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I checked my phone when I got to my car. Nick had called again and left a message. “I chickened out when we talked earlier, so I called back. I think we should talk about what we’d both like for the future, how to maybe—man, I hate this phrase—‘take our relationship to the next level.’ I also wanted to tell you that while you slept the night before I left, I carefully studied you, your face, and your naked body, so I could always bring you to mind while I’m away. I’m thinking of you now, and I really, really miss you for all kinds of reasons.” And that was another reason I loved Nick. He could somehow combine “Aww, how sweet” with “If you were here right now, we’d bump uglies.”
I sighed, started my car, and pulled into traffic. As much promise as The Floating Ballerina case had for intrigue, it was still a spy-on-a-spouse case. Even so, Adolph Hurst believed my idea held promise. When I’d told him how his name could be linked to the discovery of a sketch co-drawn by both Picasso and Dali, he was all for it and said he had a couple of people he would contact.
What I really wanted to do, however, was continue with the Michelangelo investigation. There was a developing serial killer on the loose who must have a fascination with classic sculpture. It could be someone who worked in San Marco’s sizable arts community. It might even be someone I knew through my years of art study at the university. Or maybe it was someone who had little knowledge of the arts but found inspiration in statues. Whichever the case, I was confident the murderer was deeply affected by art. His whole being was taken over emotionally, mentally, and physically when confronting a piece of art that he connected with. In the case of Michelangelo, apparently statues and sculptures were the mediums that set him off. While I couldn’t understand the sadism and violence, I’d found myself left in awe and reverence by a painting numerous times. In a couple of instances, they had so moved me that I cried.
I got to my office and saw I had forty-five minutes before I had to take over the stakeout from Elliot the Slim. I went through my mail first, which was a collection of bills and junk mail. Not a single check for services rendered.
My cell rang, and I checked the caller ID. “Oh, crap.” With trepidation, I hit the answer button. “Analise Norwood Investigations.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Ah, the dulcet tones of Detective Baker.
“I told you: Analise Norwood Investigations.”
There was a heavy huff on his end. “We talked to Adolph Hurst, and apparently, that was just after you talked to him.”
Hmm. I should have suggested to Adolph that he keep that whole being a suspect thing to himself. “I’ll bet that was interesting.”
“You talked with a person of interest about the case?”
“Didn’t the pickle bite pattern clear him?”
Baker’s voice got low and rumbly. “Just because the bite pattern didn’t match doesn’t mean he’s not a person of interest. Stay out of it.”
Like Baker had flipped a switch, I could feel my anger burn. “I’m not in it, Baker. That psycho-killer case is all yours. It’s your responsibility to catch Michelangelo, not mine. However, I am on another case that has a piece of art at the center of it, and your person of interest has agreed to help me.”
“If you’re the art history expert, why do you need his expertise?” Baker asked.
“The man has contacts that could be important to my case.”
“What kind of contacts?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but people with connections to art auctions and sales.”
“Yeah? Don’t you have your professor friends for that?”
“Art auctions and sales are different than art studies and education.”
“La-de-dah. The only thing an art education is good for is wasting time and money.”
I’d heard that same sentiment, worded in many different ways, during my days at San Marco University. When art majors gathered together, a common topic for bitch fests was what parents had to say about their chosen studies. “A waste of time and money” they called it, and they questioned how to turn a major in art into a career that paid well.
“Who told you that?”
“Told me what?”
“Art education being a waste of time and money?”
“My father,” Baker said.
“Baker, were you an art student?”
The silence on the other end hung for a while.
“Were you?”
“This isn’t an alumni call, Norwood. Stay out of the Michelangelo investigation, and stay away from the people who could be involved.” Baker ended the call.
“Son of a bitch!” I shouted as I shut off my phone.
I looked up and noticed Gabe standing at the threshold of my office, with the door half open. Judging by his expression, my sign-off with Baker had been pretty intense.
“Are you all right?” Gabe asked.
I felt the tense expression on my face and noted how tightly I held my phone. I made myself relax, first my grip then my face. “Yeah I’m okay.”
“What was that about?” Gabe asked.
“You caught that, huh?”
“Tail end of your conversation. Sounded...” It took him a couple of seconds to come up with the right word. “Harsh.”
“Been having a bit of a rocky relationship with a certain homicide detective.”
“Didn’t they fire you?”
“They did. And then they brought me back, and judging from the tone of that call, I’m on the outs again.” When Gabe remained standing on the outside of the half-open door, I added, “Come on in. My rage is cooling down.”
