Closure: An Eli Quinn Mystery Read online

  “He looks sad,” I said. “Or tired.”

  “Interesting,” Delores said. “Tinker said this Franklin looked thoughtful, distinguished.”

  Kindred spirits. Franklin was an inventor—everything from the lightning rod to bifocals to swim fins. A tinkerer for sure.

  “I imagine your husband felt a kinship with Franklin,” I said.

  “That’s why he bought it. He called the piece The Tinkerer. An unofficial title, but if you buy a piece, you can bestow upon it whatever title you wish, I guess. I still can’t believe he bought it—it cost a fortune.”

  “You mind I ask how much?” I sipped the coffee.

  “He paid two-point-five million for it. He said it’s probably worth about three now. More than anything else in the house.”

  I almost spit coffee on the bust. “Three million dollars? Really?”

  “Really. It’s a 1778 piece by French sculptor Jean-Antoine Houdon. I only know that because Tinker told me. It was actually stolen a few years back, from a home in Philadelphia, by the maid, and when it was recovered, the owner had it appraised and auctioned it off.”

  “And here it sits, in plain sight, after you were broken into twice.” I looked around the room again. “Lots of expensive art just sitting here.”

  “Tinker bought most of this anonymously through an agent, so as far as we know, nobody but a few close friends even knows the bust or any of this is here, or that it’s worth anything.”

  “Still…”

  “You think it’s a clue.”

  “Unfortunately, I have no idea,” I admitted. “It’s just an interesting item of note for now. But I won’t be surprised if there is a clue in this room somewhere.”

  Chapter 9

  There was no better food in Pleasant than at Café Amir. Because a town ordinance prohibited chain restaurants, Café Amir didn’t have to compete with TGI Fridays or Burger King. There would have been no competition on taste or quality, but in other small towns, the chains drew so much business they made it difficult for an entrepreneur to survive. This was why Amir Yalda opened his restaurant in the center of Pleasant. It was diagonally opposite Lulu’s Grind on the southwest side of the traffic circle, where Pleasant Way and Happy Lane met. If you drew a line from Café Amir to Lulu’s, it would cut right through Ringo, the saguaro with the bullet in it.

  I parked the Jeep across the street. Solo bounded from the back seat and followed me to the cafe. I was in my new detective outfit: jeans, loafers and T-shirt. Like any good detective, I packed a holstered iPhone on my right hip.

  At the low wrought-iron fence surrounding the patio, I said, “Down.” Solo lied down, but remained attentive, ready to spring into action if necessary. Meantime he’d stay put, content to see, hear and smell everything, registering more detail than any good detective, and always keeping half an eye on me.

  It was hard to get a table during lunch or dinner at Café Amir. There were plenty of tables at two in the afternoon. I picked one outside, in the shade of the two-story building that housed the café and, above it, Amir and his family.

  It was hotter today, in the high-nineties, but still dry. I liked the heat. And we’d have privacy on the patio. To talk about the case. That’s how I justified the table selection to myself.

  The town was quiet. Kids were in school, adults at work. A few cars came through, slowing as they navigated the traffic circle, which still had the original cobblestones set in place back in 1913.

  Sam parked next to the Jeep. She wore black jeans and a simple white V-neck T-shirt. Black flats with no socks, a single silver bracelet on her left wrist. I noticed all this only because I was in detective mode.

  She said hello to Solo first. Solo put his paws up on her thighs, and Sam scratched behind his ears.

  “I see it’s a double date,” she said.

  “Nah,” I said. “Solo already ate.” I stood, looking at Sam. “Sit,” I said. I was still looking at Sam, but Solo sat, which was what I meant to have happen. I was still looking at Sam, until I realized that the looking had turned into staring. She curled a bit of hair behind her ear and looked away. I mentally kicked myself for staring. Then I looked at Solo and commanded him to lie down. Sam came through the gate and sat across from me, and we talked briefly about what a beautiful day it was. We had a way of putting the awkward moments behind us and getting back to our friendship, or our work.

