Sarah Woods Mystery Series (1-6) Boxed Set (72 page)

“
What happened next?” Carter asked.

“
He tied my hands behind my back with duct tape and put a strip over my mouth.”

“
But he didn't hurt you?”

Jason shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, he wasn't rough at all. I got the sense that he had no intention of hurting me, but I couldn't be sure at the time.”

“
Okay,” Carter said. “Then what?”

Jason continued, “He took the wallet out of my back pocket. Then I heard him going through my desk drawers, probably looking for a cash box or something.”

“
Do you have one?”

“
Yes, but I don't keep it in my desk. I keep it in a safe under the … anyway, that's not important.”

Carter smiled and nodded. “Go on.”

“
So after he went through my stuff, I thought I heard him take something off the wall. I couldn't really tell what he was doing, but he didn't stick around very long. When I heard him leave, I was somehow able to get to my feet. By the time I got to the window and looked outside, he was long gone. Luckily my cell phone was face up on my desk. I was able to speed dial the police. They got here within five minutes. That's when I noticed two paintings were missing from the wall. I was also pretty upset about another thing. A client had given me a Cuban cigar. It was on my desk, still in the silver tube. An Arturo Fuente. Very expensive. I was really looking forward to smoking it.”

Carter asked, “Was there anything about the thief that seemed familiar to you?”

Jason paused. “No. In fact, the only time he spoke was when he told me to get on the floor.”

“
Do you remember what he was wearing, other than the ski mask?”

Jason shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I think he was wearing some kind of black rain jacket. And he definitely had gloves on.”

“
What about his footwear?” Carter asked.

“
I don't really remember.”

“
Cowboy boots?”

Jason pursed his lips in concentration. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that's right.”

“
So you never told the police about his boots?”

“
I don't remember. They seemed more concerned with the gun. I couldn't help them with that. I wouldn't know the difference between a revolver and a pistol.”

“
Was there anything else about the thief you remember?”

“
Well, he had some kind of briefcase with him. I do remember telling the police about that.”

“
What did the briefcase look like?” Carter asked.

“
It was a hard case, not a soft one. Black, or maybe dark brown. That's probably where he put the paintings before he left ... so they wouldn't get wet.”

Carter said, “They must have been pretty small paintings to fit inside a briefcase.”

“
Yes, they were. An Ambrose and a Zaviroff. Collectively worth about eighteen grand, but they were both fairly small, approximately twelve by fifteen.”

“
Zaviroff must be popular,” Carter replied.

Jason chuckled. “Yes, I heard Mrs. Caswell had one stolen, too. He's pretty hot on the scene right now. And the guy is only in his twenties.”

“
Did the police make a connection with that? Maybe the burglar is someone who collects his works.”

Jason waved the idea off. “Can't help you there. That was the first and only Zaviroff painting I ever had. Personally, if I were the thief, I'd have been more interested in the Holmes collection. Edward Holmes is in his nineties. And not to sound insensitive, but his work is primed to increase in value much sooner than Zaviroff's will. Of course, I'm speaking from an investment point of view, not one of personal enjoyment.”

Carter paced the room, glancing at the paintings on the wall. He stopped in front of a landscape to closely examine it. “Mr. Trask, how is business, if you don't mind my asking?”

“
Winter is always a slow time. Now that spring is here, things should start to pick up.”

“
Must be a competitive business with so many galleries in town.”

Jason paused. “It's all about location. I get a lot of foot traffic during tourist season. I mean, I'm off the beaten path, but when the park opens in a few weeks, I'll get more visibility. Plus, I have a number of clients with summer homes in the area.”

“
If the thief wanted to sell those stolen paintings, how would he manage that?” Carter asked.

“
Hypothetically?” Jason swayed from heel to toe, hands clasped behind his back. “There are a few options. Some dealers might have particular clients who desire certain pieces and aren't fussy about how they are acquired. In my opinion, the risk wouldn't be worth it unless the thief intended to keep them for his own collection.”

“
Had you ever met Glenn Fleming?” Carter asked.

“
Only once. He came in a few weeks before the robbery. Wanted me to collaborate on some kind of art walk to promote the galleries in town.”

“
Were you receptive to the idea?”

“
As a matter of fact, I wasn't. I have enough of my own clients. I figured the only reason Glenn asked me to be involved was so I'd share my client list. I suppose I'm not very trusting.”

“
Did Glenn seem upset that you didn't want to help out?”

“
Not really. He said he understood. He was actually very decent about the whole thing. I admired him for that.”

“
Are you often here alone?”

“
Yes. However, I hired an intern a few weeks ago. He's a college student at the Portland Art Institute. He comes in twice a week.”

“
What does your intern do?”

“
He helps me with promotions, sales ... basically all manner of running a gallery. I'm teaching him the importance of forging friendships with clients and the artists we represent. I believe it's the most important aspect of being an art dealer in a small community.”