When he opened the door fully, I saw he was carrying a cardboard tray with a couple of coffees from Starbucks. When he sat, he passed one of them to me. He wore jeans, deck shoes, and a sport coat over a T-shirt that showed a silhouette of Shaggy and Scooby-Doo being chased by Nosferatu. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when I opened the door and heard your side of a testy exchange—well, it was like watching a car wreck. I couldn’t turn away.”
“It’s all over now, no big deal.”
“I actually popped in to see how you’re faring as a young single woman on the mean streets of San Marco.”
“I’m getting along fine. I figure as long as I stay busy, I won’t miss him so much.”
“Good.”
“Ah, that’s bullshit. I miss him like crazy.”
Gabe laughed.
“Nick put a letter on a pillow the morning he left. A cheesy little love note that I’ve read about a hundred times.”
“That, my dear, is true romance.”
“I feel like a lovelorn middle school girl.”
Gabe winked. “You’ll be fine.”
“I know. At least I have a really interesting case to keep me busy.”
“That’s good. Anything you can tell me about?”
I’d used Nick’s expertise to justify my telling him about The Floating Ballerina. He’d said it looked like both artists’ styles and signatures, though it should still be authenticated. And he’d given me a ballpark estimate of its potential market value, as well as its historical importance. I doubted Gabe could add anything more, and truly, I should take into account my client’s confidentiality if I wanted to consider myself a professional. However, I didn’t think there was a problem with giving him the barest of bones of the case.
“I can’t go into too much detail, because it’s still an active case, but I’m trying to recover what may very well be a stolen sketch that was a collaboration between Picasso and Dali.”
Other than a slow blink of his eyes, Gabe sat without moving, mouth slightly agape.
“Can you believe it’s been here in San Marco for decades, and no one has known of its existence?”
Gabe finally moved, leaning forward with an expression like that of a child who’d asked for a pony for Christmas and actually got one. Stunned, he swallowed. “And you’ve seen it?”
“A photo of it my client provided. I gave Nick a copy.”
“What? He didn’t say a thing.”
“I made him promise not to say anything or show the photo to anyone,” I explained.
“You’re not going to show it to me?” Gabe was incredulous.
“I have a responsibility to my client that includes confidentiality. I needed to know a couple of things, and Nick served as my advisor.”
“So you wouldn’t have shown him otherwise?” Gabe asked, eyes narrow.
“No, Gabe. I wouldn’t have.” It was probably a bald-faced lie, but he didn’t need to know that. He seemed so damn disappointed, I said, “Look, when I solve the case, I’ll see if Shari will let me make some prints, and I’ll give you your very own.”
Gabe put a hand on my desk. “I’d like more than that, Lise. When it’s recovered, will you please ask your client if I can study it, write a paper on it?”
Jeez, academics. I felt like a mother negotiating with her toddler at the toy store. But the longing on his face was so sincere. “Of course I’ll put in a good word for you with Shari. I doubt she’d have a problem with it.”
Gabe sighed and sat back.
“Nick thought there was a possibility that it could bring in millions in a legitimate auction.”
“It very well could. Imagine, a Picasso and Dali collaboration.”
“You imagine away. There’s something I want to check.” On my computer, I logged on to the university’s site using Nick’s username and password. I clicked here and there and finally found what I was looking for. “Baker did attend San Marco University, and I found his transcripts.”
“What?” Gabe asked.
“That detective I was talking to. Something he said rang a bell.” I squinted at the monitor. “He majored in art for a year. After that, he shifted into law, though he took at least one art class per semester. From what he said, I’ll bet his parents made him shift his studies.”
“Then why was he flummoxed about identifying the poses of the victims?”
I went through Baker’s records. “Other than one intro class, no other classes in art history. He wanted to be an artist. His grades indicate he had some skill.” I stared at the screen, and my heartbeat picked up. “Some of those classes were sculpture.”
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
My imagination hummed. “What’s up with Baker, huh? If this was crime fiction, a TV show, or a book, I’d think that he was someone to look at.”
Gabe shook his head. “Yeah, it’d work out great in fiction, but come on. Do you really think that the detective leading the investigation is the killer?”
I took a deep drink of black coffee. “In real life? No, I don’t think he’s the killer, but there’s enough there that makes me want to at least check into it. I wish I could check and see if he has alibis for the murders.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I encountered him twice at the park, and both times, he seemed weird.” I sat back in my chair and put my feet on my desk. “The first was shortly after Angela Lopez’s body was found, and he’d looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept at all the night before.”
“He’s a cop and works odd hours.”
“The second time was before meeting Nick for our final dinner. Baker seemed strange, like he was hypnotized, staring at the fountain like he could still see Angela’s corpse. I swear he was talking to himself, and Gabe, he stared at the fountain with the same intensity as someone who is mesmerized by a masterpiece. You know what I mean?”
