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Upon seeing the two cops at the door, I pointed at Nick. “He did it.”
The men entered without smiles, making the office claustrophobic. One in his late forties asked, “Nicholas Weldon?”
“Guilty,” Nick said then quickly added, “Guilty of being Nicholas Weldon, not of committing a crime or anything.”
“I’m Detective Baker, and this is Detective Ortega.”
They had little in common. Both wore dark suits, though Ortega’s was wrinkle free, and as he approached, I saw that the creases on his pants looked dangerously sharp. His bright-orange tie with little blue gators on it indicated he was a University of Florida graduate or maybe just a fan of their sports teams.
Beneath his wrinkled jacket and slacks, Baker was a solid man. He was either too busy or too lazy to take care of his shoes as neither had seen polish for months or more. The same could have been said of his brown hair, which was long overdue for a trip to the barbershop. I didn’t take him for lazy, so I assumed he was a busy man. His face brought to mind adjectives that all began with S: stone-faced, serious, and scary.
Nick, still grasping the photo of the ballerina, put it on his desk and stood. “What can I do for you?”
Baker turned to me. “We’d like to speak to Professor Weldon alone, please.”
“I can take a hint,” I said, gathering my belongings.
“Nonsense,” Nick said. “Lise is a colleague. What can we do for you?”
Baker chewed on that for a minute. Ortega scratched his military-style buzz cut as he watched him.
When Baker shrugged, Ortega blinked his brown puppy-dog eyes and said, “Okay. But what we tell you has to do with an ongoing investigation and needs to stay confidential.”
“No problem with me,” I said. “Nick’s the blabbermouth.”
Nick shook his head. “No, I’m not. We’ll keep what you say between us.”
As he and Baker approached the desk, Ortega explained, “A couple of years ago, you helped a colleague, Detective Ramirez, with a cache of stolen artwork. She recommended you.”
“You helped cops on a case?” I asked, mildly annoyed that he’d never said anything about it. “You never told me.”
“We weren’t an item then. And it really wasn’t much work. She had me ID recovered paintings after the bad guys were caught. Most were contemporary pieces in the middling range, though there was one Cézanne still life.”
“Stolen art?” I asked.
Baker glared at me like I’d just insulted him. “We’re with homicide.”
Nick and I exchanged a look of surprise.
Ortega said, “A murder took place a couple of weeks ago, a particularly ugly one. The victim was in her twenties; she was raped, tortured, and murdered in her apartment.”
A terrible thing that someone so young died so horribly. “That’s awful.”
“You have no idea,” Baker said.
Ortega glanced down at Nick’s desk, and his eyes caught the photo of The Floating Ballerina. Ortega’s scrutiny inspired Baker to look at it.
I picked it up and replaced it in the folder. “Don’t be nosy.”
“We’re cops. Nosy is our job,” Baker said.
“And you’re here because...” Nick widened his eyes.
“Because we hope you can help us with something,” Baker said. “The killer posed the body in a particular fashion utilizing wire and rope. Initially, we thought that he was trying to communicate something with that display.”
“This morning, he gets an idea”—Ortega nodded at Baker—“that maybe the killer isn’t trying to communicate, but considers his victims his works of art.”
“I’d like to show you a picture of the victim at the scene,” Baker said, “to see if you think I’m heading in the right direction.”
Nick sat, picked up a pencil, and ran his thumbnail up and down its length. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Ortega admitted.
“Well, I suppose I can take a look, if it will help.” Nick didn’t sound eager.
How odd, I thought, as Baker removed a glossy photo and handed it to Nick. For the second time today, Nick was looking at an unexpected photo.
“Ah shit,” Nick muttered. A moment later, his tone changed to one of interest. “Lise, check this out.”
Baker started to protest, but I went and leaned over Nick’s shoulder. I tried—and failed—to keep a neutral expression as I took in the photo. The girl had been reduced to a beaten corpse. Naked but for a sheet draped over her right thigh, she was held in place by ropes and wires that angled in from walls and the ceiling, tied around arms, elbows, legs, and torso. She was reaching to her back with both hands. Gruesome torment on her face, she was caught in the middle of a giant spiderweb spun in a small living room. Once I got past the horror, something else came through.
“Is it?” I asked.
Nick looked up at me for a brief second, then his eyes returned to the photo. “You recognize it, don’t you?”
“Is it The Dying Niobid?”
“I think so,” Nick said.
Ortega pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and held a pen at the ready. “The dying what?”
“I don’t know if the killer is trying to send a message or not, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that he copied a famous Greek statue,” Nick said.
“The artist is unknown,” I said, “and the sculpture dates back several hundred years B.C.”
“Four hundred to four hundred and fifty B.C.,” Nick added. “It’s based on Greek mythology. Queen Niobe had seven sons and seven daughters, and—”
“She’s supposed to be this queen?” Baker said.
