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Everyone had something to say about me kneeing Whitt in the crotch.
“Dirty pool.” Baker eyed me like he wasn’t sure who I was.
“That was harsh, Lise,” Ortega said.
Herman shook his head. “That was cold, girl. Ice cold.”
Eve grinned. “I thought it was funny.”
“It was an accident,” I repeated for the umpteenth time.
Baker held the bag of money, and Eve had the box with The Floating Ballerina as we headed for the front exit. I went to Baker and quietly asked him a question.
He answered, “Not gonna happen.”
So I moved on to Ortega, who gave a tamer version. “That’s against procedure.”
Luckily, Eve was riding with me, and I put it to her when we got in the car.
She said, “Sure, no problem. But just for a few minutes, and then we secure it at the station.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were on the doorstep of the Stephenses’ house in Wilson Shores. I rang the bell. One of the kids opened the door, a boy on the younger end of the teen spectrum. He wore a smirk like it was the latest fashion. When I sent him on a quest to get his mother, he moved at the pace of a sloth.
Shari eventually came to the door. “Lise, hi. What’s up?”
I introduced her to Eve and asked if we could speak, and we ended up at the kitchen table sipping lemonade.
Shari said, “The FBI was here earlier.”
Baker must have made his anonymous tip.
“What’d they want?” I asked.
“The sketch is tied to a violent crime. Do you know anything about that?”
“Yeah, but I can’t say anything, especially now that the feds are involved. I imagine they got a list similar to what Baker and Ortega picked up.”
“Yes, and they didn’t seem happy to know about Baker and Ortega stopping by.”
I grimaced. “You told them?”
“Shouldn’t I have?”
“Baker and Ortega were investigating on their own time, and the FBI frowns on that. Anyway, the reason we’re here—we have some good news, bad news, and news of subjective status.”
“Since that’s new to me, I’ll pick news of subjective status,” Shari said, a bit confused.
“Subjective,” I said, “because it depends on whether you consider it good or bad that your husband has just been busted.”
It took her a moment to get the meaning. “Wait, does this mean the good news is...”
Eve put the gift box on the table, opened it, and displayed The Floating Ballerina.
Shari gasped. “Oh, Lise, you got it back.” Her eyes welled.
“With Eve’s help.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, and Ricky had it?”
“We nabbed him as he was trying to sell it to...” Eve held out her hand to indicate me.
Shari laughed then sniffed. She got up for a tissue. When she sat back down, she asked, “Wait a minute. What’s the bad news? Because Ricky in hot water is definitely good in my book.”
“We brought the sketch by for you to see, but not keep,” I told her.
“It’s evidence of a crime. We have to hang on to it for a while before we can release it back to you,” Eve said.
“That’s fine. At least I know where it is.” Shari took a drink of lemonade. “How much trouble is he in?”
“That’s a tough one,” Eve said. “Yes, he did steal the sketch and other valuables, but he is your husband, and this is his home. His lawyer will play on that. On the other hand, he faked a burglary and called in the police under false pretenses. This will be a tricky one, though I think he’ll be in a fairly rough patch when it gets to court.”
“Good,” Shari said. “All these years, he’s been playing me for a fool. Thinking he can get away with anything.” She started to cry. “He stole from me.”
I took her hand and squeezed. “Now’s the time to call your lawyer and tell him that you want to move along with the divorce, ASAP. Tell him you need make sure he doesn’t have access to your money. Tell him that after all that’s occurred, you don’t want Ricky in the house or around your kids.”
“I will, as soon as you leave.” Shari nodded. “The only thing I’m truly worried about is how to break it to the kids.”
“My advice is to simply tell the truth,” Eve said.
Shari walked us to the door, and I held up the sketch. “You need to get this appraised, insured, and if not auctioned, put somewhere safe. The news about it is going to come out. To the art world, it’s a big deal. You have to consider how unsafe it would be on your wall. Consider loaning it to a museum until you figure it out.”
Shari nodded. “Yeah, I’ll see what my lawyer advises.”
Eve made arrangements with Shari to meet up to sign some paperwork to get her money back, then I drove to the police station. Eve and I promised to get together for a girl’s night of margaritas and bowling. I called Special Agent Davis and waited for her in the police station parking lot.
Davis followed me to my office, where I started thinking about closing The Floating Ballerina case. I should be happy, ecstatic even, but something bothered me. Not the case itself, but how the image was copied using a corpse. I wondered where Michelangelo had seen the sketch. But then the answer would depend on who Michelangelo was. If it was someone tied to the Stephenses, then the FBI would, in all likelihood, have the best chance of catching the killer. They would also be looking at Ricky Stephens now that he was sitting in jail for staging the burglary, but I really had a hard time seeing him as anything other than a sleazeball. I still suspected Michelangelo was tied to the police, even if it wasn’t Baker. The fact that the killer knew the nickname the police used, which had yet to be publicized, certainly indicated a strong possibility of a cop or someone connected to the police.
