Three_Deception Love Murder Page 5

  Chavez and Marino exchanged a bemused look as I turned the knob to open the door.

  “A little over the top. Right? My partner, or boyfriend, whatever you prefer, Jude White, who owns the home is an absolute security nut. Between you and me, I am not a fan of the laser flitting across my eye, but it’s his house, his rules. One of the biggest security firms in the field designed the security system to protect the valuables in the house. I guess I have to trust they don’t have a personal interest in seeing me blind by forty.” I don’t know why I was explaining our security system away, but I didn’t want them to think I was hiding anything.

  Chavez smirked and replied, “Why didn’t he install a fingerprint scan while he was at it?”

  “Oh, he did, but I figured out a way around it.” I grinned and lifted my hand dismissively. “I wish I could beat the retinal scan. Do you know if I use the retinal scan app on my phone I can open the house from anywhere in the world? I guess someone could cut out my eyeball to gain access. But after a while, wouldn’t all the liquid dissipate and the eyeball shrink? So maybe not a good plan for someone who wants to burglarize the house.”

  Marino stared at me as if I was speaking Martian. He was all business and didn’t enjoy my chatter. It dampened the mood and set the tone for our discussion.

  The thick wood door that led into the house had beveled glass and foreshadowed the opulence that followed inside the home. As you stepped onto the brown and white marble floor in the entrance, it warned you that you had entered a house where a pretentious man lived. Jude had dropped a budget of a small country to ensure the designers had created the home’s atmosphere to his exact specification.

  I accompanied the men to the living room where the marble had transitioned to cherry-hued walnut flooring. The ceilings were high and had wood beams in this room, highlighting the opulence of the furniture.

  Chavez walked to my dove-gray sofa, gliding his hand over the top before he sat down. Marino chose the more conservative cream wingback chair across from Chavez.

  Aunt Mary headed to the bathroom to change her clothes, throwing a saucy smile and small wave to Detective Chavez as she left. I sat in my favorite chair, smoothed my gray sweater dress, crossed my legs and folded my hands on my lap signaling I was ready for this conversation.

  Marino crossed his ankle over his knee and pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket. He opened his notepad, and then clicked his pen three times before he spoke.

  “Before we begin, I’d like to point out the FBI has jurisdiction over this matter because a bank is involved. The reason I’m here is the implication of identity fraud that might have occurred, and that’s our domain.”

  Marino closed his notepad over his thumb. “From what I understand from Mr. Buren, you discovered a discrepancy with your driver’s license photo. Would you please get your license so we can take a look at it?

  “Leaving aside you are not the owner of the safe deposit box, you believe somebody has copied or faked information on a driver’s license used for identification for the box. Is that correct? If I could obtain some information pertinent to you and your husband, we can look into this issue. If it wouldn’t be any trouble, could we move to the dining room area? It would be easier to write on my notepad.” He remained seated, waiting for an offer to move to the dining room. I was curious what Jude had to do with a report needed for my questioned license photo.

  “For the record, detective, Jude is not my husband. We are registered domestic partners,” I pointed out.

  “Soon to be unregistered and ex-partners,” Aunt Mary interposed. I hadn’t spotted her as she’d slid back into the room and conversation. The subject of Jude could only spell trouble in Aunt Mary’s eyes.

  “Aunt Mary, please allow me to handle this. The men have families and suppers to go home to and are not interested in the drama of my life,” I remarked.

  “Suit yourself. But if one of them is eligible and you are free . . . just saying.” She shrugged nonchalantly.

  Chavez laughed, but Marino remained stoic. His expression resembled a cold, dead fish. “Could you get your license?” Marino reminded.

  “Oh, sorry. I got sidetracked. Let me grab my wallet,” I suggested as I searched through my purse and then my coat. “I’m sorry this is taking so long. I had it at Starbucks. Oh no! someone has made off with my wallet!”

  “Well, is it lost or stolen?” Detective Marino asked.

