Three_Deception Love Murder Read online

  “I get it. Loose lips sink ships,” she said. “Okay, consider us gone.”

  We went back inside and when we entered the room, it was wrapped in silence. The only sound was Lucy’s tail slapping the floor.

  Sam stood up, walked over to us, and offered a hand to Emma in greeting. Squeezing my arm, he said, “I’ve got the statements I need. I’ll have the boys check out the dock. I don’t know if there’s anything to find, but I’ll have a few guys do a run around the lake. Maybe we can find their ingress and egress. Give me a ring later, and we can get together to compare notes.”

  I agreed.

  As I was leaving, Mary shouted, “Hey, hot stuff. You better get a move on if Emma looks good to you because Detective Chavez is looking like an excellent replacement for dickhead.”

  Emma groaned, and Chavez laughed. Mary looked pleased with herself.

  With that, I set out for the studio.

  Taking in the studio and surrounding land I could appreciate why White had invested in this property. The house itself was set back off the street and surrounded by a densely forested area for excellent cover. The studio location prevented access except by a hidden path. Now we knew the dock was a launch point for transporting the art. It made perfect sense why White placed the studio in this spot.

  As I walked up the cobblestone path to the studio, I almost envied White’s lifestyle. But his lifestyle presented two alternate endings. One was death, the other was jail. The known risk was not worth the unknown reward.

  At the secured entrance of the studio, I put on the protective footwear and gloves and readied myself to get inside the mind of Jude White.

  I found Jackson studying multiple photos taken of the unfinished painting in the main studio. The main room with all the high-end equipment left no doubt a master forger worked his magic in this room. But was the master forger Jude or a younger more dangerous person?

  “Cillian, my deduction is the partner is the artist and White is the provenance and business guy. White seems obsessive compulsive. He’s detail oriented and an organization freak. Look at the disorder in this room alone. This chaos is not White’s mess. This belongs to someone different. A free spirit. Immensely talented. An unorganized and hyperactive individual. Not disciplined, unfocused and impulsive,” Jackson mused. “But the detail in the canvases is meticulous. A true conundrum. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, as Churchill said.”

  “I have to agree with you. The challenge is, do we leave the studio intact and put surveillance on it? The painter or an accomplice might come back, and we could snag them. Or do we play it safe, shut this down, and take everything into evidence? I am not comfortable leaving the paintings in the vault, but that’s Thad’s decision. We’d all lose our jobs if anybody slipped through the surveillance and got those out by boat or an ATV,” I responded.

  “My gut says White kept the operations separate. You know, compartmentalized. I don’t think he mixed the stolen property and forgeries, so the artist is probably in the dark about the thefts. White likely relegated the artist to the studio but didn’t give him access to the vault. I can’t imagine White trusting anyone to know what’s in that vault. That valuable information could give an individual a huge window of weasel room to bargain with if arrested for his part in the fakes. So, I say we remove what’s in the vault, change the code on the vault and place cameras in the studio,” Jackson put forth.

  “Okay. Have you and Sam finished inventorying what you need from the paintings? Our guys finished what we needed, and I’m catching a ride with Marino to meet with the gallery owner,” I offered.

  “Yeah, we’re good. But I need you to deal with the studio to figure out how far they have gotten in authenticating the provenance. Can you process those before you go?” Jackson asked.

  “Absolutely. I have two hours before Marino picks me up,” I added.

  “Emma’s okay with this?” he asked. Emma being privy to the operation was a leap of faith that she’d keep everything under wraps, but I felt she would use her knowledge wisely.

  “It’s too soon to know. I think she is over the denial phase but she’s not at acceptance yet. I considered taking her to dinner. You know, to gauge where she’s at,” I said moving toward the stairs.

  Looking down at his motorcycle boots he shook his head and started what was going to be a lecture. “Be careful, Cillian. We don’t need any drama in case this goes to court. We can’t have our witness compromised.”

