8

Overhead fluorescent lights cast a blue wash over the squad room. Windows that during the day looked out over city streets tonight showed Adam only his own reflection. A few other detectives hunkered down at the desks scattered around the room, but the place was quiet, everyone there trying to rush through the last paperwork of the day to get home to their families. Pete leaned forward over his desk, head hanging low. He looked like he was settled in for a long night.

“What’s all that?” Adam dropped into the chair at the desk facing Pete’s, the chair he should be occupying to help dig through all this paperwork. If he hadn’t been pulled from the case.

Pete glanced up and smiled, but his eyes already looked tired, and both men knew his evening wasn’t over yet. “I’m going through the judge’s records, looking at cases that came before him over the past coupla years. It’s what a murder investigation is all about, right?”

Adam nodded and made a sympathetic face. “Wish I could help, buddy, you know I do.”

He meant it. It was dreary, sure, but reviewing Ryan-Mills’ cases was the best way to find a connection to someone who might want him dead. As long as the motive was connected to his work. If the killer came from closer to home, then Pete’s long night of research would turn out to be a waste of time. That’s the way the job worked.

Adam reached across the desk and grabbed one of the files. Pete shook his head in warning, but didn’t say anything as Adam flipped through it. Pete would be looking at everyone who appeared before the judge, from suspects to witnesses to lawyers. Anyone. Thank God the investigation was staying open, considering other leads. Not just Julia.

He tossed the file back onto Pete’s desk. “Thanks, buddy.” When Pete looked confused, he added, “For keeping on. For not giving up on Julia. I bet you’ll find something in these files.”

Adam looked hopefully at the piles covering Pete’s desk. Each pile represented another set of cases the judge had heard. Another list of people who could have a grudge against the man or his family. Another possibility that might clear Julia’s name.

“And if not, then tomorrow I go back to the family again. I don’t really think this is going to produce any real leads.” Pete shook his head at the paper he held in his hand. “But I gotta go through it, rule it out, anyway.”

“You never know, a name might jump out at you. It’s worth looking. So thanks.” Adam stood and leaned over to pat Pete on the shoulder. “The investigation goes on, we’re gonna find who did this, and you’re stuck doing all the paperwork.” He grinned. “The world is as it should be.”

Pete’s laugh came out more like a grunt, but he smiled.

“And Julia’s still her same sweet self. Do you know she actually cried when I told her about Ryan-Mills’ death?”

Pete gave Adam a look he couldn’t interpret. “You shouldn’t’ve done that. You shoulda let me talk to her first.”

“What the hell, Pete, she’s my sister, not a suspect. And I know her better than you do, trust me.”

“Right, yeah… I know. Even so—” Pete dropped his eyes from Adam’s face, turning his attention back to the papers in front of him. He cleared his throat. “Look, go do something useful. If you’re not doing anything for Murphy, then at least go get me a cup of coffee or something.”

“Sorry, buddy, no can do. I got dinner plans with Sylvia tonight.” Adam gave Pete an exaggerated shrug, his palms open to the ceiling. “But I do appreciate you doing this. I know I owe you one, no kidding.”

Pete looked up again, his eyes narrow. “Dinner plans? You know you need to stay far away from this investigation, right?”

“Damn, you’re suspicious.” Adam tried to deflect Pete’s comment. It didn’t work.

“’Cause I’m a good cop. So what are you planning?”

“Hey, I’m allowed to have dinner with my girlfriend. Meet her friends. No harm in that, is there?”

“That depends.” Pete’s voice was wary. “What friend?”

“Nobody special, someone who knows art, that’s all.”

Pete sighed and dropped the paper he’d been holding. “Adam, listen to me. Nothing you find, no information you learn, is gonna help me. I can’t let you get involved. You know that.”

“I know, we’re just having dinner with a colleague, that’s all. I promise, I won’t repeat a word of what’s said tonight. To anyone.”

“Uh-huh.” Pete narrowed his eyes as he looked at Adam, then shook his head and turned his attention back to the piles of papers in front of him.

With relief, Adam left him to his task of dredging through the hundreds of reports of Judge Ryan-Mills’ cases. It was boring work, but Pete was right, he was a good cop. A rookie looking for excitement might see this type of research as a waste of time, but Pete’s willingness to put in the long hours digging up every related piece of information revealed his dedication, his skills as a cop, his ability to scan through far too many facts to pull out the ones that were useful. Relevant. To find a needle in a haystack. Those files weren’t just paperwork, they were hope.

Adam stuffed his hands in his pockets, whistling as he walked away. Now to see what Jim Murdsen had to say.

The dim lighting inside the restaurant made the fake yellow gaslights outside seem bright in comparison. But light wasn’t necessary. Adam was guided into the restaurant by waves of pungent spices: cumin, turmeric, cardamom, and others he couldn’t begin to identify.