  Amir came to the table and greeted us warmly. “Hello, Ms. Marcos. Mr. Quinn.” Amir was always formal, despite the fact we were old friends. “I hear about the case.”

  I’m sure the smile dropped noticeably from my face. Sam had been distracting me from trial of Jess’ murderer, if only for a day.

  “The scumbag is guilty,” Amir said. “Is good.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding without enthusiasm.

  “Good,” Amir said. “Is finish.”

  I nodded again, but that’s all I had. There was an awkward silence. “Your server is right out,” he said. “Good to see both of you. Enjoy lunch. Can I get anything?”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  Amir smiled and walked backward a couple steps, a custom of his, before turning and retreating to the kitchen.

  “He cares about you, is all,” Sam said.

  “I know. I’m trying to move forward, but each time someone brings it up, I get pulled back. I can’t help my reaction.”

  “No, you can’t. So let’s take a step forward. Bring me up to speed on the case.”

  “I had a really interesting talk with Jack Beachum this morning.”

  “How’s Beach?”

  “Same-same. Still in shape. Still sharp. Doesn’t take any crap. He says the security camera wasn’t working at the time of the murder. Hadn’t been for a couple weeks.”

  “Which would explain why they wrote down your license plate number when we went to see Delores yesterday.”

  “Yeah. They have a new camera now, but while it was out, they were taking numbers down manually. Now they do it as backup. New procedure.”

  “You thinking that could have something to do with the case.”

  “It’s something to noodle.”

  “Manual systems involve humans. Humans are fallible. Might’ve provided an opportunity,” she said.

  “Might’ve. We don’t have a motive, but now we have a possible means.”

  “Is that detective talk?”

  “Darn tootin.”

  “You’ve been hanging around Beach too much.”

  A new waitress came out with menus. She set the menus down. Neither of us looked at the menus.

  “I think we can order,” Sam said.

  “What can I get you?” the waitress asked. Her ponytail bounced when she talked.

  “We’ll have the baba ghanoush appetizer, tabbouleh and some hummus,” Sam said. “And please bring extra pita.”

  The waitress didn’t write anything down, but she had the order.

  “Anything else?” She addressed at me. I watched Sam watch the waitress watch me. Interesting.

  “Let’s get some chicken shawarma, too,” I said.

  “That’s not on the menu anymore,” the waitress said, politely.

  “I know,” I said. “Ask Amir though. He’ll make it.”

  Her ponytail bobbed in a friendly way, as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, revealing impatience. “I can try,” she said.

  “And some of that cucumber stuff,” I said. “Yogurt and cucumber. I can never remember what it’s called.”

  The ponytail swung to the other side as the waitress shifted feet again. She didn’t say anything. She looked at Sam.

  “Tzatziki,” Sam said. I nodded. Sam knew it was one of my favorites. It came with different ingredients and different flavors at various Mediterranean restaurants around the Valley. Amir frequently claimed his, made with lemon, not vinegar, and just a hint of mint, was preferable to the Greek style. I couldn’t argue.

  I also ordered a Sierra Nevada. “
You want one?

  “I don’t drink during the day,” Sam said.

  “Neither do I,” I looked at my watch. “It’s quarter after five in New York City.”

  “I love New York,” Sam said.

  “We can pretend we’re there,” I said.

  “Oh, what the hell,” Sam said. The waitress thanked us, picked up the menus and left.

  Sam asked: “Learn anything new from Delores?”

  “I quizzed her about the timing of it all. She came through the gate at 6:48, according to the records. Tinker is shot at 6:59, according to the dead clock. Sunset was at 7:05, according to the U.S. Naval Observatory web site. That last one is the only time I trust.”

  “You think the time she entered the gate could have been wrong?”

  “By accident or on purpose,” I said.

  “And the clock?”

  “Leaning toward believing that one as the time of death. I don’t see a reason to have shot it at any other time. But I just don’t know.”

  “So Delores remains a suspect,” she said.