  “Stolen. It was extremely crowded, and as I pushed my way out of the building, I focused on not dropping my coffee. I recall a gentleman brushed up against me. He was the only one who even came close, and he also apologized. He was attractive and well groomed. He had an exotic look to him. Maybe Middle Eastern. And he had an accent. Anyway, he wasn’t somebody I would think was a pickpocket,” I responded.

  “Well, there you go. A gentlemanly thief,” Aunt Mary observed. “That was karma kicking your ass for not getting me a cappuccino and cake.”

  “Ladies, if I might intervene?” Marino curtly added, and Chavez grinned looking down at his boots. “I can take the information for this incident. If you had your charge card with you, you should notify the card company of the theft. It sounds like you will want to replace your license as well. Anything else important in your wallet?” he asked as he looked at me.

  “My faculty ID, parking card, and some random photos.” I was frustrated. What a pain to have to deal with the administration office at school to get those replaced.

  I stood finally and walked to the dining room. The detectives accompanied me.

  Detective Marino took a seat at the large dining table and got down to business. Chavez remained standing. He stuck both hands in his pockets as he wandered around the room regarding the wall art and precisely placed art pieces.

  “This is quite a place. I am a bit of an art enthusiast, and these works you have displayed are extraordinary. Please don’t think me presumptuous or forward, but would you mind if I got closer to look at the art? If you think me too forward, please tell me,” Chavez added.

  His eyes gleamed like a kid unwrapping a gift. Our house was like a showroom or a model home that yearned for someone to buy it. The art Jude frequently rotated throughout the house was a conglomeration of new artists but also replicas of favorites like Kandinsky, Rothko, and Picasso. There was even one he’d come across that I’d found was impossible to determine if it was an original Rembrandt or not. Jude was wealthy, but not Bill Gates wealthy. Not enough to own an original Old Master.

  “Certainly. Please, take your time,” I replied and smiled.

  Detective Chavez wandered to examine the works under the vigilant eye of Aunt Mary.

  Shifting to get comfortable in the dining room chair, Detective Marino went on. “Do you have any idea how someone could have obtained your information and opened this safe deposit box at the bank under your name?”

  “I can’t be sure. Maybe it was someone I had to show it to for identification? It sounded like the bank copy had a photo where someone switched out my picture. The ID the bank had, the person wore glasses. I don’t. Changing the photo on an ID is fairly easy to do with some minimal effort,” I remarked.

  My last sentence, in particular, drew a raised eyebrow from him. “How’s that?” he asked.

  “I suppose I am admitting to a crime. In college, we modified our driver’s licenses so we could get into bars. As an art student, identification alteration was pretty easy for me. Not that I faked IDs for anyone else, only me. And it was just to get into bars to socialize,” I added.

  “I see,” was his unreadable and short response.

  “I swear this was only while I was in college. And I was not aware of the legal consequences,” I said.

  “Dr. Collier, I guarantee you I will not open a line of inquiry because of your bad college behavior. We are here to take a report and follow up on information that appears to be a case of identity fraud. But the theft of your wallet requires a separate theft report. I need to report these
as two separate incidents, even though they both involve similar subject matter. I’m certain if the box isn’t yours, you can turn it over to the bank, and they can handle that issue,” Marino explained.

  I watched his foot move in an agitated manner, and I felt the only response was to agree.

  “Fine. Where do I sign this report?” I asked.

  “Permit me a few minutes while I write the report, and then you can confirm it is correct.” He seemed eager to finish up.

  Chavez who had wandered from room to room looking at the displayed art finally returned.

  Chavez asked, “What is the name of Mr. White’s business?”

  “W & R Fine Art. Why?” I asked.

  “No particular reason. I just wondered if somebody connected with him might have a reason to mess with you,’’ Chavez added.

  “Not likely. Jude’s business is his. I have nothing to do with it. I teach art history at the university and he imports and exports fine art. We lead separate lives,” I countered.

  The way he glanced around the room as he mentally catalogued everything made me uneasy.

