Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office detective Richard S. Johnson saw the woman coming to the door of Mize Fine Arts and stepped back.
The lock was thrown. The door swung open, revealing a stunningly attractive woman with flawless hair that looked copper, strawberry, and blond.
She smiled, said in a soft Southern accent, “Can I help you?”
Detective Johnson had never backed down from a fight in his life. He had been in combat six times in Afghanistan and never flinched. But he had also never done well around women in this class of beauty.
“I’m, uh, Detective Johnson, uh, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Yes?” she asked, seeming to sense the effect she was having on him, sliding her hand up the doorjamb like some movie star.
“I’m looking for Jeffrey Mize,” Johnson said.
“He’s not here. He usually doesn’t come in for another hour or so.”
“Oh,” Johnson said. “I went by his house and he wasn’t there either.”
“He goes out for breakfast. Come back in an hour and I’m sure he’ll see you. Can I tell him what it’s about, Detective?”
“Routine, follow-up stuff on a case I’m working. And you are?”
“Coco,” she said. “I consult and appraise for Mr. Mize.”
“Can I come in and wait, Coco?”
Coco gave him an uncomfortable sigh. “Detective, I’m not an employee. I work for Mr. Mize on contract and I come in early so I can do my job when it’s quiet. Could you give me an hour? There’s a nice coffee shop down the street.”
“I’ll see you in an hour,” Johnson said.
“Unfortunately, I’ll be off by then,” Coco cooed. “But thanks, Detective.”
“You’re welcome, Coco,” he said, and walked down the sidewalk feeling like he’d been mildly hypnotized by the woman.
Johnson shook his head as he went to the coffee shop. He’d grown up in a tough part of Miami. He’d joined the Marines and done two tours in Afghanistan, and he still fell apart around certain women. He laughed when he thought of the first time he’d met his wife, Angela, how tongue-tied he’d been.
His phone rang. Detective Sergeant Drummond.
“Anything?” Drummond asked.
“I’m supposed to talk to Mize in an hour,” Johnson said. “You?”
“I chatted with Marie Purcell’s chief of staff,” the sergeant said. “She fired Francie four months ago. Suspicion of stealing rare coins.”
“Were we notified?”
“No,” Drummond said. “People like the Purcells don’t like to get police involved. They have their own security people and take care of things quietly.”
“Lot of that up here?” Johnson asked as he stood in line for coffee in a shop that had a nice vibe to it.
“I’d say so.”
“You hear from Cross?”
“On my way to pick him up,” Drummond said.
Johnson was kind of annoyed. He’d hoped to have more time with Dr. Alex Cross, pick his brain about things.
“Who’s next on your list?” the sergeant asked.
Johnson dug in his pocket for a piece of paper, studied the names, and said, “Crawford.”
“I’ll take Schultz.”
Johnson agreed and clicked off. He got an espresso shot and a mug of robust Kenyan coffee black and poured them together over ice. He read the Palm Beach Post cover to cover and made calls to the Crawford mansion and several others on the list but got nothing other than the opportunity to leave messages.
Johnson walked up to the gallery fifteen minutes early and rapped on the door. A man soon appeared. Tall, stoop-shouldered, and completely bald, he wore white slippers, baggy black trousers, a loose black shirt, and white cotton gloves.
“Detective Johnson?” he said in a deep voice. “Coco said you’d come by. Please, come in. Sorry I wasn’t here earlier, and sorry about the gloves, I’ve had a nasty allergic reaction to some lacquer remover I was experimenting with the other day.”
Johnson walked into the shop, gazed all around, said, “Lot of nice stuff in here. What is it you do, sir?”
“I buy and sell things of beauty,” Mize said. “Fine art, jewelry, rugs, and furniture. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here about Francie Letourneau.”
He frowned, and Johnson noticed he had no eyebrows. No hair of any kind. What did they call that condition?
“What about Francie?” Mize asked.
“She’s dead,” Johnson said.
Mize straightened, moved a white-gloved hand toward his slack mouth, said, “Dead?”
“Murdered,” Johnson said. “Her body was found out past Belle Glade.”
“My God, that’s awful,” Mize said. “I always liked her. Well, at least until I had to fire her.”
“Over?”
“She wasn’t showing up on time and she was doing a half-assed job,” Mize replied. “And though I could never prove it, I think she was stealing things.”
“You think?”
Mize gestured all around. “Keeping track of my inventory is more an art than a science. I can’t begin to remember every piece of jewelry, for example.”
“That what you think she stole?” Johnson said. “Jewelry?”
“Yes,” Mize said. “Several pieces that were my mother’s that just weren’t anywhere one day.”
“How’d you come to hire Francie?”
“Through a service,” he sniffed. “I was told she was highly recommended.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Saw? I don’t know, five months ago, but I heard from her a few days back. She left a message on my machine at home. Can you imagine the gall?”
“What was the message?”
“She said she was sorry about any misunderstanding we’d had and was looking for her job back.”
“You return her call?”
“Certainly not, and I erased the message.”
“What day was that?”
“Saturday? Sunday?”
“Where were you Sunday?”
Mize thought about that. “Worked here the whole afternoon. Had early sushi with Coco and her sister, went home around eight, watched old movies on Netflix for a bit. The Thomas Crown Affair, have you seen it?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s very good. The original, not the remake. But anyway, after drooling over Faye Dunaway and Steve McQueen, I went to sleep around ten. I like to go to bed early and get up early. You?”
“Same,” Johnson said. “Do you know Ruth Abrams or Lisa Martin?”
“After I saw the stories in the paper, I racked my brain. I’m sure I’ve met them both at one social function or another. Terrible, though.”
“Francie Letourneau worked for both women.”
“Really? Do you think she was somehow involved in their deaths? And then, what, got killed herself?”
“It’s possible,” Johnson said, and he felt his cell phone buzz.
It was Drummond again.
“Get your ass to the Crawford place,” the sergeant growled. “The missus is dead.”