Another Day, Another Dali Read online

  “That explains a few things.” If nothing came of the warrant on Lucas’s financials, maybe I’d just wait until the weekend to pay Capone a visit at the flea market. “He sell paintings at his booth too?”

  “Some. He seems to do most of his business in portraits, though.”

  “Paintings he’s done or ones by others?” Might explain why he picked up the painting from Tyrone.

  “I assumed he’d done them. But I don’t know. I never asked.”

  “Thanks.” I shut down my computer so I could head to the courthouse to get the warrant signed.

  “You never answered my question,” Benton said. “Why the interest in Capone?”

  “I saw him with one of my students’ paintings. A gifted student. And I was concerned his motives might not be aboveboard.”

  Benton frowned. “I can’t see it. He’s always encouraging the kids who come up to the booth to try their hand at sketching a portrait. He seems like a really good guy.”

  “Good to know.” I drove to the courthouse and got the warrant signed. The bank would have ten days to comply with the request for records and was bound by an additional nondisclosure request to not inform Lucas of the search. But considering he was the bank’s CFO, I wasn’t holding my breath that he wouldn’t find out somehow.

  As I returned to my car, I revisited Saturday night’s dinner conversation at my parents’ or, more specifically, Nana’s mention of her busybody housekeeper by the name of Horvak. It was too much of a coincidence for Petra Horvak, the mastermind behind the Monet heist, to claim she knew something about my grandfather’s murder and to share the same last name as his housekeeper at the time.

  Then again, housekeeper had been among the laundry list of jobs Petra had taken after her divorce. Maybe she met Nana’s housekeeper precisely because they did share the same last name. And housekeepers talked. Gladys’s and her neighbors’ housekeepers were proof of that.

  I returned to headquarters and ran a search on Lucille Horvak.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  “Am I never going to catch a break?” I swiped the computer screen back to my blank desktop and stared at my hazy reflection. Why can’t I figure this out? Some detective. I can solve every crime except the one that matters most.

  Tanner telephoned. “Where are you?”

  “Headquarters.”

  “Get over to Dinah’s Diner. You’re going to want to talk to Detective Richards. Burly guy, no hair, triple chin. Picture Robert Morley in Around the World in Eighty Days.”

  I laughed. Tanner knew of my penchant for identifying people by their actor lookalikes very well, but I was surprised he was familiar with the sixty-year-old movie in which Morley played the governor of the Bank of England. I still remembered the night Granddad and I watched an old VHS recording of the movie. The movie was so long it filled two tapes.

  “He worked an art theft like your grandmother’s friend’s,” Tanner went on. “But he can only give you a few minutes while he grabs his lunch.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll head over now.” Talking cases in a public place wasn’t smart, but since it didn’t sound as if I’d get another option anytime soon, I wasn’t going to quibble.

  I arrived at the ’50s-style diner ten minutes later. It didn’t look as if being overheard was going to be a problem. The place was deserted. I ordered a coffee and slid behind a steel-legged Formica table in the back corner.

  As the waitress poured me a coffee, a man I presumed was Detective Richards, from his uncanny resemblance to Morley, strode into the restaurant.

  “One of those for me too, Mabel,” he said, hiking his belt up over his ample middle and striding my way. He looked to be in his midfifties, and I counted four chins. “You Jones?”

  “Yes.” I stood and shook his hand. “Thank you for taking time to meet with me.”

  The waitress set a mug of coffee in front of the chair opposite me. “Anything else, Charlie?”

  “Yeah, bring me a slice of pie, will ya, honey?” He unbuttoned his brown herringbone sports jacket as if he knew it wouldn’t be able to hold out against the dessert and plopped into his seat. “So Tanner says you’re working a theft where the painting was replaced with a forgery too?”

  “Yes, I was hoping we could compare notes.”

  He pulled a small, black notebook from his sports coat pocket, turned it to a page midway through the book, and pushed it across the table. “You’re welcome to look all you want,” he said, showing no interest in reviewing my notes. “It’s pretty thin.”

