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“Think they’ll notice you’re gone?” Ortega asked.
We sat in a booth at Rhonda’s. Ortega and I had coffee while Baker chewed his way through a patty melt. I borrowed Baker’s phone again for another look at the latest murder victim, though I hadn’t yet been able to stomach more than a quick glance.
“Only if they need a bathroom break, and from what I’ve noticed, the FBI must teach them urine retention. They pretty much stay outside unless I invite them in. How’d you get the crime scene picture?” I asked.
“We have connections,” Baker mumbled around a mouthful.
“Cryptic,” I said.
“The feds are using some of our techs,” Ortega said. “Reuben Busby may be taking orders from them, but he’s still rooting for the home team.”
“Go team,” I mumbled, trying to work up the nerve to give the photo my attention.
“Busby sent a couple dozen pics from the crime scene. Swipe through them,” Ortega said then went on to tell me the victim’s name was Amanda Kellogg and that she was found in the back room of the hip, upscale clothing store she managed. I’d stopped in once, but the styles weren’t to my liking, and the prices were out of my humble budget.
“It’s a small business,” Ortega said. “Amanda was working alone yesterday and was supposed to go out with some girlfriends after work. Her boyfriend woke up at four this morning, and she still hadn’t come home, so he phoned one of her friends. She said that Amanda had never shown up, and they figured she had to work late. He found her car at the store and broke a glass pane to gain entrance through the back door. That set off a silent alarm. The responding uniforms found him collapsed on the floor under her body. They said he was near comatose.”
“Silent alarm? Do they have security cameras?” I asked.
“Only in the front of the store, to catch shoplifters. Apparently, she was taken from the back of the store. Nothing on camera,” Ortega said.
“Used wires and rope again,” Baker said.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to study the crime scene pictures, swiping from one to the next. Michelangelo had positioned her in mid-leap four feet off the ground, her body twisting in air as if dancing without gravity. To keep her in that position, Michelangelo had used rope and thick wire to suspend her from wooden beams that ran under the ceiling. Some of the wire he had pushed through her shoulders, the two bones in each wrist, and through her calves.
“Our killer changed things up again,” Ortega said.
“You mean besides copying a sketch?”
“Busby said that even though she was posed there, he killed her somewhere else.”
“Well, he did the same at the park,” I pointed out. “Raped Angela Lopez in the bushes, killed her in the grass, and carried her to the fountain.”
“But it was all in the park,” Ortega said. “They haven’t found where Michelangelo killed Amanda.”
I wanted to make sure I had a grasp of the facts and mumbled, “So he took her at the shop. He takes her elsewhere for torture, rape, and murder.”
“And then brought her body back to the shop and worked hours posing her,” Ortega said.
“That’s it,” Baker said, leaving a small portion of his patty melt on the plate. “As if it isn’t risky enough to kill and pose them in the same location, he’s really taking chances with this one.”
“Any connections with other victims?” I asked.
Baker shrugged. “Haven’t gotten that far along. Might leave that avenue to the feds.”
My attention went back to one of the photos. “I can’t tell from the picture, did he bite her?”
“Busby says once on her calf and again on her right buttock,” Baker said. “Here’s the thing. We saw that pose in the picture at your boyfriend’s office. You didn’t like us looking at it and stuck it in a folder. So fill us in.”
I gulped the rest of my coffee. “It’s from a case I’m working. That sketch was drawn on a linen napkin in Barcelona, Spain in the thirties. It’s a collaboration between Picasso and Dali.”
Baker raised his eyebrows, appreciating the importance.
“It belongs to my client, has been in her family for a couple of generations, and it was stolen. She thinks her husband, her soon-to-be ex-husband, stole it in a staged burglary, and she wants me to get it back.”
“Must be worth a fortune,” Baker said.
“My client considers it a family heirloom. I don’t think she realizes its significance. It’s unknown to the art world. It’s worth some serious bucks. Nick, Professor Weldon, said he wouldn’t be surprised if it went in the seven figures, even eight.”
Baker whistled. “None too shabby for a sketch.”
“On a napkin,” Ortega added.
“The value has more to do with the uniqueness, what it represents, and its history. More so than the quality of the art. Frankly, I could imagine how a museum curator could devote rooms to the works of Picasso and Dali and use The Floating Ballerina as its centerpiece.”
“That’s all well and good, Lise. But if it’s an unknown in the art world, then how does Michelangelo know about it?” Ortega asked.
“That’s the big question,” I said.
“Answer it and crack the case,” Baker said.
I grabbed a French fry off Baker’s plate. “Yeah. It has to be someone who has seen the sketch, has had time to study it.”
Baker pushed his plate toward me, offering the rest of his fries. “We have to compile a list of people who have seen the sketch.”
“The only person I showed was Nick, and he’s off in Vienna.”
“He show it to anyone?” Ortega asked.
“No. I told him not to.”
Baker’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh. You sure he wouldn’t get so excited that he’d have to share it with someone else?”
“Pretty much.”
“Give him a call. Ask him about that.”
“Now?”
“Good a time as any,” Baker said.
I got out my phone, hit Nick’s number, but it went to voicemail. “Hi, Nick. Got a question for you. I’ll try again later. Miss you.” I ended the call then pointed out, “Actually, I know of two other people who’ve seen it.”
“Who?” Ortega asked.
“You two, when you came to his office.”
“I’m gonna get pissed if you blame me again,” Baker said.
“You have an alibi,” I said. “How about you, Ortega?” I said it half-jokingly and half with an interest to see how he’d take it.
“He’s clean. I checked him out,” Baker said.
“I’m—wait—you checked me out?” Ortega asked.
“Well, I was pissed at you two for thinking I might be the nutjob. Then I thought, well, if I was a suspect, that means Ortega should be as well. So, yeah, I checked you out. Tit for tat. You got alibis.”
Ortega looked offended, then he smiled and laughed.
“What about your artist friend? Hurst?” Baker asked. “There’s something about him I still don’t like.”
“I told him about it, but I didn’t show him the picture. Whoever killed Amanda Kellogg had to have seen it in order to replicate it in such detail.”
Baker nodded. “What’s this Ricky Stephens like?”
“Not a likable guy. A philanderer, but I haven’t seen anything to indicate violent sex. Frankly, I get the feeling that even though Michelangelo is nuts, he’s smart, really smart. Ricky’s not an intelligent man.”
“You think he’s still in possession of the sketch?” Ortega asked.
“I do. Unless he got rid of it immediately after stealing it. I’ve had him under pretty tight surveillance.”
“We’re going to have to talk to your client and her husband,” Baker said.
“Yeah, I know.” I wasn’t happy about the prospect. Right now, Ricky’s ignorance was my bliss when it came to my investigation. “Look. I know this case trumps mine, but there’s a way you could help me out when you talk to my client and her family.”
“What’s that?” Baker asked suspiciously.
“Ricky is probably ignorant to the fact he could well be a multi-million-dollar art thief. If, when questioning him, you act as if he’s not a suspect in the theft, it would be much appreciated.”
“We can do that,” Baker said.
“I was hoping for more,” I said. “Can you say something that puts pressure on him to get rid of it? I have some people with their ears to the black-market pipeline. If he panics and tries to sell it, I’ll hear about it.”
“We can do that too,” Ortega said.