Carter eyed me, probably wondering if I had anything to add to the conversation. I did.

I cleared my throat and addressed Mr. Trask. “This a nice place and you have quite a variety of work on hand. Do you have security measures in place? Surveillance cameras, for instance.”

“
I do have surveillance cameras. One at the entrance and one out back by my desk with the digital program running twenty-four hours a day. It just so happened that a week or so before the burglary, the program needed to shut down to perform updates. I was supposed to reboot it to get the feed going again, but I completely forgot. I'd never been robbed before, so it wasn't the first thing on my mind.”

I noticed the small, white camera at the entrance, the color blending in with the paint. “Did you share that information with anyone beforehand?”

“
No. Why would I share that information?”

“
I assume the surveillance equipment is in working order now?” I asked.

“
Yes. I learned my lesson.”

“
How long have you owned the gallery?”

“
Two years as of last month. I worked in a gallery on Newberry Street in Boston for five years before I opened this one. I couldn't take the daily commute any longer.”

“
Just one last question. Do you think it's possible the thief was one of your clients?”

Jason shook his head vehemently. “Not a chance.”

“
Why are you so sure?”

“
Because I have great relationships with all my clients. And I'm sure I would have recognized something about the guy.”

An older couple entered the gallery from the open door. Jason ran a hand over his head and smoothed his dark hair down, as if primping for the customers.

Carter extended his hand. “Mr. Trask, thanks for your time. I'll let you get back to work. Here's my card.”

* * *

For lunch, Carter and I grabbed a few subs at the deli and occupied an empty picnic table in the back of the establishment. Not many of the patrons knew it existed, so it was a great spot to discuss the case.

“
Do you think it's a coincidence that Jason Trask's surveillance happened to be out of order during the burglary?” I asked Carter.

Carter unwrapped his sandwich. “The mask and gloves proved the thief was prepared anyway.”

“
Good point.” I removed the pickles from my sub, took a bite, and let my mind wander. “What about the cowboy boots? You don't see many people wearing those around here. And how many local stores would carry them?”

“
With Internet shopping, the guy could have purchased them anywhere in the world.”

Carter devoured his lunch in a few bites, wiped his hands on his paper napkin, and retrieved his phone from his back pocket. “Might as well get that background check on Glenn. I know his wife said he didn't have a record, but you never know.”

While Carter conducted the research, I finished my lunch and checked my phone. There was a text from Max.
Hey sweetheart. Don't forget out dinner plans at six.

I replied with a brief message:
Looking forward to it. Should I dress up?

Within a few seconds, Max replied:
Not necessary. You're beautiful as you are.

I smiled to myself as I returned my phone to my pocketbook. Carter noticed and said, “What are you smiling about?”

“
Oh nothing. Max was just checking in. We have dinner plans tonight. I have no idea where he's taking me, but I have to be home by six. Will that be a problem?”

“
Nope.” Carter's face turned serious again as he gestured to his phone. “Well, Elizabeth was right. Glenn had no priors. At least nothing I can find in a quick search.”

“
Okay. So maybe his worst crime was gambling away his life savings.”

He shrugged. “The police are following the theory that the thief was some kind of pro. They have the resources and connections to experts in that field. I say we take a different tact.”

“
Like what?”

“
Like maybe the robberies were just a cover-up for the main objective, which was to kill Glenn. Maybe he'd made enemies in the gambling community.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Let's say you're right. Why not just show up at Glenn's gallery, kill him, and make it look like a robbery gone bad? Seems too complicated and risky to involve other galleries.”

“
It's clever though, right?” Carter chuckled. “Perfect plan to throw the cops off his trail. They'll be spinning their wheels to track down some notorious art thief.”

“
Okay. So we focus on Glenn's friends? Someone might know if he had made any enemies.”

Carter flipped through the pages of the file until he found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, tapping the sheet. “Let's call this guy first. Neal Bellows.”

“
Who is he?”

“
Elizabeth made a notation here that Neal knew her husband from Gambler's Anonymous.”

Chapter 3

Flippin' Flapjacks was a grungy hole-in-the-wall restaurant that advertised breakfast all day. The place was nearly empty at 1:00 p.m.

As Carter and I approached the counter, a young girl with bad acne asked if we'd like to be seated.

“
We're here to see Neal,” Carter said politely.

She gave us a look that appeared to be one of annoyance. “He's out back doing dishes.”

Carter made a point of glancing at his watch. “He told us he'd talk to us during his break.”

The girl rolled her eyes, sashayed to the back door, and bellowed his name. Within a few seconds, a skinny kid of about twenty years old, with scruffy facial hair and a ponytail appeared. He gave us a half-smile. “You the ones I talked to on the phone?”

Carter nodded.

Neal wiped his hands on his dirty apron and jerked his head to the right. “Only got a ten minute break and I need a smoke. Let's head out to the alley.”

We followed his lead down a narrow hallway that led to a back door. He shook a cigarette out of his pack, lit up, and took a long drag. His movements were jittery and snappy as if he was jacked-up on caffeine.