The killer knew about, and had seen, The Floating Ballerina. Outside of the Stephenses’ connections, few people had seen the sketch. Before it was recovered, it was limited to me and Nick, then Ortega and Baker glanced at it in Nick’s office. I wasn’t Michelangelo. We’d learned it wasn’t Baker or Ortega. It certainly couldn’t have been Nick because he was in Vienna. He’d promised me he wouldn’t tell anyone about it, and I hoped he hadn’t broken that promise. I needed to find out for sure. I got out my phone. However, before I called, a funny thought entered my mind, like a bird zipping by, then because it was so ludicrous, it flew on, leaving me to giggle.
“Nick, a killer?” I snorted more laughter and decided to put my mind at ease. I called Nick. He answered, and I said, “Hi, Nick. Miss you like crazy.”
“Ditto. Got your message. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you yet. Been kind of busy.”
I held a pencil with my free hand and doodled on a Post-it. “I told you I had a question.” There really wasn’t any way to word it so that it didn’t sound like I didn’t trust him. “Did you show the photo of The Floating Ballerina to anybody?”
“You told me not to.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No, Lise. I’m surprised you have to ask.”
“Did you say anything about it to anyone?”
“No.” The tone of his voice told me that he was getting a little peeved. “Why are you asking?”
Gabe had told me not to keep secrets from Nick, so I went ahead and told him about my night visitor and the text. I told him I was asking about the photo because the killer’s latest victim was posed like The Floating Ballerina. When I finished, several seconds of silence followed.
“Good God, Lise. You’re only just telling me this now?” I detected shock, panic, and anger.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Didn’t want me to—I’m coming back.”
“No, Nick, don’t. Don’t mess up your fellowship.”
“You’re in danger, Lise.” His voice rose a notch. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t come home to protect you?”
“You don’t have to protect me. I’m being protected by the best security a person can get, the FBI.”
“Really?” The relief in his voice was palpable. “The FBI?”
“Round the clock. Twenty-four, seven. Three agents, each on eight hours a day.”
“No shit? Is that weird? Having them around all the time?”
“Not bad. They mainly stay in their cars, though I invite them in from time to time. Teague’s my favorite; we hit it off pretty well. The other guy is nice too. The woman, Special Agent Davis, could be a poster girl for Anal Retentive Anonymous.”
“Oooh, bet you two don’t get along.”
I tapped my stapler so that it bounced up and down like a diving board. “I watch my mouth around her. Not that I’m scared of her, but she’s keeping me safe, and I appreciate that.”
“Yeah, I appreciate that too.”
“So I’m not in imminent danger, and you can continue on with your fellowship.”
Nick was silent a minute. “Yeah, okay.”
“What is it?”
“Oh nothing,” he said dismissively. “It’ll be all right. I’m just worried it’s not going to be what I expected.”
“Well, give it time.”
“I will.”
I leaned forward and put both elbows on my desk. “Hey! I have some good news. The case of The Floating Ballerina is officially closed.”
“You got the sketch? Awesome, Lise.” Nick’s tone indicated he had a big grin. “Tell me all about it.”
I opened my mouth to start but changed my mind. “You know what? Next time we’re together, be it here or in Vienna, let’s sip some bourbon, and I’ll tell you the story. It’s really a great story and one you’ll enjoy more face-to-face.”
“Well, okay.”
“I will tell you that Gabe played a role in my getting it back.”
“Gabe?” Nick laughed in amazement. “How? Oh wait. A story best told in person.”
“I guarantee you’ll laugh long and hard.”
“I can’t wait. Man, I wish I was there to help you celebrate,” he said.
“Me too.”
We were quiet a moment, then Nick said, “Hey, why don’t you call Gabe and celebrate with him?”
“Good idea.”
“I can’t wait to hear this story.”
We talked a bit more then said our goodbyes. Satisfied my boyfriend hadn’t shown the photo to anyone, I brought up the invoice template on my laptop. After invoicing Shari Stephens, I would get to work on a report that she could give to her lawyer. I would, no doubt, be called to testify if their divorce made it to court.
Oops... There it was again, a piddling little something that fit in somewhere between doubt and suspicion. Say the killer had been inspired by the photo I gave Nick, but Nick hadn’t shown it to anyone. That would mean that Nick—Nope. I hated when these random thoughts popped into my head, especially when I was trying to do something else. My brain wouldn’t stop pestering me, saying things like, How do you really know Nick is in Vienna? He could’ve been in the next room talking to me on his cell for all I knew. Shut up, stupid brain!
Finally, I decided to do what I’d pestered Ortega to do when I’d suspected Baker. I would check alibis and look at the dates and times of all the killings to see if I was with Nick during any of them.