Sylvia and her friend were already seated at a table for four in the middle of the room. A low-hanging pendant lamp cast a romantic glow over the table that also created a sense of privacy built out of light and shadow. The warm sounds of an expertly played oud muted the voices of other diners. Swaths of fabric in golds, reds, and blacks draped over intricately carved wooden dividers throughout the restaurant enhanced the sense of intimacy. And excitement.

“Adam.” Sylvia leaned forward to let him plant a light kiss on her cheek. She turned to her friend. “Jim, this is my… this is Adam.”

Jim Murdsen stood as he shook Adam’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Detective Kaminski. I’ve heard of you from Sylvia.” He was shorter than Adam, his eyes wary under a deeply lined forehead. He didn’t hold Adam’s glance, simply nodded once, then looked back at Sylvia, then at the table. He retook his chair as Adam sat.

“All good, I hope.” Adam smiled.

Murdsen’s smile was thin. His fingers played with the cloth napkin spread across his lap, and he cleared his throat but didn’t speak. His unease was obvious, though Adam couldn’t imagine the cause.

Sylvia made small talk as they ordered their dinners of shish taouk and laham mishwe. Adam was relieved to see that, unlike Murdsen, she was relaxed, happy. Her usual beautiful self. The woman he’d fallen in love with. She laughed as she told a story from her day at work, resting her hand lovingly on Adam’s as she spoke. She leaned in toward him, her hair brushing against his shoulder, and he inhaled, picking up a hint of her lavender perfume over the dominating scent of the spices.

Murdsen listened to Sylvia’s story politely, occasionally smiling. But his smile didn’t reach to his eyes, and when Sylvia’s hand touched Adam’s, he seemed to recoil. He stared at their intertwined fingers, then slid his eyes sideways to look at Sylvia. He gave a subtle shake of his head and looked away.

A waiter in severe black served their food, and Adam found himself distracted for a moment by the combination of scents that rose from their plates. He picked up his silverware, but spoke before taking his first bite. “So I’m curious to learn more about the black market in art here in Philly.”

Murdsen nodded as he swallowed, took a sip of his wine. “Yes, Sylvia mentioned you had some interest in that. What can I tell you?”

“Well, for starters, how does someone go about getting their hands on a stolen piece of art?”

Murdsen frowned and shrugged, his wine glass following the movement. “That depends, of course, on how valuable the piece is. If we’re talking about a Rodin, for example, or Renoir from the Museum of Art…”

“I was thinking of something a little less infamous. A piece by an unknown artist, for example, that was taken without permission.”

Murdsen took a few more bites of his meal while considering the question. After a pause, he launched into an explanation of the illegal art trade, in Philadelphia and nationally. About how a piece could travel from a museum or personal collection to a dealer, from that dealer to a buyer. A buyer who wasn’t too concerned about provenance. Or legality.

“So we’re talking about crooked dealers?”

“Crooked, yes… but also legitimate.”

“How do you mean?”

“Many dealers who trade in illegal art also run perfectly legitimate businesses. Buying and selling art, collectibles, antiques, all aboveboard.”

“With a darker trade going on in a back room?”

“Exactly.”

Adam reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph of Julia’s statue. It wasn’t the sort of picture that would appear in any catalogue. The image was clinical, the statue standing on a stainless-steel counter next to a black and yellow ruler that showed its exact size. It looked cold, if wood could be cold. Adam shivered.

“Dr. Murdsen, I’m trying to follow a very faint lead. The only breadcrumb I have is a piece of stolen art.”

He tapped the picture that lay on the table next to his dinner plate. It seemed awkward, out of place in this elegant setting. Sinister.

“You know who owned it, from where it was stolen?”

“I do. I even know who stole it. He’s behind bars. What I don’t know, and need to know, is who he sold it to.”

“It’s very common to purchase through brokers. The person who purchased that may not be the person you are looking for, only the next breadcrumb on your trail.”

“So the person who owned the piece last may not be involved in the black market at all?”

He paused, shrugged. “Maybe not. Of course, a true collector would be diligent in his purchases, ensuring appropriate provenance.”

“Provenance?”

“Sure, it’s not just for paintings. It applies to statues, photographs, even books.”

Adam looked up from his meal at that, surprised. “There’s a black market for books?”

“Of course.” Murdsen’s eyes widened, his expression excited.

“So the person who owns a stolen piece of art is either ignorant about what he or she owns, or simply doesn’t care where it came from. Could they purchase it from a legitimate dealer, not realizing it could be stolen?”

Murdsen dabbed at his lips with the white napkin. “I suppose that’s possible, though really it’s unlikely. A dealer running an under-the-table side business will be very careful who he sells stolen pieces to. The FBI is known to run undercover operations. You wouldn’t want to accidentally sell a stolen piece to an agent. May I ask why you are interested?”

