October 27, 2016 Thursday
Sitting side by side in front of Cynthia Cooper’s desk computer, Sheriff Rick Shaw and his deputy stared intently at the screen.
He breathed out his nostrils. “It’s a match.”
Also exhaling, Cooper nodded. “Is.”
“Go back to the building,” he told her.
Within seconds a pale beige brownstone with dark green shutters appeared on the screen. Next to the lighter green wooden door, a handsome brass plaque appeared. Pierre Rice Inc. was engraved in lovely script with flourishes. Underneath the name, also in script, was Private Investigator, and underneath that, also beautifully done in old script, was the number 5.
“That number again.” Rick pushed his chair closer to the screen.
The county had upgraded all their computers, hardware, everything electronic. The image on the large screen was crystal clear, not a hint of fuzziness.
“Well, it is the house number on a very expensive Georgetown Street in D.C.,” Cooper reminded the sheriff.
“I know,” he grumbled. “Still, he wore the chit around his neck. Number Five.”
“Well, Boss, maybe he liked that he found a slave chit with his street address.”
“Maybe, Coop, but how did he find Liz and her store? And why? According to Liz, she put pictures of the brass rectangles on the store website a month ago. Says the website is invaluable to her business.”
Fingering the keyboard, she quietly replied, “I don’t know, but it probably isn’t insignificant. What I want to find out is how much money he made. He owned that house. A brownstone in Georgetown is hideously expensive.”
“Anything in Washington is hideously expensive.” Rick snorted.
“That’s my point. He probably had contracts for government work or corporate investigations. As he was not employed by the government he could use methods frowned upon by Congress, the judiciary, et cetera.”
“You forgot executive.”
She smiled. “No, I didn’t. The executive branch will break or bend the laws first.”
He laughed. “Amazing what you learn as time goes by, isn’t it? But whatever he was working on, it frightened someone else. No files, no computer, no cellphone. No records found anywhere. And the FBI went through his place with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing there. Did Pierre destroy records or did someone get there before the FBI? Whatever Pierre Rice was investigating, someone or some agency had something to fear if the FBI was there.”
“The lack of any records is unnerving. Our running down this crime might put us in the political crosshairs.” She paused. “And I don’t give a damn.”
“Coop, the government can ruin any of us in a heartbeat. Can and would.”
A long silence followed this. “I hate to think of my country as that criminal and corrupt.”
“Some individuals and some agencies are. But I still believe there are honest public servants and I especially want to believe that many of them are in law enforcement.”
Without replying, she, again, scrolled through pictures of the interior of Number Five.
“Just in case we missed anything.”
Rick, nose nearly on the screen, sat back when she handed him his glasses, which he snatched from her hand. “All right.”
“I didn’t say anything. Everyone needs glasses as they get older, right?”
He ignored the statement. The elegant living room, walls a pale peach, furniture very Sister Parrish, which is to say traditional, opulent but subtle, filled the screen. A large painting hung over the Sheraton sofa. Cooper zoomed in.
“Jesus Christ,” Rick blurted out. “That’s a Frederic Church. My God, Coop, if that’s original—and it looks like it is—it’s worth millions.” He stopped a moment, caught his breath. “Have Darrel track the provenance. If Sotheby’s doesn’t have it, Christie’s will,” he said, citing the two top-of-the-line auction houses in the country.
Darrel, a young officer, proved a whizz at finding anything via computer. He could also fix just about anything.
Cooper blinked. Occasionally she would traipse with the girls to the fabulous Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, but mostly she was ignorant of the field. “Millions?”
Nodding, Rick added, “And he had to know what he was doing. I think this is what’s called the Hudson River School of painting, but don’t hold me to it. At any rate, Church, immensely talented, painted the mountains, the rivers, he struck out on a new path when others still imitated Europe or painted wealthy Wall Street bankers, senators, and society ladies. He was a true original.”
“The painting is beautiful and it looks like the Hudson River.” Cooper enlarged it.
“Is. Pierre Rice clearly had taste, money, and some form of art training or passion.”
They then looked at other artwork, all of it American from the eighteenth century up to the twenty-first. Many of the hangings on the wall were pencil sketches for paintings. Pierre Rice started small, not quite so expensive. When he made money he began to spend very big.
After going from room to room, Cooper returned to the front of the brownstone. “Boss, we caught a break that his maid came in, found the place immaculate but no Mr. Rice, no computer, no file cabinets, and no car. We’re lucky she called the police. They looked for unclaimed victims, missing persons and the like. Our photo of Mr. Rice, not horrific but certainly sad, proved the key. The maid knew him when the officer showed her the photo. My next question, where’s the car?”
He grunted. “It’s bound to show up somewhere.” He glanced at a list. “You track down other private investigators in D.C. Find out who knew him. If they did, did they like him, and did they know what projects he investigated or people he investigated?”
“Right. He has a sister in Richmond.”
“The Richmond police will need to inform her about her brother. Has to be done in person. Then we’ll call on her. We’re lucky there is a next of kin close by. I hate to push people after they’ve heard painful news but the sooner a witness or family member talks to us, the better off we are. Time blurs memories.”
Cooper glanced at the address. “She’s not poor, either. I think she’s an important person in the arts. I know I’ve heard that name. On Monument Avenue near the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. Finding out about the Rices is going to be very interesting.”
“A wealthy man is shot twice in the back and left on Sugarday estate. He’s wearing a hoodie and jeans. The Number Five slave chit is hanging around his neck on a chain. The Kalergis’s heard no shots, no sign of any disturbance. And this is what bothers me, no tire tracks. Either he was chased and dropped nearby, then carried to Sugarday or killed farther away, brought to the estate, then carried into the copse. It’s hard work to do that, hard work and unusual. The ground, dry as a bone, had no tracks. Why not shoot him and leave him in his car?”
Cooper rattled off the details on the missing vehicle, which Rick knew by now. “A black 2014 Tahoe four-by-four. Nice car. Terrible on gas, but it will go through anything. Also, a Tahoe would not elicit suspicion or interest. If he drove a BMW SUV or a Porsche he would stand out. So apart from his wealth and good taste, we know he was smart about blending in.”
Rick slapped his thighs, stood up. “Let’s get cracking. And let’s hope this doesn’t leak into the media.”
“They’ll broadcast that we’ve ID’ed the body.”
He moaned a bit. “Which means your neighbor will be hot on the trail. Do what you can to keep Harry out of it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He stopped at the door and smiled. “Sometimes I think finding the killer or killers is easier than keeping Harry Haristeen out of the picture. She has more curiosity than her cats.”
“They’re more sensible,” Cooper replied.
They both laughed as Rick left her office.