  “Jackson, I will start processing this area and make believe I did not hear you say that,” I said, holding my emotions in check.

  “We are partners on this case, and it is my responsibility to have your back, buddy. It’s also to keep you in check if necessary,” he replied.

  “Again, didn’t hear you say it.” I understood, but wouldn’t acknowledge his words.

  Jackson nodded and turned toward the stairs to the vault. He stopped and looked thoughtful before adding, “Look. Chavez says Marino has a hard-on that Emma knows more than she’s let on to us. You need to be careful about an appearance of impropriety. I like Chavez. He’s cool. But Marino? He’s got something churning inside him. You need to watch your back as well as Emma’s. I know he hates her lawyer and their divorce was harsh. To top it off, their little girl . . . The kid was only a teen when she died from tainted drugs. White’s possible part with money laundering for maybe a cartel is one step away from an obsession for Marino.”

  “I’m sorry for his tragedy, but I’m not going to let him make Emma a scapegoat for his issues. Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, and watched as he walked down the steps to the vault.

  I looked around the studio. Jackson was right. The studio was all wrong, it didn’t feel like this was Jude’s space. The vault I could agree was his domain, but not this disorder. Tubes of pigment haphazardly discarded, paint brushes placed in random jars with liquid at the bottom, and the oven used to cure finished canvases was crusted with paint. Something felt off to me. The level of care given the high-end equipment and material did not match White’s personality quirks.

  White’s desk remained a mystery in this chaos. His files were meticulous, the labels precisely lined up and everything had its place. Each catalog appeared carelessly thrown on the desk. However, under closer examination they were logically spread out. Photographs of artwork perfectly captured and aligned along the top of the desk. It was clear Jude had taken these images, and most were recognizable and captured from museum visits to the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, Tate Modern, and the Van Gogh museum. Certain areas of each image were blown up to highlight brushstrokes and shading. A how-to instruction for a master forgery class. I dialed Jackson on my phone while he was working in the vault to relate my theory.

  “Okay, it sounds plausible, and I will take this one step further. From glancing around, I bet White can insert the finished provenance and painting into the digital catalogs. I have a buddy over in cyber who has tagged a few Russians and Chinese who have left their digital fingerprints all over that kind of scam,” he offered.

  “Russians again! On the way over Sam informed me Mary was going on about Russians. I think it might have been when they had the bank room wired. It’s all running together at this point. You think there could be a link?” I asked.

  “Whoa. Isn’t this trampling over a shitload of issues because Alexi represents her?” he asked.

  “Take it up with Sam. Anyway, she was just being Mary spouting off her conspiracy theories that everybody thinks is nonsense. It’s also a moot point because Sam just took her statement. My point is Russians keep popping up, and she swears she could hear Jude speaking with Russians on the dock,” I responded.

  “That certainly creates an entire extra layer to this, especially with the Roselov connection. But like I said, I have a guy. He’s a genius with cyber and the dark web. If you want, I can talk to him and see if they have any museum breaches recorded,” he offered.

  After looking around, Jackson declared
, “I guess we leave the top floor with all the forgeries as is. Assuming somebody comes back, we’ll catch them.”

  “Agreed,” I answered. “I’ll get Thad on board, and Marino should be here any minute. Will you lock up when you leave, and engage the alarm with the same code in case the partner comes back? Oh, and the Italians busted up the Modigliani ring in Genoa this morning,” I said.

  Marino texted me indicating he was five minutes out, so I checked in with everyone before walking out to the driveway to wait.

  Vehicles assigned to Maine police were nowhere near as nice as ours, so we used my truck to travel in. It was a beast as my daughter described it.

  Riding into Boston with Marino wasn’t as bad as I had expected. He seemed closed off and broody. But a little country music and a brief stop for caffeine got him talking about the Patriots. He relayed his life story which entailed sixteen years of a good marriage that ended badly. After their daughter’s death, Alexi had jumped ship from the US Attorney’s Office and opened her private practice. I found out he had considered leaving the force, taking his pension, and signing with a security firm in Seattle. They guaranteed to double his salary, so it probably would’ve been a good move. He was on a crash-and-burn trajectory if he stayed.

