At two o’clock the next afternoon, I was in Dean Bostwick’s office.
But he wasn’t.
I figured he was still on some power trip, trying to show me who the real boss here was. But he forgot I had a lot more time than he did and a lot more patience. So I leaned back, sipped the cup of coffee I’d brought with me, and waited.
By 2:15, I’d finished my coffee.
A young officer walked by the open door then turned around to look in on me. “How’re you doing, Mrs. Sullivan?”
“I’m fine.”
“If there’s anything you need, my name’s Ben.”
“Thanks, but I’m sure you have more important things to do than take care of me.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. It’s kinda slow around here today.”
“That’s a good thing . . . right?”
“Sure is.” He smiled, then continued down the hall.
I decided to sit there all day if I had to. Luckily I’d tossed the latest issue of Southwest Art magazine in my tote bag before leaving home. I pulled it out and began reading about the La Quinta Art Festival.
Dean Bostwick came rushing in. “Have you been waiting long?”
I held up my right index finger. “Give me a minute. I’m almost done with this article.”
He stood there, looking more confused than annoyed. Then he took off his suit jacket, draped it over the back of his desk chair, and sat quietly.
Score one for the retired lady police chief!
Slowly, I closed the magazine and put it back in my tote. I prolonged the simple task, enjoying being in control. Then I sat back. “So what do you have for me?”
Dean reached over to a pile of files on the right corner of his desk and removed the top one. “The coroner’s report came in yesterday.” He pushed it toward me.
I couldn’t let on that I already knew what was in the report. So I picked up the file. As I read through it, I stopped every now and then, feigning interest.
Dean sat back, his hands clasped behind his head. “So what do you think?”
“I think it corroborates what I saw at the murder scene. Other than the part about metallic flakes being in the wound, there’s not much new here.”
“Any idea what the murder weapon could have been?”
“Are you asking for my opinion, Dean?”
“Look, I know I rode you pretty hard back then. You just took everything too personally. This is a young man’s game, Katherine. Everyday it’s more crazy and dangerous out there. Cops are getting shot left and right.”
He was right about it being a crazy world, but I didn’t tell him so.
Then, as if trying to redeem himself, he said, “Did you know Stacey Jordan and Antoine Rousseau had worked together before? He hired her to evaluate a private art collection belonging to a family he was working for in Chicago.”
“When was this?”
Bostwick picked up another file that had been underneath the coroner’s report. Opening it, he flipped through two pages, then stopped. “From April to June of last year.”
I reached for my note pad. “How do you know this?”
“Pierce’s polygraph. He was asked how he first became acquainted with Stacey. He answered that she was recommended by Rousseau. He was then asked what exactly Rousseau had said about her. You know, ask the same question in a few different ways to try and trip him up.”
“And did you?”
“Nope. Like I told you on the phone; he passed with flying colors. He met Stacey through Rousseau. Since he was also opening an art gallery and there wasn’t enough full-time work for her at the estate, he also had her fill in at the gallery.”
“What exactly was she working on at the estate?”
“Cataloguing paintings, taking inventory of the various collections, things like that.”
“And do you think there were other jobs before the one in Chicago?” I asked.
“Pierce didn’t know of any. But she did work at a museum here in town for a while.”
“The Miller Art Center.”
He checked his file. “The Miller, yeah that’s it.”
I started to put my note pad back in my tote. “Well I have places to be, and even though it’s a slow day around here, I’m sure you can find something to do.” I couldn’t leave without letting him know I was aware he’d kept me waiting for no good reason.
But he didn’t acknowledge my remark. “So we’re square now, right?”
“And you’re not going to interfere with my investigation?”
“If you don’t mess with mine . . . we’re good,” he said.