the line. “I’ve contacted a security firm Hill uses here in Albuquerque—they have a satellite office in Santa Fe. They’re sending two cars with guards, and I’ve given them your name. Make sure nothing is removed from that gallery. As soon as I get the court documents filed, I’ll head your way.”
“Thanks, Tucker.”
Vincent called Clive. It went straight to voice mail. “Clive, we’re placing guards around the gallery. Don’t try to remove anything, because they’ll stop you. The proper documents have been filed with the court to allow us access to the building to view our client’s assets, and to make sure the building is secure. If you stand in the way or try to interfere, you’ll be held in contempt of court, or could even face criminal charges. If you have any questions, you can call Jack Hill or Peter Tucker at the Johnson, Johnson and Hill law firm in Albuquerque.” He wanted to sign off with, “a message from your friend, the asshole,” but he knew that would be piling on.
Vincent met the private security guards and went over the situation with them, as well as providing descriptions of Clive and Francis. He instructed them not to stop either from entering the building, but that if either took anything out, they should immediately notify him, and follow if the men left. He told them he would be back in touch in a few hours with more on what to do.
Having the guards made everything look secure, but Vincent wasn’t so sure. For one thing, the biggest issue had to do with funds, not works of art, and those could disappear in a matter of a few clicks. Still, one thing at a time. He headed for Santa Fe police headquarters.
As he walked in, he spotted the chief and waved.
Stanton came over. “They’re not here yet. Come on back.”
Vincent followed him into his tidy but cramped office.
“I should let you know, we secured a court order to allow us to monitor the gallery to prevent any of the art from disappearing. Clive Walton seems to be in charge, and I’m sure he’ll be calling you soon to have me arrested.”
The chief chuckled. “Clive, huh? I thought it was Francis who owned a piece of the company.”
“It is, but Clive’s turned into his spokesperson.”
“It’s been a long time since I took estate law in school, but even I can see this situation’s going to get complicated. What do you think happens to the business?”
“Well,” Vincent replied, “it can operate, since it’s an independent legal entity, and it can survive the owners, if there’s a succession plan. The question is ownership. It seems, as best anyone knows, that there aren’t any obvious heirs to Anna’s ownership interest, and that she didn’t leave a will. So, it goes to probate court. A judge will put some effort into a search for any relative of Anna Marks. It might be a cousin, or aunt, or uncle—any relative could potentially have rights. The court would try to determine what Anna would’ve done if she’d bothered to sit down and draft a will, but the judge can’t just say, ‘Well, let’s give it to Francis, he’s a good guy.’ There has to be a proper legal basis for whatever the court decides, like the existence of a next of kin. It’s rare that someone doesn’t have any relatives, but it happens. If there’s absolutely no one, then the court may decide to settle her estate. It’ll sell her interest in the business, pay off any debts she has, and give whatever’s left to the state. That’d be a little unusual, and subject to legal objections from wanna-be heirs, but it does happen. In this case, the most likely buyer might be Francis, but that would mean he’d have to come up with a bunch of money. From what I hear, he doesn’t have much left after his divorce. So, the bottom line is that this could go on for months, or even years, before the estate is settled.”
The chief nodded. “If Ilse knew all this, that would be a reason to make sure Anna stayed alive, rather than kill her. Getting her money out of Anna might take time and effort, and be annoying, but it sounds like probate court would be even worse.”
“Absolutely. Anna’s death really complicates her world. There are paintings worth millions locked up in a gallery whose ownership is in question, and may have to be decided by a court. And all the cash paid toward purchase of those paintings—deposits, and so on—is also locked up in the gallery’s bank account. Ilse doesn’t have her art or her money. As far as I could tell, the biggest point of contention between Anna and Ilse was that they both needed cash, and the sooner the better. I suppose some hard-ass cop could say she killed Anna in a fit of temper, fueled by passion or blinded by ignorance and wishful thinking, and never thought through what would happen to her assets if Anna was dead. But I don’t buy that.”
“So, if Ilse didn’t kill her, who did?”
“This is why you get the big bucks, chief—you get right to the point. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer.”
An assistant stuck her head into the chief’s office to say that Ilse De Vries and Bobby Hawkins were out front to see him.
“Is Hill or Tucker going to be here for this interview?”
“I spoke to Tucker not long ago, and he said he was headed this way.”
“Good. I’ll put them in a conference room, and we’ll wait for Tucker to get here.”
