twenty-seven

Frank handed me his phone as he started the car. “Dial the guys and put ’em on speaker.”

“Hey boss,” Lamendola said. “Can you meet us? We got a lead on an auctioneer that might know Bob. He owns a local pawn shop.”

I had hoped our next step was Dr. Carolyn Corey, but Bob’s murder came first so I didn’t bother asking Frank. In reality, there was no urgency. Dr. Corey had no idea we wanted to speak with her and in all likelihood, she’d be doing the same thing tomorrow as she did last week and the week before.

The address of the pawn shop, located in the mid-island town of Commack, wasn’t far from the Carmen House apartments and therefore within reach. Commack was famous for two things: Rosie O’Donnell’s childhood home and the Commack Motor Inn, a sleazy hotel where teenagers and cheating spouses went to have sex. Besides these places of interest, Commack was a flat slice of Long Island good for farming and strip malls. Unlike the quaint shops of Cold Spring Harbor, Commack’s shopping district spilled out for miles.

The pawn shop we were looking for was located on a main thoroughfare across the street from a large chain supermarket. I had a love/hate relationship with superstores, especially the type that sold food. I knew that for every oversized shopping cart stuffed with excessive calories, almost a third of the food would go uneaten and ultimately be trashed. This endless supply of wasted food was a nice supplement to my own shopping budget. Between Harbor House’s farm and Dumpster diving at stores like these, my food expenditure was only a few dollars a week. Although I was always thrilled to find a box of cereal past its expiration date, knowing that perfectly good food had been tossed drove me crazy.

While we waited at the intersection, I spotted a mom with three small children maneuvering a top-heavy cart to her car. I was about to shake my finger disapprovingly at her empty calorie haul when Frank grabbed my hand.

“Save your judgment for the auctioneer,” he said as we pulled in. “I’m curious to see if this guy is legit. Pawn shops are notorious for attracting shady people.”

The store was bookended by the Happy Roses nail salon and a Laundromat. Nail salons. There was another commercial enterprise that made me question humanity. How can you relax when the person pushing your cuticles back is wearing a face mask to avoid inhaling toxic lacquer? I was about to take a jab at the nail place when Frank pointed to the window of the pawn shop. Lamendola and Cheski were at the glass counter trying on watches.

“Thinking about retirement?” Frank asked as we walked in.

“Can’t come soon enough,” Cheski replied and then added, “The auctioneer’s name is Sally, short for Salvatore. He’s taking a phone call in the back.” Cheski handed Frank a watch to try on while I busied myself with Civil War memorabilia. I inched over to the jewelry and a velvet tray of wedding rings. Strangely enough, I hadn’t formed an opinion on weddings. I figured someday I’d make a commitment, and I assumed that when I did, it would be nontraditional. I had never, however, considered the meaning of a ring or the size for that matter. A row of sparkly diamonds smiled brightly at me, and for a split second I felt a twinge of consumerism creep up. For sure, I’d never find a diamond ring at the bottom of a Dumpster … but hey, you never know.

Sally, the auctioneer, emerged from the back room. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a fast-talking southerner with a checkered shirt and a cowboy hat—but it certainly wasn’t this auctioneer. Salvatore Riggi was young, maybe early thirties, and dressed in business casual—slacks, a button-down, and no tie. He shook our hands calmly and repeated each of our names at least once and then offered us a seat at a pawned dining room table.

“I know you have some questions about my clients, and I’m happy to help. What do you need?”

“We have a couple of questions about storage default auctions, but first, maybe you could tell us how you came to own the store?” Frank said. By his question, I guessed Frank had been expecting a more seasoned pawn shop owner as well.

“Sure,” Sally said, and then he went on to describe his unusual but rather lucrative career path. “I worked here in high school and through college, loading the heavier pieces to and from people’s cars. It was grunt work, but I loved the idea that something amazing, a real treasure, could be found in boxes of junk.”

My ears were burning while my heart melted. A fellow junk aficionado? I wanted to swipe one of the pawned rings and propose to Sally Riggi on the spot. Instinctively, Frank slid his chair closer to mine. Where had this guy been hiding all my life? Sally went on to explain his decision to major in art and his subsequent graduate degree in appraisals from Sotheby’s. And an art major?! Could this get any better?

“At the end of the day, I didn’t want to work in a Soho gallery selling overpriced art to overpaid New Yorkers. I wanted to dig for the good stuff. So I got a loan and bought out the owner of this place, who was ready to retire anyway. The auctions help me build a client list. I keep careful track of each bidder’s interests and then I develop a one-on-one with the regulars. There’s no magic. The key is to cultivate a personal relationship with each client, and as it turns out, I’m pretty good at it.”

“When I called earlier,” Cheski said, “I asked you about one of your clients. A heavyset guy?”

“Absolutely. Bob, the Outsider Artist. I don’t do a lot of business in dolls, but when I stumble upon a cache, I call Bob.”

“Have you seen any of his artwork?” I asked.

Sally’s eyes lit up. “I was so impressed that I’ve tried to find him an agent. Actually, I owe him a call.” Again, another person in Bob’s network that didn’t know he had passed.