  I jotted down the scant details he’d recorded about the missing piece—a Margaret Keane, who was best known for her large-eyed waifs, and a list of names, none of which matched my suspects’ in Gladys’s case. “What tipped the homeowner off to the forgery?”

  Richards scarfed down half his coffee as if it wasn’t hot enough to melt his hide. “The painter was cocky. Painted his initials—TC—into the splotches.”

  Huh, I’d have to take a closer look at the Dali, see if I could find anything comparable. Wait a minute. “TC, you said?”

  “Yeah, I cross-referenced them to a database of known forgers, but nothing popped. You know any artists with those initials?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Truman Capone. An older guy who sketches portraits at a booth in the flea market.” Sounded as if paying Truman Capone a visit needed to be put back on today’s to-do list. But even as fast as he worked, he’d need days to forge an oil painting. “Was the victim away from home for an extended time? Did you get a list of everyone who’d been in and out or who had unfettered access?”

  “I know how to do my job.” Richards’s gaze rippled with impatience. “Tracking down a guy who wants to nab what passes for art these days, from people with more money than sense, isn’t on the top of my priority list. Not when I got some creep terrorizing women, and—”

  “Okay”—I raised my hand to stop his tirade—“I get the picture. And I appreciate your priorities.” Although I suspected more mercenary reasons were also at play. To climb the ranks, detectives needed a high clearance rate on the crimes they were investigating. With no witness to the theft and no suspects, Richards had little incentive to spend time on the case.

  Then again, a city the size of St. Louis has its own homicide detective unit, its own property crimes unit, its own robbery unit, and so on. And if Richards was investigating someone terrorizing women, it sounded as if he worked robberies, so how’d the art theft burglary—a property crime—land on his plate?

  The waitress brought Richards his coconut cream pie, and he began shoveling it into his mouth. “If you ask me, the whole art market is one giant Ponzi scheme. But the truth is, the guy’s house might as well have been Union Station for how many people he’s had coming and going. He’s getting the place ready to sell, so everyone from painters to real estate agents are parading through the place.”

  Real estate agents? As in, maybe Peter Hoffemeier? “Okay, thank you for your time.” I returned the detective’s notebook, dropped a couple of bucks on the table for the coffee I hadn’t touched, and headed for the door. Apparently Gladys’s son and Truman Capone both warranted a closer look.

  15

  By the time I got back to headquarters, Tanner was out on one of the SWAT team’s weekly training exercises. In the rush to catch up with Detective Richards, I’d forgotten to ask Tanner what he’d learned about Saturday’s shooter. That would have to wait now.

  I called Zoe at her job as head of security of the Forest Park Art Museum. “Hey, I need a favor.”

  “Does this favor involve me being a bullet shield against drive-by shooters?”

  “Ha. No.”

  “Good, because as grateful as Jax is to you for setting us up, he doesn’t want me within a hundred yards of you until he’s convinced Saturday’s shooter wasn’t aiming at you.”

  Hmm. He’d probably been jogging on the spot outside my apartment building this morning at my usual run time, itching to r
ead me the riot act. I shuddered. Made fending off a vengeful, viper-like zucchini seem not so bad.

  “Hey, I’m good with ordering from dial-a-dress-dot-com.”

  “In your dreams. What do you need?”

  “Could you convince your chief art restorer to let me borrow the museum’s electronic paint tester?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’d say we owe you.”

  I winced at the reminder of the investigation that resulted in Petra’s death.

  “Will you bring the painting here?”

  “I’d prefer to borrow the tester. I have several paintings I need to test. Some are in evidence, and I’d rather not have to transport them.”

  “Fair enough. When do you want it?”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Oh. As in, you want it now. Hold on a second.” Zoe put me on hold.