“Of course I do.”
“The killer’s hair is medium length and brown, the same as Baker’s. Baker lives near the park where the second murder took place, and he jogs there like the second victim did. And why did he get so mad when I lifted the pickle from Delve Gallery?”
“Pickle?”
I gave Gabe the short version before saying, “If this were a whodunnit, Baker would have been mad because it cleared the smokescreen of a red herring.”
“Some interesting coincidences, to be sure. On the other hand, I can imagine a number of reasons why he’d be mad about the pickle heist, which all come down to the possibility of you screwing up the investigation.”
“He wanted to be an artist when he was young, and a sculptor at that.” Something else occurred to me. “Baker said he and his wife liked to eat at Capello’s Ristorante. That’s where the first victim worked. If he’s a regular, that gives him opportunity for the first girl. The park and locale give him opportunity for the second. Baker needs to be looked at.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I might call Ortega, Baker’s partner.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“If I can get Ortega the least bit suspicious, then I’m sure he’ll find a way to check out Baker’s alibis without him knowing about it.”
“Lise, do me a favor.” Gabe moved around to sit on my desk and took my hands. “Think about it before you act. Ortega is Baker’s partner. You tell him, he’ll tell his partner. I just witnessed your phone call. From what I could tell, he was only perturbed. Do you really want to see that man’s anger in full bloom?”
“No. I imagine it isn’t pretty.”
“Think about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
Gabe stayed long enough to finish his coffee. “I better go. But remember what I said. Think long and hard before you get in touch with Baker’s partner.”
And I did think about it—for a good two minutes. Mainly about how I could find out if Baker had alibis for the times of the murders. Frankly, the best and easiest way was to reach out to Ortega. I called him and said I had to meet him on the sly and told him not to tell anyone, not even Baker. He was reticent, claiming he was elbows deep in files, but he finally agreed to meet me at a small diner near the police station.
After I followed Ricky Stephens home, I drove to Rhonda’s, a chrome-covered building thrown together in an art deco style. Rhonda and her staff had been slinging hash, burgers, and coffee to San Marco for decades. Because it was so close to the station, the diner had a steady police clientele. I parked and went in to find Ortega at a far booth, doctoring a cup of coffee with sugar packets.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said, sliding into the booth.
The waitress stopped by, and though I didn’t really want any, I ordered coffee as well. When she brought it, I took a sip, put it down, and slid the acidic concoction away.
“Okay, lay it on me,” Ortega said.
Lay it on me? I felt like I was in a 70s police drama. “All right.” I’d mentally planned what to say, though it didn’t flow as smoothly off my tongue as I’d hoped. “I think you should look at Baker for the killings.”
Ortega spewed out a mouthful of coffee. Suddenly, the ’70s drama turned into a comedy.
Before he could recover and protest, I pulled a few napkins and cleaned the mess. “I know you think I’m nuts, but hear me out.”
“You’re right—I think you’re nuts.”
“The killer has medium-length brown hair, so does Baker.”
“Well, golly gee, I’ll jump right on this.”
“The morning I went over to the crime scene at the park, Baker looked like he’d been up all night. Had you guys been working the night before?”
Ortega thought a moment. “No, but that doesn’t mean anything,”
“I ran into him at the park after the murder. He stood staring at the fountain for a long time. It was like he was hypnotized.”
“Detectives return to the crime scene all the time. It’s part of the job.”
“He was talking to himself.”
Ortega shrugged.
“Baker lives a couple of blocks from De Leon Park, and he jogs there.”
“I know where he lives, and I know he runs.” Ortega drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “He runs at the park?”
“Yes. And here’s why I called you. He majored in art his first semester at San Marco University.”
“What?”
“He studied art,” I told him. “Based on what he said, I think his parents made him switch his major, but he still took art classes. He wanted to be an artist. And he took a number of courses in sculpture.”
Ortega stared down at the table.
“He said he likes eating at Capello’s Ristorante, where Kristin Harmon worked. Look, I wouldn’t bet on Baker being Michelangelo. But don’t you think it would be best to at least consider the possibility?”
Ortega stared at me.
“At least clear him so we can concentrate on other things,” I said.
“We?”
“Okay, you.”
“I don’t have to check anything. I know he’s not Michelangelo.” He leaned forward, angry, and pointed a finger at me. “I don’t want you anywhere near this case again. Got it?”
Ortega stood and left. I thought he was angry because he was suspicious, at least a little. Maybe that would inspire him to check out his partner. And I hoped that suspicion-fed anger would keep him from saying anything to Baker about our conversation.