There were two reasons for my little attempt at intrigue. One, I wanted to see if it was possible for a random stranger to find out who had consigned or purchased an item at Lively Auctions. And that, at least, I’d proven could be done. Not through the front door maybe. But if I’d managed it, I was sure someone else could too.
Two, and most important, I’d wanted to see who had consigned the desk in the first place. After all, I knew it hadn’t been Morrison Brine himself, since he was dead.
Now, with the hard-won document in my hand, I had what I needed. I walked to my car, fearful that someone would stop me. No one did.
I drove three blocks, then pulled onto a side road to look it over. It was not surprising to me that Jefferson Brine was the consignor, but it was a little sad. An acknowledged son barely waiting for his father to be cold in the ground before getting rid of his most beloved possessions. The unacknowledged son in the end putting himself at risk to buy one thing that his father had cared about.
Knowing who had consigned the desk was interesting but not helpful. But knowing who had wanted what was in the desk—that was a different matter.
I was sitting there in my car when the phone rang. It was Rosa, returning my call.
“Don’t get me wrong, kid,” she said. “I love talking to you. But I do have to make time for other people too, you know.”
I laughed. “Okay. Point taken. But I think I’m getting somewhere.”
“With what?”
“Morrison Brine. Joseph MacLeish. Et cetera.”
“Ah. Right. Okay. What have you got?”
“I think someone killed Morrison Brine.”
I heard her typing in the background
“Nic, says here Brine was nearly ninety. I mean, a stiff breeze can kill you at that age.”
“Still. It fits. He’d been making enemies for a lotta years. And whoever killed him wanted what was in the desk I bought. But his son sold the desk before they could get what they needed out of it. So then they found out my mom paid for the desk and went to her house and tossed it.”
“You got your mom to buy your desk?”
“That wasn’t really the point of the story, Rosa. I had trouble with a card, and… well, never mind that. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is someone went to her house and tossed it. They were looking for something.”
“Okay, just stop for a second. Where does Joseph MacLeish fit into your whole scheme here?”
“MacLeish was Brine’s illegitimate son.”
“Of course he was,” Rosa said jovially. “Why the hell not?”
“That part I can prove. Anyway, Joe just wanted the desk because it had been his dad’s. But he didn’t know there was priceless wine in the desk…”
“What?”
“And someone else—I don’t know who—knew about the wine and the desk and wanted to get their hands on it.”
“And you have evidence to support all of this?”
“Well…not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“Okay, barely at all.”
“Listen, Nic, you’re a good kid. And I know you don’t mean to be wasting my time with this stuff, but this city is pretty busy with actual crimes getting committed. As much as I like chatting with you—and I do—hon, this one is unsupportable. You’ve got public figures getting killed by God knows who. And from what you’ve told me you’ve got pretty close to zero evidence of anything other than you bought a desk.”
“And my parents’ place was broken into.”
“Okay. And that. But the rest of it? Pretty close to pure conjecture. And I get it—you’re a writer. You can make stuff up. Not saying that you mean to, necessarily. But all of this plus five bucks will get you a coffee. I’ve listened to what you had to say really carefully, and there’s just nothing I can act on.”
Though my first instinct was to argue, I knew that Rosa had a point. A lot of this stuff was just me doing my little investigations and piecing things together as best as I could. My wanting things to fit together didn’t mean they actually would. Maybe there were no answers. Maybe I’d only been pushing so hard because I wanted a story. Maybe there wasn’t a single story here, just the constant mosaic of stories. I suddenly felt very tired.
When I got off the phone, I pulled my car back onto the road and headed to my favorite sushi joint, where I ate alone at the bar. Over a tekka maki, a California roll and a bowl of miso soup, I contemplated possibilities. But I realized right about then that I was done thinking for the moment. I couldn’t see anymore. Maybe things would look brighter in the morning, but for right now, I just wanted to go home.
At my building, I parked the car and trudged up the stairs, my head full of all the unsubstantiated facts I’d found. Suddenly all I wanted was a bubble bath, or maybe a half hour of mindless TV.
I was so intent on my thoughts, I almost didn’t notice that the door to my apartment was unlocked.
I pushed the door open, not really thinking things through. “Kyle? Is that you?” I called out. Not even remembering in that moment that my brother does not have a key.
What happened next unfolded so quickly that I can’t properly credit it.
A hand came out of nowhere and pushed me down. Firmly enough that I feared I was in danger. I landed with my face on the floor, and I had the presence of mind to not lift my head. Part of me wanted desperately to see who was in my apartment. Part of me knew that my life might well depend on me not doing so.
I heard no voices, was aware only of the sounds of multiple feet. More than one person. The clinking of glass. The wine bottles, of course. And then the desk drawers and the rustling of paper. And as I heard the footfalls recede, down the hall and then down the stairs, I tried to drum up emotion for what was happening. Should I not feel sorrow or regret or sadness? Maybe I did, but in those few minutes that I was free of the burdens the desk had produced, I also felt quickly and strangely released.
The feeling didn’t last long. Before the sounds of the thieves had fully receded, I heard the crash-banging of less careful feet. I picked myself up. Ran to the window. Saw half a dozen police cars and a police van fanned out in front of my building. Then heard more sounds on the ground floor beneath me. I could tell the cops were down there, doing their job.