“You want to what!” Mary almost never raised her voice, but she did now. “You can’t do that. I will not allow you to do that. She’s not old enough! What are you thinking?”
“Mother,” Rick said, “she’s twenty. When you got married, you were what? Sixteen?”
Mary frowned and started to say something else, but hesitated. “Neither one of you has a real job. Her family will object. They sent her
here to get away from boys, not to get married.”
Hector was about to walk in, but stopped just inside the door. He saw Mary’s face and knew there was trouble.
“We’re both old enough to get married without anyone’s permission,” Rick argued. “We’re in love, and the jobs we have now aren’t going to be the jobs we’ll have forever. Mom, I have a college degree. Mariana has an associate’s degree in business. She was a bookkeeper. She can find a better job. We’ll be okay. Dad, am I wrong?”
Hector usually deferred to his wife, as much out of habit as anything else. He seldom saw things as black and white, which meant a lot of decisions in life could go either way, so why fight about it, unless it was obviously stupid? But on this question, he wasn’t going to be silent.
“You need to make sure that you both are emotionally ready to be life partners. Marriage isn’t a convenience for a few years. It is a commitment for life. Forget about jobs and money—that isn’t important in this decision. What counts is your commitment to each other. Make sure it’s more than just physical attraction, and that you both understand what this means—a lifetime commitment.”
Rick looked at his dad. In a few words—although more than Hector usually used—he’d summed up the situation, and made clear what was expected. “We’ll discuss it and make sure we’re ready. I won’t do this unless I’m sure Mariana and I are doing it for the right reasons.”
“That’s all we can ask.”
Rick hugged his dad. “Thanks.”
Tucker arrived, looking frazzled. “That traffic is idiotic. I thought this state was supposed to be sparsely populated—every one of them must have been on the same highway I was. Anyway—sorry, chief, for being a little late.”
“No problem. They’re waiting for us in the conference room. They want Vincent to sit in, if that’s agreeable to you.”
“Sure. I think that would be best.”
They entered the conference room, and everyone was introduced. Ilse seemed very nervous—the look in her eyes hinted she might bolt at any moment. They needed to start quickly, and the sheriff could see it. He immediately began his formal introduction for the record. “This is an interview to establish certain facts regarding Ilse De Vries and her interactions with Anna Marks. It is being recorded. Ilse De Vries has an attorney present, Peter Tucker, as well as an investigator, Vincent Malone, who works for Mister Tucker’s firm. Ilse, you haven’t been charged with any crime, and you can leave at any time. You’ve indicated you want to make a statement as to what occurred on the date of your art show involving Anna Marks, and events later that night. Does that state the reason for this interview correctly?”
She nodded.
“Be best if you gave a verbal response for the recording.”
“Yes, yes—that is correct.” she kept her eyes down, hunched, making herself seem small.
“Please tell us what happened that day and night.”
Ilse told her story. It was identical to what she’d told George Younger and Vincent, but with a few more details. By now it sounded a little rehearsed, but that’s what happens when someone tells the same story repeatedly—it’s not necessarily a sign that what they’re saying isn’t true. The chief asked several questions, and Ilse answered in a soft voice, never looking up.
“You took an overdose of prescription anxiety medication—was that an attempted suicide?”
Tucker interjected. “I understand why you’re asking, chief, but my client volunteered to give an interview today covering a very specific time period—that question is out of bounds.”
There was quiet in the room before Ilse spoke. “It’s okay, Mister Tucker. I took those pills because I was upset about everything. It wasn’t just Anna—it was my whole world. I don’t know if I meant to kill myself or not. I just wanted some rest, some peace—I overreacted. But I did not kill Anna.” Her voice was stronger now, and she looked directly at the chief as she spoke.
“Thank you for coming in. You should know that you are a suspect in the murder of Anna Marks, but for now you’re not under arrest. We ask that you remain in Santa Fe while we pursue our investigation. Thank you again for coming in and talking to us.” The chief got up and left the room.
Bobby glanced over at Tucker and Vincent. “What does that mean? Can we leave Santa Fe?”
It was Tucker who answered. “You can leave. The only way the police can stop Ilse is to charge her. I think the only evidence they have so far is the security video of her outside the gallery that night. If they had any forensics that could tie her to the car or the body, they’d have already charged her. So, you’re both free to go.” Tucker waited a bit for that to sink in. “That said, I recommend you stay in Santa Fe for at least a couple of days—not to deal with the criminal side of things, but to help us resolve the issues regarding the paintings and funds that are being held by the gallery. We expect to have several hearings very soon, and your presence may be required.”