“No.” I explained, “Queen Niobe bragged that she was more fruitful when it came to having babies than the goddess Leto. That pissed off Leto’s children, Apollo and Artemis.”
“As punishment, they killed all of the queen’s children. This poor girl depicts a daughter who was shot in the back with an arrow.” He held up the photo toward Baker and tapped on it. “That’s why she’s reaching like that and is in the process of falling to her knees.”
“We didn’t find any arrow,” Ortega said.
“It wasn’t part of the sculpture, either,” Nick said. “Only implied.”
Baker stared at Nick, as if waiting for more, and finally muttered, “Fuck me. I’m more confused than ever.” He took a stick of gum out of a jacket pocket and gazed vacantly as he unwrapped it then popped it into his mouth. “Say, Professor, would you mind acting as a consultant for the PD, should the need arise?”
Something strange took place. Nick opened his mouth to reply, then he shut it. His gaze shifted from the policemen to me, and he bit his lip. Finally, he settled on Baker. “Normally, I’d be happy to help, but I’m leaving for Vienna in four days.”
With those words, Nick delivered an invisible sucker punch to my gut.
Leaving for Vienna? That was news to me.
“I’ve accepted a fellowship to study in Vienna and teach a semester at the Academy of Fine Arts.” He stared at me as he said that. His expression was blank, but I knew he was watching for my reaction.
Despite the anger churning in my gut, I didn’t give him one.
“Got a colleague you could recommend?” Baker asked.
“I supposed you could ask the head of—” Nick was going to suggest Gabe, but he stopped, looked at me, and smiled. “The head of her own investigative firm. I highly recommend Analise Norwood. Lise knows her art and art history, and she’s a private investigator. Right, Lise?”
Okay, score one for Nick for mentioning me. However, he was still down a couple of touchdowns, a few three-pointers, and a whole lot of runs for this Vienna thing. I didn’t respond.
“Yeah, well, the last thing I need is a private detective dogging the case,” Baker said.
“What’s your art background?” Ortega asked.
Giving Nick a shot of angry eyes, I answered, “I attended San Marco University, majored in art history. I met Mr. Vienna here when he was a grad student and taught one of my classes. Got my degree and worked at a few galleries and a couple of museums, which had been the plan all along, except I wanted those to be in New York or Chicago. Instead, I ended up working in Tampa, Jacksonville, and Savannah. I found the work unsatisfying.”
“And blah, blah, blah, you became a PI,” Baker said, feigning boredom.
“No, Detective. Through a business acquaintance, I got a job at an insurance firm based out of Atlanta that insured high-priced art. They used me on an investigation into an art theft, decided I was good at it, and moved me into investigations. I got homesick and took a job at Monroe Kettleman Private Investigations in Jacksonville.”
Ortega raised his eyebrows. “Big firm.”
“Yep. I worked for them until my accumulated experience qualified me for my private investigator’s license, and last year, I returned to San Marco as my own boss.”
Baker sniffed and said to Ortega, “Guess she’ll have to do.”
Have to do? I felt like I was stuck in a room full of guys trying to see who could piss me off the most. “I can help you out in the role of a professional consultant. In other words, it’ll cost you.”
“What?” Baker said. “What makes you think we’d pay you?”
Ortega was more diplomatic. “We’ll have to see how things shake out, Ms. Norwood. For now, can we exchange phone numbers? We’d like both of yours,” he said, indicating Nick and me.
He gave us his and Baker’s numbers, and both Nick and I programmed them into our phones. “In case you think of anything else. Thank you for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.”
“Yeah, shake yourselves outta here,” I muttered as they went through the door. After a couple of breaths, I added, “God, that makes me mad.”
“Yeah, Baker was a tool,” Nick said.
I aimed my index finger right at his nose. “I’m talking about you!” My eyes narrowed as his widened.
Nick sank into his chair and put his hands on his desk. “I’m sorry, Lise. I was planning to tell you tonight over dinner. Speaking of which, how about dinner tonight?”
I grabbed my bag and laptop then snatched the photo of The Floating Ballerina out of the folder. I held it up to him. “See this? I made you a copy of this photo because I knew you would appreciate it, which is proof that at least one of us values the feelings of the other.”
“Lise, really. I was going to tell you tonight.”
“Fellowships don’t fall out of the sky. Why didn’t you discuss it with me?”
“I really didn’t have any choice.” He gazed down, collecting his thoughts, then looked up. “Gabe surprised me with it. The Academy of Fine Arts initially asked him, but he couldn’t leave, so he arranged for me to go in his place. In his mind, it would be this big wonderful surprise, and he hadn’t factored our relationship into the mix.”
“But you waited to tell me until four days before you leave?” I meant to flip the photo onto his desk but put a little too much oomph to the effort, and the photo spun like a Frisbee, hitting him between the eyes.
“Lise, don’t be like that,” he said, rubbing at the point of impact.
“Okay. I’ll be like this.” I turned and walked out.