  “For now. But I’m coming around to your view, that there’s something screwy. The more I look into the art, the more I figure it must’ve played a role. They’ve got several paintings worth stealing. A bunch are worth six figures. One’s worth almost a million bucks. And one item is worth even more. Wanna guess?”

  “I know at least as much about art as you,” she said. “So, let me see.” She looked up into a corner of her brain, held her chin and tapped a finger on her upper lip. “I give.”

  “The Franklin bust. It’s from the 1700s, French sculptor named Jean-Antoine Houdini or something. And get this: It was stolen before. In Philly. They got it back and the owner decided to unload. Bernstein bought it anonymously at auction. Delores said they have always been very quiet about the art collection. Only close friends knew about any of it.”

  “All of which might mean nothing,” Sam said, “because we’re still operating under the assumption that no art was taken, right?”

  “That’s one assumption.”

  The waitress delivered our Sierra Nevadas. I took a long pull from the bottle. Sam poured hers into a glass and had a sip.

  “Delores would’ve noticed a missing piece,” Sam said.

  “If it were obviously missing.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “That doesn’t sound like detecting.”

  “Hell, it’s not even guessing yet,” I said. “Just feels like something doesn’t add up. I mean, a guy is murdered in his home in the country club, a gated community, for no apparent reason. Three days earlier, his PC is stolen. Maybe there was something valuable on the PC.”

  “Like what?”

  “No clue,” I said.

  “Pretty soon you have to stop saying that.”

  “Maybe he had some valuable trade secrets from GE.”

  “Trade secrets worth stealing,” Sam said, “then worth killing for to make sure the previous owner didn’t talk about it, so whoever stole them didn’t get caught.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s not a bad hunch,” Sam said. “Why didn’t you think of that earlier?”

  “Because I just thought of it now. If I’d thought of it earlier, maybe we wouldn’t have needed lunch together in New York. And then maybe I’d never have gotten the chance to come up with it and you wouldn’t have had a beer in the afternoon.”

  “That makes no sense,” she said.

  “Like this case.”

  “Well, the good news is, your detective skills are improving daily.”

  “It’s been two days.”

  “Yeah, but if you can sustain the momentum, pretty soon you’ll be able to solve anything. Get you a reality show.”

  I huffed. Neither of us wasted our time on reality TV. It was a running joke between us that the supposed pinnacle of any career is to get your own reality show.

  The waitress delivered hummus, tabbouleh, baba ghanoush and tzatziki. I took a second long pull from the beer, nearly finished it. Tilted it toward the waitress to signal another. Sam took another sip of hers. She tore a large piece of pita and dipped it into the baba ghanoush, took small bites.

  “There’s one new twist,” I said. “Delores just told me about this contractor, J.D. Fish, who has done work for Tinker off and on over the years. He recently tore the back of the house off, rebuilt it with those big windows.”

  “Great view. I can’t believe it wasn’t all windows before.”

  “It’s probably nothing, but if anyone can slip in and out of the country club easily, it’d be a local contractor. Plus we still haven’t ruled Delores out. They could be in cahoots.”

  “Cahoots.”

  “Detective talk.”

  “Yeah, OK. So you think it’s worth talking to this Fish guy,” she said.

  “I think so.”

  “Have some baba ghanoush,” she said. “It’s exquisite.”

  “He does know how to make baba ghanoush. Just enough lemon, not too much garlic. And he uses fresh olive oil. That gives it the slight burn in the back of your throat.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I watched him make it one day. I make a good baba ghanoush, but there was always something missing. He’d told me his recipe, but it wasn’t the same. So I watched him, and he was using a brand of olive oil I’d never heard of.”

  “You have to use extra virgin,” Sam said. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Yeah, but it turns out most olive oil takes months to get from the tree to the table, and it loses flavor and nutrients. So you have to find really fresh olive oil, and only a few manufacturers actually date stamp it.”

  “So you can make this baba ghanoush at home?”

  “I can.”

  “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

  “I will.”