  While I was waiting, I jotted down a list of the paintings I wanted to test: Tyrone’s that Aunt Martha bought, the forged Dali left at Gladys’s, the supposedly forged Degas, the forged Renoir recovered from the drug bust, the forged Margaret Keane in evidence at St. Louis PD, and if possible, some of Truman Capone’s pieces.

  The line clicked back on. “No problem,” Zoe said. “I’ll have it in my office waiting for you.”

  “You sure you want to risk Jax’s wrath by letting me get so close?”

  “He might as well get used to my defiant streak now.”

  I laughed. Somehow I couldn’t picture her facing Jax down on too many issues. Then again, she’d gone against the museum board’s wishes last February and reported the thefts I wound up investigating.

  I picked up the tester—without getting Zoe shot—then drove to my parents’ house to test Tyrone’s painting first.

  I let myself in the door and did a double take at the sight of my mom in the middle of the living room floor, playing with my old Fisher-Price dollhouse. “Mom?” I eased the door shut so as not to startle her.

  “Oh, Serena, look what I found when I was cleaning out the basement. You used to play with this for hours. I’m washing it up for my future grandchildren.”

  “Is there something I should know about Shawn?” Shawn was my brother who gallivanted around the world, planning and leading tour groups. A job that neatly left him free to enjoy a girl in every port without being tied to any and that left me as the de facto target of Mom’s need to fill her empty nest with grandchildren.

  She smiled knowingly, as if she were privy to some enormous secret I was keeping from her. Only I wasn’t.

  My heart kicked at the sight of the little toy girl and her dog. “Where’s Aunt Martha?” I asked quickly, before the Little People sucked me into their make-believe world along with Mom.

  Mom put down the piece she’d been wiping and pushed to her feet. “She went out a couple of hours ago. Said not to hold dinner for her. Can you stay?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was still two hours until suppertime. Far too long to hang around Mom when she was feeling nostalgic about my childhood toys. “Tonight’s not a good night for me. I just need to run a test on the painting Aunt Martha bought last night. Do you know where she put it?”

  “The den. Your father nearly had a conniption.”

  “Why? Which painting did she buy?” I strode to the den and gasped. It was one of Tyrone’s Basquiat-like primitivist pieces with skull-like heads, massive mouths, and wild hair. “Oh.” Dad was pretty open-minded when it came to art appreciation. After all, he was his father’s son, but I didn’t blame him for not wanting such an intense Neo-Expressionist piece gracing his private space.

  I took it down from the wall and turned on the tester. This model kept a digital record I could download to my computer later, which was a good thing, considering how many different colors Tyrone had used in the piece. Cross-referencing the components to the readouts for the other paintings could prove to be a lot more work than I’d anticipated.

  Mom bustled off to answer the phone while I did my thing. She returned a few seconds later with the cordless tucked under her ear and turned on the computer in the den. “I can tell you in a minute. She’s always leaving her phone places, so she put an app on the computer so she could find it again.”

  “Aunt Martha lost her phone?” I asked.

  Mom covered the phone’s receiver with her palm. “No, Nate is wondering where she’s gotten to. She was supposed to stop by twenty minutes ago, and she’s not answering her phone.”

  “Maybe her car finally succumbed to all those pings and pongs.”

  “Yeah, because she’s never late. That’s why he’s concerned.” Mom squinted at the icons on the computer screen and clicked on one. “Loading it now,” she said into the phone. “No, it’s no problem. Hopefully, she’s just stuck in traffic or lost track of time at the mall. But it doesn’t hurt to check.”

  A map of St. Louis appeared and zoomed in to the north end. “That’s weird. What’s she doing over there?” Mom glanced up at me. “Did she say anything to you about going to the drop-in center?”

  “That street’s nowhere near the drop-in center.” It was where Truman Capone lived! I snatched the phone from my mom. “Nate, this is Serena. Did Martha tell you what she was doing?”

