by Ted Clifton
Rather than stopping in the Crown, he decided to head home and take a nap. He wasn’t really a nap person, but he also wasn’t as young as he’d been once upon a time. The nap lasted longer than he expected.
“Hey there, road warrior. All tuckered out?” Nancy was smiling, holding out a cold beer.
“Sorry, it was just going to be a quick nap but—holy crap, it’s dark already. Give me just a minute, and we can get going on our date.”
“Don’t worry. I canceled the reservation, and our pizza just arrived. The favorite food of lovers and old people.”
“Do I get to pick which I am?”
“Okay with me if you’re both.”
Vincent got up, took a quick shower, and joined Nancy for beer and pizza. He’d rarely felt better in his life. Must be the nap.
“So, what did you find out in Las Cruces?”
Vincent gave her the whole rundown.
“Do you think he was actually there?”
“My guess is no. Joyce might have been acting some, but what I saw was real anger, real hatred. I think if Trent was around, he’d be in serious danger from his giant, lethal half-sister, and he has to know that. Lots of things I still don’t know, though. Does he really own the gallery in Las Cruces? His mother’s paintings were good, I guess, but in a strange sort of way. Not sure you’d sell too many, even if you had foot traffic coming through, and I got the impression not many people wandered in there. Why would he continue to fund it—if he’s doing that—just to have a place for his mother’s paintings to be displayed? And the big question is, where is Trent now?”
“You know I own a bar, right? You keep saying you can walk into any bar and learn information about the local community just by paying the bartender. If I saw that sort of thing going on in my bar, I’d fire the bartender in a New York second. So, how do you get away with doing that?”
“First, I would never do it in your bar—at least, not anymore. And second, if you could spot a bartender making money on the side, he or she wouldn’t be much of a source. You should be proud that your profession acts as a much-needed information clearinghouse for your community.”
“You are so full of shit.”
“I’ve been accused of that before, but never by such a lovely lady.”
Comforts of home: a beautiful woman, pizza and beer. Must be heaven.
Vincent’s phone buzzed.
“Malone.”
“Hey, Vincent, Chief Stanton. Got some time that we could visit?”
“Whatever they said about me, it’s a lie.”
“You’re hilarious—for a PI, anyway.”
“So I’ve been told.”
They arranged to meet that afternoon at the chief’s office. Vincent went back to reading the morning paper. The national news seemed to be about politicians lying or being accused of lying, although the reporting seemed more focused on assessing the skill with which the bad behavior was conducted than on condemning it. How the world arrived at a place where flat-out lies were okay, as long as your political opponent lied as well, was beyond Vincent. So, one guy was a four-star liar and the other a two-star. How about someone who doesn’t lie? He shook his head.
Vincent parked a block or so from the clinic and walked the rest of the way. The weather was perfect. There was a little moisture in the air, which might have been what caused it, but whatever the reason, it seemed to make everyone feel more upbeat than usual. The promise of rain must be something buried deep inside the human genetic code, because everyone he saw was smiling.
“Good morning, Butch.”
“I think it is a good morning, Vincent. Lots of people out early, and everyone seems to be in a good mood.”
“I noticed. Any action on my info request?”
“Nope, a little early. Takes a while for the human grapevine to spread the word. This isn’t cable news, and it sure as hell ain’t the internet. I’d say another day or two, and we should start to hear something. Of course, it’s possible no one wants to talk about dead bodies. These people mostly survive by not trusting anyone who isn’t one of them.”
Probably a sound approach. Vincent was debating with himself over a second breakfast when his phone vibrated. “Malone.”
“Just got a call from Curtis Howard. He’s representing Clive and Francis. We’ve exchanged some ideas on how to resolve some of the issues about the frozen assets, and he called to say they want to meet this morning. Curtis Howard was a partner of Stephen Martinez—remember him? Nobody wants to, these days. Even the firm name is now just Howard and Fitch. Anyway, I know this is short notice, but I thought you might want to be there.”
“And hello to you, too, Tucker. Sure, I can be there. When and where?”
“At their office, same place as the old Martinez, Howard and Fitch firm. I told them to give me an hour to get there. That work for you?”
“Yep. Will Bobby and Ilse be there?”
“No. Just got off the phone with them, and they asked me to call you—you seem to have developed a couple of fans. Anyway, they said they didn’t see any reason to be there, so we should just do our thing and let them know the outcome.”
“Are you in your car? It sounds like you are.”
“Yep.”
“You know you shouldn’t drive and talk, right?”
“So, fuckin’ sue me.” With that, Tucker disconnected.
The law office was just off the downtown Plaza. Vincent decided to walk, since he had time to kill. A big second breakfast seemed like a bad idea, but he was drawn to the aroma of a small bakery. He chose a sandwich of green chili, pepper-jack cheese, chorizo sausage, and egg on a croissant, and it turned out to be the most delicious thing he’d eaten in a long time. If it hadn’t been for his ever-expanding waistline, he would have had another. Instead, he took his coffee and walked around the Plaza. Vendors were arranging their wares on the sidewalk—a daily routine on the Plaza, people hawking a variety of items ranging from cheap trinkets to high-priced jewelry. He found a bench and watched. He never thought he’d become an old man sitting on a bench, watching the world amble by, but he could see the attraction, at least briefly. He felt very content.