  A brief silence settled between us. We were comfortable quiet, and it was one of the reasons we’d become friends. This time it felt maybe a little less comfortable than others. Or a little more comfortable. I wasn’t sure. So I pushed my brain to get back to the case.

  My second beer and the shawarma arrived. I looked at the beer. I looked at Sam’s glass, still more than half full. I summoned a bunch of willpower and let my beer sit.

  “So. What’d you find out?” I asked, still watching the beer. “Any art thieves in our midst?” I spooned a healthy amount of tzatziki on pita and took a big bite.

  “There’s a couple guys in county jail that did some high-profile residential thefts around the Valley. One involved some paintings, but nothing particularly valuable. The other was mostly into jewelry and had stolen one painting. Neither sounded anything like what happened in country club. I didn’t try to learn too much about them regardless, since they’re in jail and probably didn’t kill Tinker Bernstein.”

  “Good call. Given what I’m paying you, I can’t have you chasing wild gooses.”

  “There’s another guy pretty interesting. Bobby Gonzales, aka Bobby G. He’s suspected of a few high-profile art thefts but there hadn’t been any good evidence. Then he and an accomplice, big Slavic guy named Radu something-or-other, made a daring theft several years ago in Detroit. They ripped off seven really expensive paintings from a collector’s home. Maybe would’ve gotten away with it, but a butler who wasn’t supposed to be there, was. Radu shot him. Looks like he meant to kill him, but it was sloppy gun work. Radu was known for being muscle, not a shooter. Butler survives, identifies both of them. Bobby G gets seven years. Radu is still in.

  “And I’m guessing Bobby G isn’t living in Detroit any more,” I said. I drank some beer, but not a lot.

  “Scottsdale,” Sam said.

  “How’d you find all that?”

  “Some of it was in the AP archives,” she said. “But I’ve got an FBI friend who sometimes fills in some details for me.”

  “Friend?”

  “Used to be a boyfriend.
”

  “What happened?”

  “He got offered a job in DC, Art Theft Crime Team.”

  “They have that?”

  “Yep. He said the trafficking in stolen art and other cultural property runs into the billions of dollars annually. They get involved whenever things cross state lines or go out of the country. Anyway, he moved. I stayed. Long-distance thing didn’t work, but we stayed friends.”

  We were both quiet a couple minutes, eating. Sam sipped her beer. I drank mine. We ate. I tried to telepathically glean if she still had feelings for this FBI guy. But Sam’s ability to block telepathy was apparently strong.

  “Good friend to have,” I finally said. She tilted her head, shrugged with a tiny grin. “So this Bobby G. He been clean since he got out?”

  “FBI doesn’t have any reason to think otherwise,” she said. “But thieves like him rarely reform.”

  “Is that your professional psychologist’s opinion?”

  “I’m not a professional psychologist.”

  “You’ve got a master’s degree.”

  “Didn’t get the Ph.D. Never went into practice.”

  “The lure of riches in journalism was just too strong.”

  Sam just shook her head at that one.

  “So there was a break-in down in Paradise Valley a couple months ago,” she said. “Some former NBA player had three LeRoy Neiman’s stolen.”

  “LeRoy Neiman? The guy with the big handlebar mustache who painted sports celebrities? Didn’t he die recently?”

  “Couple years ago,” she said. “He was ninety-one.”

  “His paintings worth anything?”

  “Not exactly Picasso prices. But they’re easy to fence, my guy said. A lot of people who might want one would be less likely to be thorough about authentication, might not ask many questions. So a thief could turn some quick cash. Thing is, the way it happened looked like Bobby G’s M.O.”

  “And what’s your guy say that would look like?”

  “Owner’s collection wasn’t widely known. Bad guys appeared to have some inside information that told them what was there and when nobody would be there. Only the most valuable pieces were stolen. In each one, a TV was ripped off to make it look like it wasn’t just an art theft. Only difference is in the Paradise Valley theft, nobody was shot, and there were no witnesses, no other evidence.”