  Marino completed the statement, and I signed it.

  “If you don’t mind, could you step over there?” Chavez stood and pointed at the living room. I followed him as he walked to the open doorway.

  “There are two paintings in here. This one appears to be a Van Gogh. Would you agree?” he asked as he approached it with Aunt Mary on his heels.

  “It looks like an excellent copy of his work called Dr. Gachet,” Mary said. “Emmie Lou, this painting wasn’t here last month.”

  “No, Jude had it hung last week,” I offered.

  “Okay, please follow me. May I call you Emma?” he asked, and I consented.

  “This looks like a museum-quality painting,” Chavez continued. “You’re an art expert. What do you think?”

  “I will concede it does look museum quality. But so do many high-quality forgeries. I’m no expert in authentication. And even experts focus on one artist. People think just because you have a degree in fine art or art history that makes you an expert in all periods and styles of art. Not so. Even in the early twentieth century, experts relied on their gut. Today, people rely on scientific testing as opposed to just eyeballing a painting. There’s a lot more that goes into authentication than just looking at the composition,” I said.

  “Such as?” he asked.

  “Seriously? Okay. You can verify authenticity purely by the style of the painting such as brushstroke, texture, composition, and color, but that is your very basic level. What I guess you would call eyeballing the painting as we are doing here. This would be a place you would start. The next level to verify a painting you would perform objective tests to test the aging of the material by carbon dating, dendrochronology or peptide-mass fingerprinting to determine animal type material in the painting. And if you want to go to a more advanced level to authenticate a painting, you would jump to scientific instruments if you have the money to do that. It’s not unheard of for high-dollar paintings to be subjected to infrared spectroscopy, radiometric dating, multispectral imaging, and gas chromatography. And in today’s forensic driven world you might also throw in fingerprint mapping and DNA,” I said and he returned a smile.

  “Possibly you will indulge my curiosity and when I explain something you will allow me a look at the flip side of the painting. At auction, it was reported the Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold for about one hundred fifty million dollars and change. I watch a lot of PBS late night shows. Insomnia. Anyway, this is the interesting part. The portrait was purchased by a Japanese industrialist. When he died it was reported he was in debt, and it seems the painting disappeared. The painting’s whereabouts remains unknown. Some reports speculate he might have burned it. One program I watched reported he’d been overheard saying he would rather destroy it than sell it to pay his creditors. But you know what? This painting looks authentic to me. Look at the brushstrokes and signature,” he said as he pointed at what indeed looked like authentic signature brushstrokes.

  “Oh. No. That’s impossible. Jude would never have access to the amount of money needed to buy such a painting,” I replied, shocked to think an original would be on display in our home unnoticed. “It must be a good fake.”

  “How about we take a look at the back?” He reached for the painting but waited for my consent to remove it from the wall.

  “I don’t know, Detective. The paintings are not my personal property and I don’t feel right handling them,” I said now as queasiness gripped my stomach.

  “All right, then step to this side of the room. You tell me what you see,” Chavez said.

  Marino looked at his watch and then back at us.

  “I see an oil on canvas in the style of Gauguin’s Two Tahitian Women. The front girl in a colorful outfit appears to be Tahitian wearing her native garb, and the girl behind her is wearing a pink western-influenced dress. Should I continue or is there a limited purpose to the question?” I asked now becoming annoyed and hungry, but my suspicion was now piqued.

  “Like I said, I watch a lot of TV and I am a bit of an art sleuth. What I see might be the painting Will You Marry Me by Gauguin, allegedly purchased in 2015 by the state of Qatar from a Swiss broker for three hundred million dollars. That’s what I see. Are you sure you don’t want to turn the paintings over and see if the canvas is blank, or if they are stamped with their official provenance? Aren’t you curious if you have two great masters hanging on your walls worth half a billion dollars?” he asked.

  “I sure as hell do. Take them down,” Aunt Mary yelled and waved her hand to direct Detective Marino over to help Chavez to take them down.