“So you’ve been to the HG storage site?” Frank asked.

“Oh yeah. I’ve done maybe six or seven auctions for them over the years. Bob is always there.”

Frank’s jaw pounded away, and I knew he was evaluating the extent to which he could trust Sally Riggi. The signs were positive. The store was clean, organized, and professionally run. Sally seemed knowledgeable and forthcoming, and he had no hesitation meeting with us on short notice. We sat in silence for a few seconds until Frank delivered the bad news about Bob.

“Wow,” Sally said. “I had no idea. I thought you were here to investigate stolen goods. I was prepared to open my books.”

“That’s good to know, but what we’re looking for now is information about a murder,” Frank said. “Is there anything else you can remember about your interactions with Bob?”

Sally opened a folder in front of him and ran his finger down the page. “I don’t know if this will help, but recently Bob had been buying old computers. I think maybe he was working on a tech-themed art piece.”

“How many computers had he purchased?” Cheski asked.

“What he’ll do is wait for another buyer to take a whole unit, and if there’s a computer in the unit, he’ll buy it piecemeal for maybe twenty bucks. I’ve seen him buy three or four at a single auction.”

“Does everyone know each other at these storage unit auctions?” I asked.

“The regulars know each other. Bob had a couple of buddies on the circuit, and recently his daughter tagged along.”

Frank held his hand up to stop us from asking wild questions. “Did he introduce her as his daughter?”

Sally shrugged. “No, I just assumed it was his daughter.” And then Sally the auctioneer went on to describe a young woman who sounded an awful lot like the skinny-jeaned woman from the recycling center.

“When was the last time you saw Bob?” Frank asked.

“About a month ago at a storage auction in Queens. His daughter was with him, and now that I think about it, Bob started buying computers at about the time his daughter joined him. Maybe a year ago.”

We left Sally’s pawn shop and headed to a coffee shop at the end of the strip mall.

“Oh my god,” I said, reaching out for Frank’s arm. “This is incredible. I didn’t know Bob had a daughter.”

“Actually, we don’t know Bob did have a daughter,” Cheski replied. “All we know is he’s been seen with a young woman, but it’s not a given that they’re related. We already looked into Bob’s background, and there’s nothing in the public records that indicate a child.”

“In Barbara’s absence, who else can we ask?” Lamendola said.

“The fact that CeCe doesn’t know,” Frank said, “makes me think that Bob was either very private, or it’s not his daughter. Most parents make reference to their children in conversation. Cheski’s kids are out of college, and he still can’t stop talking about them.” Frank laughed.

This was true. I knew more about Cheski’s extended clan of relatives than I did about my own family. This wasn’t saying much since my family stories read like a textbook from a communist bloc country, heavy on the rewrite. But I had to agree with Frank. If Bob had a daughter, it was strange he had never mentioned her, especially since he’d been out and about in public with her.

“Talk to Jimmy tomorrow,” Frank instructed. “He might be aware of a relative. And Barbara? She hasn’t returned?”

Cheski ordered a bag of donuts and four coffees. I felt badly I didn’t have money until I realized that a monetary transaction wasn’t about to take place. Cheski’s uniform closed the deal for free. Frank groaned and refused his donut and coffee.

“Well, we haven’t looked too hard,” Cheski said as he poured two packets of sugar in a paper cup. “Lamendola and I were wondering how long we should let it go. Barbara’s been AWOL for a week. At what point is this a missing person’s case?”

“As of now, we’re the only ones missing her,” Frank reasoned. “Usually a relative or coworker reports someone missing. The fact that no has come to us leads me to believe she’s keeping in touch with the people who would miss her.”

“So you don’t think it’s strange that Bob’s wife goes missing with no forwarding address shortly after his death?”

“Cheski,” Frank said,“you’re a social guy. If you went missing for a few hours, half the town would call in a missing person’s report. Remember the overnight stakeout we did at that Wall Street trader’s house? You were getting a text every two minutes from family members. On the other hand, if I took a month off, who would come looking for me?”

“I would,” I said, slighted that Frank thought he wouldn’t be missed.

Frank rubbed my hand and whispered, “You’d be with me.” I smiled and Frank continued, “I think Barbara’s fine, but at this point we should track down a list of her local friends just to be sure. CeCe, can help you with that task?”

“Sure thing. I’ll head over to the food co-op in the morning. Barbara does a rotation there once a month, and I’m sure she’s friendly with some of the other volunteers.”

“Can I come?” Cheski asked.

I blinked. “To the food co-op?”

“Yeah, I’m getting into it. You know, the alternative food thing.”

Cheski’s mouth was framed in sugary powder, and he dabbed his finger on his napkin to save the last few slivers of donut flakes. I wasn’t sure he was an appropriate candidate for an organic market.

“For real?”

“For real,” he said as we tossed our garbage. “I figure if I can cut my monthly spending, I might be able to retire earlier. Maybe I’ll become a Freegan.”

“As long as you don’t cut into my diving territory,” I laughed.