Carter showed him the cell phone. “If you don't mind, I'll be recording our conversation.”

Neal made a dismissive motion. “So you wanted to talk about Glenn Fleming?”

Carter stepped to the side to avoid the cigarette smoke. “Yeah. So you and Glenn met at Gambler's Anonymous, right?”

Neal shuffled his feet and leaned against a dumpster. “I really liked Glenn. I can't believe he's dead. He invited me to his house for dinner one time. He was like that. Friendly. His wife was pretty cool, too.”

“
Tell me more about the meetings?”

“
They had pretty good snacks. And there was one hot girl. The rest were old guys. I mean, Glenn was old, but he was cool. I can't go to the meetings anymore because I have to work.”

“
When was the last time you saw Glenn?” Carter asked.

Neal scratched his prickly chin. “He called me the week before he died, just to say hi. Check in with me and stuff.”

“
So you guys were pretty close?”

“
Yeah, I mean, not like we hung out and did stuff together. Mostly saw him at the meetings. He was kinda like a father figure, I guess.”

“
Last time you talked to him, did he happen to mention if he'd been gambling again?”

Neal took a drag and shook his head. “No, man. He wasn't gambling again.”

“
He said so, or you just assumed?”

“
If he was, he would have told me. That's part of the program. Compassion. Honesty. Trust. All that.”

“
Did he seem upset about anything? Was he in any kind of trouble?”

“
He seemed fine. He talked about going on a trip. Somewhere tropical with his wife.”

“
What else did you talk about?” Carter asked.

“
He just asked how I was doing. Making sure I was staying away from the track.”

“
Did he ever talk to you about his work at the gallery, or discuss his clients?”

“
Not really. He didn't talk about work much.”

“
To your knowledge, was there anyone in Glenn's life that might have had reason to kill him?”

Neal coughed into his shoulder then spit into a puddle. “No way, man. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“
No reason,” Carter said. “We just have to ask the question. Which brings me to another topic. Do you know if Glenn was having an affair?”

“
Nah. He wasn't the type.”

“
What do you mean by that?”

“
He didn't even flirt with the hot girl at the meetings. Believe me, he coulda gone to bed with her if he wanted to. She was all over him. He totally ignored her.”

“
What's the girl's name?”

“
Mindy Giovanni.”

“
Does she still go to the meetings?”

“
I guess. But don't let her fool you. She doesn't have a gambling problem.”

Carter looked puzzled. “Then why go to the meetings?”

“
Cuz she likes to pick up guys at support group meetings – damaged goods. Some girls get off on that. I think Mindy just likes drama, you know?”

“
Is she some kind of hooker looking for clients?”

“
Don't think so. She doesn't wear low-cut dresses or anything like that.”

“
How does she dress?”

“
Not like a slut, if that's what you mean.”

“
You wouldn't happen to have her number?”

“
No, but I can tell you where to find her. She'll be in the basement of St. Teresa's tomorrow night at six-thirty for the meeting. And she'll most likely be at the AA meeting on Friday night.”

“
She has a drinking problem, too?”

“
No. Like I said, she goes to pick up guys.”

“
How old is this girl?” Carter asked.

“
Not sure, but I think she's a smoker because her voice is kind of husky.”

“
Do you know where she lives?”

“
Nah.”

Carter glanced at me. My turn to ask questions. I cleared my throat and asked Neal, “Did Glenn ever borrow money from you?”

He flicked the butt on the ground. “Do I look like I'd have extra money to give someone? It was the other way around.”

“
You borrowed money from Glenn?” I asked.

“
I had money problems a few months ago. Owed my bookie a few grand that I couldn’t pay. Glenn offered to help me out. That's the kind of guy he was.”

“
So Glenn gave you the money?”

“
Not exactly. He said he'd go to my bookie and take care of it. He probably figured if I had the cash in my hand, I wouldn't be able to resist gambling it away.”

I shot Neal a confounded look. “Glenn actually went to your bookie and paid off your debt? For you?”

“
I know, right? Not even my dad would do something like that for me.”

“
Did you ever pay Glenn back?”

“
I meant to.”

“
What's your bookie's name?” I asked. “Where can we find him?”

“
I don't know his real name. Everyone calls him Dunk. He owns the pizzeria called Mama Mia's down in the south end.”

“
When was the last time you talked to Dunk?”

“
Can't remember. I never heard from him again after Glenn went to pay him off for me.”

The acne-faced girl poked her head out the door. “Break time is over, Neal. Dirty tables are stacking up.”

Neal sighed, wiped his hands on his dingy apron, and spit into the puddle again. “I hope you catch whoever killed Glenn. I still can't believe it. He didn't deserve to die.”

Carter looked at me after Neal trudged back into the restaurant. “You thinking what I'm thinking?”

I nodded. “I guess I know where we're going next. Mama Mia’s Pizzeria.”