  “No, stop. The paintings and everything in this house belong to Jude, and I do not feel I have the authority to let you touch anything,” I said.

  “Well.” Marino stepped forward as if to intimidate me. “You may contact a lawyer, but as a domestic partner you may have the right to consent to a search of property you inhabit together.”

  “If you can convince me I am in possession of stolen property, I will consider more carefully allowing a search without a warrant. I don’t want anything to do with stolen goods. But I didn’t hear anyone say anything about stolen property. All I heard Detective Chavez say was these are two paintings in question that may have been lawfully acquired by Jude and as far as we know there is nothing illegal in their ownership. For some reason, Jude may have them in his possession, and as far as I can tell that is not illegal. Jude is a lot of things, but I can’t say I ever thought of him as a thief. So, no to a search,” I responded.

  “Then we will be leaving. Thank you for your cooperation. Please call us if you need anything further. We shall inform the agent you will be by the bank to check your box tomorrow,” Chavez said.

  “Again, technically it’s not my box, but I will do it. If we’re done here, I think our food delivery is here. You better step out of the way once Lucy realizes food has arrived,” I suggested as I corralled everyone toward the door.

  I hadn’t heard Aunt Mary leave the room while I was speaking to the detectives and had started to escort them to the door, but she must have left. As I reached for the door to open it for the food delivery, she marched in the room blustering. I knew with one look she was out of control. It was my mistake. I had overlooked her evening dose of her prescription in the craziness of the day.

  Aunt Mary stood wearing her yellow raincoat and pink wellies, carrying a black umbrella in one hand and hairspray in the other ready to fend off any enemies.

  “So, you boys are the law?” she thundered. “Well, that’s good. Really good. You finally caught up with the two of them?”

  If her outburst weren’t so embarrassing, I would have burst out laughing watching the detectives. Chavez’s jaw gaped wide. Detective Marino looked alarmed, taking a full step backward with his hand ready to un-holster his weapon.

  Chavez, who seemed to have composed himself, spoke first. “Ma’am, w
ould you mind placing the umbrella and hairspray on the table? We are here to talk to your niece and mean no one any harm.” I could tell he had hostage negotiation skills or cared for a family member with dementia by the way he spoke to her.

  “So, you aren’t here to arrest her communist boyfriend? Everyone knows he carries on with the Russians. Started with the cold war. They got him when he was still a baby, and now he spies for them. They don’t think I hear them outside down by the dock at night. They think I’m some old lady off in dreamland. But I’ve been biding my time until the law came knocking and here you are. Do you want to take my statement? If so, I don’t want Emmie implicated in this. She gets full immunity. If you give her immunity, then I will be your prime witness. Dirty commie. I haven’t seen it around, but I bet he subscribes to the Daily Worker. And he speaks fluent Russian to them, the bastard.” She snapped the umbrella toward the window and motioned toward the boat dock.

  At this stage, I took over the situation. I walked to her and then linked our arms, turning to guide her to her bedroom. She looked at me as tears sprang up in her eyes. She reached to cradle my face in her hands as she did throughout my childhood, my sole comfort in life.

  Detective Marino broke the uncomfortable silence and stepped backward. “Dr. Collier, we’ll leave you two to eat.”

  Abruptly, Aunt Mary broke from my hold and in five strides was a measure away from Detective Marino. Jesus, that’s all I needed. He will have her hauled off. What a clusterfuck.

  “This is my fault. I neglected to give her the drug she needs. Please accept my apology,” I implored.

  Refusing to move, she looked at his feet and then her eyes swept up his six-foot-four frame and then stared him down. Oh, Lord. Here it comes, an arrest for assault of a police official. Poking him in the chest, she scolded him.

  “If you were doing your goddamn job, you would warn the State Department there’s a communist in their midst. Put out a BOLO on the bastard Judas. He’s in the wind, no one’s heard from him. Jude White, the dickhead, is a deceiver and secret keeper.”