After a while, he broke the spell and headed to the law firm. He’d been to the office before to address some problems with the former partner, Martinez. Apart from taking Martinez’s name off the sign, not much had changed.
“Good morning. Vincent Malone. Here for a meeting with Mister Howard.”
The receptionist was an older woman with a friendly face. “Of course, Mister Malone. As soon as Mister Tucker arrives, I’ll show you both to the conference room.”
She offered coffee, but Vincent was stuffed, and declined. He took a seat and waited, wasn’t there long when Tucker arrived, and they were shown to the conference room. Clive Walton and Francis Mitchell—dressed in a very conservative blue suit, this time—did not get up or even acknowledge them. Curtis Howard stood to shake their hands.
“Will Ilse be joining us today?”
“No. I told her I thought it might be more productive if she wasn’t here. She’ll be available if we need to consult with her, to get instructions. She did request that Mister Malone, our investigator, attend, if that’s acceptable.”
Clive gave an odd twitch that suggested he wanted to say something, but stayed silent.
“Sure, that’s fine.” Howard just wanted to resolve the legal issues, and probably wasn’t aware of any lingering personal conflicts. He summarized the discussions and proposals that had taken place prior to the meeting. He was a detail-oriented attorney, often referring to his notes to make sure he was stating the matters correctly. “First, my clients have agreed in principle with your proposals, such as a complete audit of the financial dealings between the two parties for the past twelve months—that’s agreeable. We can discuss what approach to use in choosing an independent auditor at a later time. You’ve requested they release all paintings for which the gallery doesn’t have a signed sales agreement w
ith a deposit. We agree that those are your client’s assets, but there’s been a great deal of prep work and expense put into the showings at the other Howard Marks Gallery locations. The contract between the parties that’s in place now calls for those pieces to remain under the control of the gallery until the final show in New York. We think it’s still in the best interests of everyone for that to proceed as planned.”
“Our concern,” Tucker replied, “is related to the complications that will arise due to the death of Anna Marks—ownership issues and management issues of the gallery business. We acknowledge that our contract is with the corporation, but at its heart it was an agreement with the driving force of the business, which was Anna Marks, therefore we—”
Clive slammed his fist down on the table and shot to his feet. “Fuck that. She didn’t know shit about the business. I’m the one who made it a success. I’m the one who arranged all these shows and got people to buy this shit artwork. I’m the one who did all the work while Anna and your bitch client were off playing fuckin’ footsie, or whatever they were doing. I’m the one who will make your client a lot of money. I’m the driving force, not Anna.” He sat down, looking exhausted, angry, and a little embarrassed. Francis reached over to take his hand, but he pushed him away.
Howard cleared his throat. “Maybe we should take a short break.”
Tucker and Vincent left the conference room to go outside and get some air after asking the receptionist to let them know when everyone was ready to restart.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Tucker looked annoyed. “I thought we had some general agreement to agree, and that guy acts like he wants to go to war. After that, I’m not sure we can agree to much of anything. He’s nuts.”
“Well, he’s a little volatile, but what he said is probably pretty close to the truth. Clive is the driving force behind the success of the gallery. He’s the one who had the contacts, meaning buyers—not Anna. But it was Anna who had the business relationship with Ilse—or more than business, I guess. If we could get rid of all the emotional crap that’s getting in the way, I think it’d be clear the business side of this deal will probably be just fine with Clive and Francis in charge. I think the issue isn’t so much whether they can accomplish everything Anna would have done. It’s more about whether they can be trusted.”
“Do you think there’s a chance those two had anything to do with her death?” Now Tucker looked more worried than annoyed.
Vincent hesitated. “First, I don’t know who killed Anna, or why. My number one suspect from the beginning was Clive Walton. My list has shifted some, but he’s still at the top.”
“Why would he kill her? Doesn’t that potentially leave him out in the cold?”
“Clive’s an angry man. He brought this business back from the dead, and he wanted to be rewarded. I don’t know what the deal was with Anna and Clive, but I can guess she promised him the world if he’d put together this show and sale of Ilse’s work, and make it a success. Plus, Clive’s involved with Francis, and I bet he thinks Anna treated Francis like shit. On top of all of that, he has a real temper, as you just saw. If he and Anna came into contact that night, there could have been fireworks.”
Tucker looked thoughtful. “This is a mess. I think we should postpone this meeting, use his temper tantrum as an excuse, and consult with Ilse. If this was just about money, then the best course would probably just be to let Clive run the show—but it could all blow up in our faces if he ends up being accused of murder. It’s a big decision, and our client needs to give us her instructions on it.”
“Okay, but we need an accounting, right now, of how much money was collected on deposit for the paintings that sold. Ilse needs cash, and she should immediately receive some of that deposit money.”
“Good point. Let me go talk to Howard and see what we can work out.”
Tucker went back in. Vincent thought it was a good opportunity to smoke, even though he had quit just that morning. Again.