  “No, just said she’d be out and would bring me the book I wanted to borrow, before three. I think she was supposed to meet Malgucci at the bowling alley at three. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know yet. Pray.” I hung up and returned the tester to its case. “I’ll go look for her,” I said to Mom. “That’s not the kind of neighborhood she should be walking around in on her own.”

  “Oh dear. Should I call the police?”

  I am the police, more or less.

  “The hospitals?”

  “Let me go have a look first. Keep the phone lines open in case she calls, and phone me right away if she does.” I raced out of the driveway and drove as fast as the streets clogged with students getting out of school would allow. I put in another call to Aunt Martha’s phone.

  “Hello,” a young, high-pitched voice said.

  “Hello?” I strived for a friendly lilt to avoid scaring her off. “Who is this?”

  “Emma.”

  “Hi, Emma. I’m looking for the person who owns this phone, a gray-haired lady. Have you seen her?”

  “No, the phone was in the bushes.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Here.”

  “Where’s here, honey?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” The phone clicked off.

  I stepped on the gas and hit redial. The phone went to voice mail after five rings. I tried again as I turned on to the street the locate app had pinpointed. No sign of a kid with a phone, but . . . Aunt Martha’s car was parked near the next corner. I didn’t know how Aunt Martha found out who Capone was and where he lived, but I was sure he was the reason she was in the neighborhood.

  I parked behind Aunt Martha’s car and tried calling her phone one more time. Nothing. Capone’s apartment building was a shabby three-story on the corner of Sunset and Emerson. A row of hedges edged the lot on the Emerson side. Bushes. The little girl had said she’d found Aunt Martha’s phone in the bushes. I hurried across the street and examined the hedgerow. Branches were snapped where it appeared someone had crept through. I examined the ground. The dirt was packed hard, revealing no footprints. But a strand of gray hair clung to a branch.

  Why would she sneak through the bush instead of going up to the front door?

  I pushed aside branches and peeked through. The hedge edged a small parking lot behind Capone’s building. His car was parked in the back corner. Knowing Aunt Martha, she’d probably seen him drive in and decided to spy on him to see what he brought up to his apartment. And her phone slipped from her pocket.

  I walked around to the front of the building. There was no front door security so I let myself in and headed up to Capone’s second-floor apartment.

  I knocked. No answer.
/>   “Aunt Martha, you in there?” I shouted, pounding louder.

  Capone’s neighbor—a blue-haired woman in oversized bifocals—poked her head out of her door.

  “Hello. Did an older woman about this tall”—I held my hand at shoulder height—“go into Truman’s apartment?”

  “Someone came by about an hour ago.”

  “Did you see her leave again?”

  “No. But I wasn’t watching for her neither.”

  “Of course not. Thank you.” The neighbor disappeared back into her apartment and I tried Capone’s door. The knob turned easily in my hand. “Mr. Capone,” I said, pushing open the door. “This is Serena Jones with the FBI. I’m looking for my Aunt Martha.”

  No response.

  Aunt Martha’s car was outside. She’d missed an appointment without calling. Not like her at all. And the neighbor had seen a woman go in Truman’s apartment but not come out. Sounded exigent enough to warrant going in. I pulled my gun, stood to the side of the door, and toed it open. “I’m coming in, Mr. Capone.”

  I cleared the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, and the bedroom. Then pausing outside a closed door, I pressed my back to the wall and inhaled a deep breath. I reached over and tested the knob. It turned easily.

  The room was a studio. Canvases lined the walls. A huge, bare window offered a lackluster view of the back lot. An armchair sat facing it, along with an easel.

  I edged along the wall to get a look around the chair and easel, but a shout over the grinding gears of a heavy truck yanked my gaze to the window. The truck—the kind that empties dumpsters like the one in the back lot—was awkwardly trying to get around an illegally parked car.

  The shout—which sounded like “Stop”—came again, and my gaze shot to the inside of the dumpster. From this angle, I could see only half of the contents. I raced to the other end of the window, and a gray head bobbed into view. “Aunt Martha?”

  The truck got around the car and headed for the dumpster.