  We slipped into the lower deck of the parking structure. I paid the overdressed attendant and set out to find the upscale gallery. We agreed Marino should have the lead to work the missing person perspective so as not to spook the dealer alerting him he was on the federal radar. Amelin and Loban Gallery was already on my radar because they dealt with White, but now they were of personal interest to me. I’d make it my mission to analyze their business and private lives from behind the scenes, and they would have no idea we were poking around.

  It impressed me Marino had it in him to put on a charming, friendly mask. It worked for him and he utilized it. Slipping into character, he plastered an easy smile on his face and changed his posture, strolling in as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The bell over the door tinkled announcing our arrival, but cameras probably clocked us from outside the gallery already.

  Showtime.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Detective Nicholas Marino. I’m looking for Mr. Amelin,” he said with an easy manner as he put his hands in his pockets like a good ole boy visiting to chat.

  A stout, well-dress, middle-aged gentleman with a noticeable receding hairline came forward hastily. He extended a beefy hand that revealed well-manicured fingernails. “Detective, I am he,” he said in what sounded like a Russian or Eastern European accent.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Amelin. This is Cillian O’Reilly. He’s a friend of mine. Also, an art lover, he insisted on tagging along when I told him I was coming here,” Marino said to him grabbing my shoulder as if we had been best friends for life.

  “A hearty welcome to you both. May I offer you refreshments?” Mr. Amelin inquired as he waved at his assistant to come over.

  “No, thank you. I am fine. Mr. Amelin, could I leave you with Nick to wander around your fine establishment?” I asked visually sweeping the place for the layout.

  “Do you wish to have my daughter, Nadia, escort you to point out our exceptional pieces?” he inquired.

  “Oh. No, thank you. I am an art enthusiast, not a collector. These pieces I am confident are outside my price range, but I enjoy looking at what I cannot afford. I also wanted to give you privacy. I understand this involves a work-related matter for Nick,” I chuckled.

  “Well, enjoy yourself. And we can secure financing arrangements should you come upon anything of your choosing.” Mr. Amelin turned to Nick and said, “Detective, why don’t we move to my office and we can discuss your matter.”

  I watched as they strolled to an office where he sat behind a desk worth more than my income for one year. Oh yeah, we’d be coming back here.

  I took my time studying each elegantly displayed piece. Curious. No prices were displayed, but each one boasted impeccable credentials. The extensive detailing of the provenance should be a positive sign, a reliable indicator. But in the totality of this circumstance, it was likely a dubious portrayal of the authenticity of the piece.

  Marino finished meeting with Mr. Amelin. We exchanged pleasantries and left.

  “Something is not right. Amelin had way too much paperwork waiting for me, pushing me to take the huge stack with me and not review it at the gallery. He claimed White had not paid for the paintings and that he had expected a money transfer within twenty-four hours. Amelin asked if he could obtain a police report specifying the paintings were missing if he needed to make an insurance claim,” Marino said, and there it was, the red flag.

  “How much is he hoping to stick the company for?” I asked, sensing a scam coming on.

  “Looks like he will go after a little over a quarter of a million.” He smirked.

  “I’ll have it flagged, and he can dance for his money. So, what did you find out?” I asked.

  “Said White was a regular client for five years and came in every six to eight weeks. He always pays on time. He recalls he came in at nine and left about twenty minutes later with the canvases in the tube provided by the gallery. I informed him we had the tube and no canvases. I asked if he would let a police officer fingerprint him for an exclusion of known prints on the tube. He refused. Shocker,” he added.

  My eyebrows raised in question.

  “Yeah, I pressed him. He said he normally works with White but had a customer that demanded more attention that morning so his partner assisted White with the canvases. That same partner is conveniently abroad this week,” he said.