“I don’t understand,” Bobby said, stress in his voice. “Why can’t you get a court to order that they pay Ilse what they owe her?”
Tucker answered, “Even without Anna’s death, that wouldn’t be simple. A business transaction that’s gone bad, even if there’s a good contract in place, can take time to resolve. The courts don’t like to make snap decisions, and they won’t make any without evidence, which means that until we’ve had a hearing, with testimony and documents and all the trimmings, no judge is going to make a ruling. The first step is to get all the assets frozen or in secure custody. That’s what we’re doing right now. But with Anna’s death and no obvious heir, there are added complications. It’s not even clear who owns the gallery, which means we don’t know who should be taking part in the hearing.” Tucker was trying to come off as reassuring, but it sounded ominous, anyway. “We’ve put security around the gallery, and we’re in the process of getting a court order to allow us to enter the building and inspect the paintings. But not long after that, someone—we don’t even know who yet—will hire an attorney and try to force us to release those assets so the business can function again. All that can take a fair bit of time.”
Vincent looked at Tucker. “Mind if I jump in?” Tucker nodded, so he spoke to Ilse. “It could be that it’s in your best interests to try to negotiate a deal with Francis and Clive. Francis apparently has a minority interest in the business, and Clive is advising him. I think we can safely assume they want to keep operating the gallery, which means they want to get all the legal issues behind them as quickly as possible. A long court battle is as bad for them as it is for you. If we can work out an agreement that is acceptable to everyone, it’s very possible the court would allow the business to operate until the issue of Anna’s estate is settled.”
“You mean work something out to continue in the business with Clive and Francis?” Ilse made a sour expression.
“That might be the best solution to the immediate cash flow problems of both sides.” Vincent was being pragmatic. Making a deal with your enemy might not feel right, but sometimes it was the best solution.
“What if they were the ones who killed Anna?” Bobby asked, mainly because he didn’t like Clive or Francis.
“Then they’ll be charged with murder,” Tucker said, going along with Vincent’s strategy. “But if we can make a deal, Ilse will have cash and should be able to get back any unsold paintings. Keep in mind that a murder case can take years to resolve, too.”
Ilse was thinking. She looked at Bobby, then Tucker. “Let’s negotiate. See if we can get some of the cash released.”
Vincent started to head for the Inn before he remembered he didn’t live there anymore. He knew Nancy wouldn’t be home until much later, and he was uncomfortable with the idea of going to her house—even if it was his, too, in theory—just to wait. He decided to stop by the gallery to see if anything had happened.
He approached one of the security guards, who was leaning on their car. It was a nice night in Santa Fe.
; “Seen anyone go in?”
“Yup, the two guys you described were here. One of them came over and asked us what we were doing. I’m pretty sure he wanted to yell at us, but he didn’t. I told him we were following a court order, just like you told us to say, and he wandered off mumbling something. They were in the building for about an hour, and then left. Nothing since then.”
Vincent walked around the building, not particularly looking for anything, mostly just killing time. Everything seemed normal. He got back into his car and left. He decided to run by the free clinic.
The place was run by Nancy’s uncle, Butch Collins, who most people knew as Santa Claus, due to his impressive white beard. The clinic served the street population, which was substantial in Santa Fe, and there were several agencies who provided services to the homeless in the same area. Homeless people seemed attracted to the city despite its harsh winters, possibly because its multi-cultural makeup and liberal local politics made it seem more inviting than many places. Vincent often found street people to be a reliable resource of information, if you had the cash to contribute.
“Hey, Butch, how’s things?”
“’Bout the same, Vincent. Dangerous and mean. How ’bout you?”
“Well, you know, I sure wouldn’t want this to get out, but things are going pretty good for me. And a lot of that good stuff has to do with your niece. She is one special person.”
“You got that right. You’re a lucky man, Vincent. I thought Nancy was done taking heartache from men, but I guess she sees something special in you.”
The lighthearted banter suddenly hit home, and Vincent realized all over again that he was exactly that—one lucky SOB. Rather than tear up and give Santa a hug, he changed the subject. “Sure you heard about the murder of the gallery owner.”
“Oh, sure. Always lots of gossip in this town. And the cops have been around a few times to find out if anyone saw anything around the park where the body was found.”