“Fine,” I mumbled to my brain. “I’ll check, there’ll be an alibi, and then I’ll tease you for being so stupid.”
For the third and fourth killings, Nick was in Vienna—supposedly. Of course he was. That should be enough to get my brain to shut up, but I went ahead and looked at the date and time of Kristin Harmon’s death. Wait. Ha! Got it. That was the night Nick and I went to try the new tapas place in Old City. I remembered it specifically because the first two times we’d tried to get reservations, we couldn’t. Finally, we’d picked a date two weeks out and made our reservation. And though I didn’t use my day planner to remember dates with Nick, I did put this date on there because of the rigmarole we’d gone through to get reservations.
I got my phone and scrolled through the calendar. “Crap.”
I’d remembered wrong. We’d gone to the restaurant the night before Kristin’s murder. And though I couldn’t be sure, I didn’t think we’d spent the following night together. I went through the file for information on the Angela Lopez killing but stopped. That was when I’d been pissed at Nick for not telling me about his fellowship. I’d stayed home alone that night. I would need to approach it from another angle. I compared Nick to what we knew about Michelangelo: Both had knowledge of art, and both had seen The Floating Ballerina. That was it. Well, except that they both had medium-length brown hair.
“He’s in Vienna!” I shouted, hoping it would sink into my brain. I couldn’t understand why I was so antsy about this. My stomach grumbled, and a solution came to mind. “Gordo’s Grande.”
I left the office, waved at Special Agent Janet Davis, got in my car, and headed for Dicky’s Surf Shop, where Gordo’s food truck was parked. Davis pulled in after me, and I walked over and offered to buy her a late lunch, which she declined. She was the kind of person I pegged as subsisting on kale salads and other gluten-free, fat-free, taste-free fare. Luckily, the lunch crowd had already come and gone, so my gastronomic nirvana wrapped in a flour tortilla was prepared quickly. I sat at a picnic table with an icy Diet Coke, a small pile of napkins, and a bottle of datil pepper salsa then went to work. After one particularly big bite, I saluted Davis in her car with my burrito. The revulsion on her face was priceless.
The Grande did the trick, and I returned to my office and finished my paperwork.
Later that night, I woke up and was unable to get back to sleep. And no, it wasn’t due to intestinal distress, but rather a cold realization that Nick had something else in common with a madman. Michelangelo had left me a photo on a pillow beside me as I slept; Nick had done the same with his love letter on the morning he left. In the bright light of day, that might have seemed like a coincidence, but at that moment, it seemed near damning. Finally, I got up and went to make myself tea. I sat in the kitchen, thinking. It was a little after three in the morning, which would put it a little after nine in Vienna.
“Screw it.” I was going to do something I would never do under any other circumstances. I would check up on my boyfriend and make sure he was really where he said he was. It wasn’t like I was being the jealous type and checking because I doubted his fidelity. I needed to put my mind to rest that he wasn’t a killer. I got my computer and looked up information for Vienna’s Academy of Fine Arts. I stopped and put both hands on my desk. If I went through with this, I was admitting that I didn’t trust Nick. But this was so much more than looking for a girlfriend on the side. This was life and death, and as selfish as it sounded, I needed my peace of mind. After finding what I hoped was the correct number, I called. A woman answered, but the only word I understood was something similar to academy.
“Hi, I’m calling from the United States. Do you speak English?” I asked.
In response, I heard a lot of guttural consonants.
“I’m sorry. Does anyone there speak English?”
“Was?” In the manner of how it was spoken, I believed she asked, “What?”
I googled “translator” on my computer, mumbling, “Hang on,” in the process. I was sure I butchered the language when I asked, “Hat jemand da speak English?”
There came another batch of words along with a name, Professor Gildersleeve, and I was put on hold. Hoping for the best, I hung on for several minutes, until a man spoke into the phone.
“Ja, das ist Professor Gildersleeve.”
“Please tell me you speak English.”
“Yes. How may I assist you?” He seemed to speak English well, but his accent was thick.
“Professor Gildersleeve, I’m a good friend of Professor Nicholas Weldon.”
“Ja, ja, Nicholas. He will be instructing our students on a fellowship.”
“That’s right,” I said, as relief flooded through my system. I would make up a reason for the call, end it, go back to bed, and never ever tell Nick I’d once wondered if he was a serial killer. The lie fell skillfully from my lips. “I’ve been trying to call his cell phone but haven’t been able to reach him. I was hoping you could give me a phone number to his office at the academy.”
Professor Gildersleeve didn’t answer immediately. “You say you are a good friend of Professor Weldon?”
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t you know his fellowship does not begin for two weeks? I do not expect to see him until then.”
The relief I’d felt earlier was replaced with nausea, and I ended the call without another word.