  We spent the rest of the ride back in contemplative silence as we put our cases together.

  Yeah, these guys were getting our full dedicated attention.

  Emma

  THREE DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE the FBI searched my home and Jude’s studio.

  There was still no word from Jude.

  My home. I was no longer regarding it as my home. After the police and FBI searched the property I substituted “house” for “my home” to objectify it and distance myself from it.

  It surprised me that when the FBI left, they didn’t remove the two paintings in the living room or anything else from the house. They photographed and inventoried everything, but left the paintings where they were. Was anything real in my life any longer?

  The mystical number three.

  Omne trium perfectum.

  Three, two, one . . . BOOM!

  Aunt Mary’s medication was working better than anybody could have hoped. But when I was at school during the day, I was uncomfortable leaving her home alone. We agreed with the chaos around us she should return to her assisted living facility and continue to visit every weekend until I could set up permanent plans for my future. After I moved and Jude was no longer an obstacle, I was prepared to have her at home with me with a health care aide for oversight. But until I had a plan in place which assured her safety, she needed to return to the facility and visit as we have been doing on the weekends.

  I washed her sheets, and remade the bed which now smelled like lavender. I helped Aunt Mary pack. Feeling like a spy, I walked to her bedroom deck door and pushed the white canvas curtains aside to verify what she reasonably could and couldn’t see from her deck. What was it that President Reagan said? Trust but verify.

  I caught sight of a small wooden boat as it rolled gently with the waves not too far from the dock, a confirmation she could see and hear what occurred under the darkness of night. From my vantage point, I could decipher the low murmur of a conversation between the two large men with thick sweaters as they relaxed in a narrow wooden boat. But I could not decipher their precise discussion. Until Aunt Mary had brought it to my attention that boats arrived and left from the dock, I never took note. But still, I couldn’t recall any coming at night. That might change as I was now on alert for every watercraft that passed.

  I grabbed the luggage handle and whirled the wheels across the wood
floors. I had just turned down the hallway to the stairs when the doorbell sounded. I stepped swiftly down the hallway and left her case at the top of the staircase. Jogging down the wood steps in socks was never a good idea and today was probably worse because I wasn’t focused. Aunt Mary appeared from the kitchen and dropped into position behind me. Her hand was wrapped around a large coffee mug.

  As I approached the beveled-glass door, a tall man wearing an elegant black suit came into view. Bending down to keep Lucy back I asked him to wait while I leashed Lucy. He nodded, although he appeared agitated.

  The car parked in the driveway was a glossy black Mercedes that looked as sleek and sophisticated as its owner. Turning to Mary, I asked her to take Lucy to the kitchen, but she took the leash and remained anchored where she stood. Great.

  “May I help you?” I asked as I turned the knob to unlock the door and step out onto the porch.

  “Good morning. My name is Dmitri Roselov and I am hoping to speak with Jude White,” he said. He extended his hand and I took it, admiring the two black leather gloves he held in his left hand.

  Dmitri Roselov. Russian name. Thick Russian accent. I went on high alert. I knew Aunt Mary would refuse to leave the house after this encounter. Russians, Russians, everywhere. My heart rate picked up a touch, and I could sense my hands were quivering from my sudden anxiety.

  “Good morning, Mr. Roselov. I’m Emma Collier. That is my aunt Mary behind the door. I’d invite you inside, but we were leaving and in a bit of a rush. Jude isn’t here, so I’m afraid you’ve made a trip for nothing,” I said.

  “That is indeed a shame as I have come quite a distance to see him. Do you know when he will return? I have been calling him and leaving messages for several days, and he has returned none of my calls. In fact, we had an extremely critical meeting scheduled that he did not show up for,” he said placing a glove back on his left hand.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know his schedule, and don’t know when he will come back,” I said watching him flex his hand. “I’d be happy to take your card, and when I hear from him, I’ll give him your message.”