“I’d rather not go into details. Let’s say it’s an unofficial investigation.”

Sylvia had been eating quietly, simply observing the two men speak. At Adam’s last comment, she inhaled sharply, choking on a piece of pita bread. Adam turned to her, but she waved a hand, nodding. “I’m fine, please.”

She kept her smile pasted to her face as she turned to Adam, her voice low, so low Murdsen might not have been able to hear. “I understand you are helping Julia. I support you, that’s why I set this up, but only if you are part of this investigation. Are you?”

Adam looked away. The photograph of the statue lay on the table, the wood twisted, the face of a man framed in guilt.

Murdsen had relaxed while Adam was quizzing him on the art trade, comfortable in a conversation he had had many times before, a subject he knew intimately. As soon as Sylvia mentioned Adam’s job and her efforts to help him, Murdsen lowered his eyes, refusing to meet Adam’s look. He coughed, dropped his napkin on the table, and excused himself.

Adam swallowed the rest of his wine, using his glass to indicate Murdsen’s empty seat. “Do you know what’s bugging him?”

“He’s nervous because you are a cop, I am sure.” Sylvia shook her head, her eyes shifting left toward the path Murdsen had followed to the restrooms. “That makes everyone feel uncomfortable, you know that. And you are asking him about illegal activities. Now, if you were a commissioner. Or even deputy commissioner. A nice political position, instead of digging up dirt on criminals.”

She bit her tongue as Murdsen returned to the table. “I know a dealer you should speak with.”

“Someone who might help me track this piece?”

“He might. I make no promises, mind you. He’s just the best person I can think of. He works in the field, and he has some… unusual connections, I believe. I will ask him if he’s willing to talk with you.”

Adam handed his business card to Murdsen, who had remained standing, clearly eager to go. “Thank you, Jim, I appreciate it.”

Murdsen nodded at them both, keeping his eyes down, and hurried out of the restaurant as the waiter approached the table with the bill.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Sylvia turned on Adam. “You’re doing this against your captain’s wishes, aren’t you?”

“What if I am? What else can I do?” He knew he sounded resigned, not a trait Sylvia valued. He pulled out his wallet, handing his credit card to the waiter.

“I swear, for a smart man, you are blind when it comes to Julia. Maybe she did kill that judge and you just can’t see the truth.”

“So what, you want me to abandon her?”

“Do you know me so little? Do you think I would say such a thing?”

“Then what? What are you saying?”

“Things are not always so simple. Not always black and white, as you think. Support your sister. Support your family. But if it might cost you your job, then do it as a brother, not as a policeman. You can have both, you know, if you’re smart. You should pursue this, but not at the cost of your career.”

“I don’t get you sometimes. I really don’t.” Adam tried to control his anger. It wouldn’t do any good to turn her against him, but why the hell didn’t she get it? “I am going to pursue this at any cost.”

Her chair caught on the carpet as she jumped up. Her face was red, her eyes flashing. “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”

Adam stood to follow, but paused when he saw the waiter returning for his signature. When he finally got out of the restaurant, he could see only the back of Sylvia’s retreating form as she hurried up Walnut Street, ignoring his calls.

“Detective Kaminski?”

Adam turned to see Matt Thompson walking toward him.

“Matt. What are you doing here?”

“Just heading home. You live around here?”

“Yeah, not far.” Adam kept his eyes on Sylvia. Her pace didn’t slow. She didn’t turn around to see if he was following her. “Damn it.”

Matt followed Adam’s gaze to Sylvia, still visible the next block up. “I catch you at a bad time?”

“Yeah.” Adam looked back at Matt, shaking his head. “Yeah, whatever, a fight with my girlfriend. About my sister.”

Matt took a step back, his head to one side. “Is that the personal connection I heard about? Is it true, you were taken off the case?”

Adam bit back the anger that sprang immediately to his lips at the question. Instead, he tucked his hands into his pockets and turned away from the ranger. “You know what, it’s been a long night. Good to see you, man. I’m heading home.”

Matt stepped toward Adam, hands out in apology. “Hey, sorry, didn’t mean to push your buttons. I get it, when family’s involved it’s hard to know the right thing to do, to see the truth. I just want to help.”

Adam stopped walking, considering. He could certainly use the help of someone who was still officially involved in the case. Even tangentially. Matt picked up on his hesitation and kept talking. “I get wanting to help your sister, buddy. Whatever the situation is.”

“Right.” Adam shot one more glance toward Sylvia’s retreating form, then turned back to Matt. “Maybe Sylvia’s right. Maybe I can’t see the truth when it comes to the women in my life. So yeah, I could use your help.”