“What do you think we should do?” Ilse asked Vincent after Tucker had given her and Bobby a summary of the meeting and what appeared to be the options moving forward.
“Clive will want to do everything possible to have successful showings of your art. From the information I’ve been able to gather, almost all the buyer contacts are people Clive has brought in. So, if having the paintings sold quickly at the best price is your goal, then it would make sense to go forward with Clive. The risk is if he gets charged with murder, or if he and Francis try to cheat you out of your share.”
“Do you think he killed Anna?”
“I think it’s possible. I’m not sure what the police have. I’m meeting later with the chief, so I might have an update after that. But as of right now, I think it’s a real possibility that he could be charged.”
“What would the legal strategy be if I try to break away from this whole mess?”
“First, we try to void the contract because of Anna’s death,” Tucker replied. “We would argue that the execution of the contract was dependent upon Anna’s skills, and that with her death the corporation is no longer capable of fulfilling its obligations. We’d also argue that, due to her death the company does not have the financial resources necessary to complete the contract. All that would have to be argued in court, with the goal of getting the court to order the corporation to return any unsold paintings to you. Any paintings where we have a confirmed contract for their sale would stay with the gallery, but we would request that you receive some portion of any deposits immediately, and we’d ask the court to monitor the actual execution of the contract. No one can ever guarantee what a court will do, but I’m confident we could win on all those points.”
“Do you think Francis can gain full ownership of the gallery?”
“That’s another question that’s not easy to answer. At this point, we’re being told that Anna had no heirs. But it’s early days for that process to play out. Without a will, and with no obvious heirs, her estate goes to probate court. A judge’s first duty will be to do an extensive search for any living relatives. It could turn out there’s a relative that Anna didn’t even know about who would turn into the new majority owner at the gallery. And how that would play out is anyone’s guess. The new owner could try to sell the business, or run it themselves, with or without Clive and Francis. Nobody knows. If no relative can be found, then it really gets complicated. The court might decide it’s in the best interests of the estate to sell the business to the minority shareholder, but even if it did, that would be months down the road.”
“And if they find a will?”
“Then all bets are off.”
Vincent excused himself from the meeting with Tucker, Ilse and Bobby so he could meet with the chief. He’d become comfortable with the guy, which wasn’t his normal relationship with cops. Even so, the request to meet had come as a surprise. He knew perfectly well that the chief hadn’t asked to see him to share information about the investigation. More than likely, he wanted to convey some kind of message. The most typical, based on Vincent’s experience with police in the past, was, “Stay out of our investigation.”
But he also knew Stanton was an honest cop, just trying to do his job. If he had any kind of underhanded agenda, it was well hidden. So, he wasn’t overly concerned about meeting with him.
“Vincent, come in, have a seat.” The chief’s desk this time was stacked with paper and looked disorganized. “There are two things I really hate about this job, and the first is paperwork.” He gestured at his desk. “I never get it all done. I thought computers were supposed to eliminate all this crap—but it never stops.” He laughed a little, and cleared this throat. “The second is politics.”
“I’ve pissed off a politician?”
The chief smiled. “Very insightful. Our mayor is very pro-business. He’s more like the head of the chamber of commerce than a mayor of the people, but he is what he is. His belief is that if it’s good for business, it’s good for San
ta Fe. One of his country club buddies has complained to him, and then, of course, he complained to me. The guards you put at that gallery are causing someone grief, and they want me to remove them.”
“Let me guess. The country club buddy was Curtis Howard. You know this is a legal matter, right? And we have a court order allowing us to safeguard certain assets.”
“So I understand. Believe me, I have no desire to get in the way of the courts, but my boss has insisted that I look into whether you can legally have private guards stationed at a business without the business’s permission. As it turns out, we have an ordinance for that sort of thing. I have no idea who wrote the rules or when, but they’re legal and enforceable. Private guards can only be stationed at a business if they’re inside it, or if they’re doing a moving patrol around it. Having your guards parked in their cars outside the gallery doesn’t cut it.”
Vincent stared at the chief in disbelief. “Are you going to enforce that?”
“No, not today. And probably not tomorrow. But after that, we’ll issue tickets. The citation can carry a fine of up to a thousand dollars per day, per guard.”
“That’s fuckin stupid.” So much for diplomacy.
“Maybe so. Look, Vincent, I asked to meet with you so we could hopefully avoid any real conflict here. I’m guessing you’re close to getting something resolved regarding the gallery, so I’m giving you a couple of days’ notice. Now, maybe you can go to the court and they can order me to do nothing. I’d prefer that didn’t happen. Despite the mayor’s insistence, I don’t believe this should turn into a civil war. Just get your matter solved with the gallery, or reach a different solution that doesn’t involve those guards sitting in their cars.”
Vincent thought about it, and realized the chief was actually trying to help him. He smiled. “You’re right, chief. No reason to fight city hall. We’ll get the matter resolved or seek some other solution to safeguarding the assets inside the gallery. I appreciate you giving me a heads-up. Sorry if I overreacted there a little.” When it’s appropriate, you kiss up.