The West Gallery was much like the East Gallery, except it looked out over a vast front lawn with manicured bushes and a partial view of a mansion opposite. The walls were covered in exceptional examples of Japanese and Chinese art, and a few tables were set with Ming vases.
Odd he put the Eastern stuff in the West Gallery. East is West and West is East and never the twain will meet? He had a sense of humor. Well, a nerdy sense of humor.
The woman turned to face him, the female officer standing close behind.
“So how long have you worked for Mr. Dyson?” Daniel asked, trying not to notice how she kept moving her hips slightly from side to side.
“Three years,” Rebecca answered.
Daniel studied her face a moment.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Were you of age when you started working for him?”
“Yes.” She sounded irritated.
“Will your ID and employment records confirm that?”
“It’s not what you think.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow, trying not to look at the woman’s cleavage.
“And what do I think?”
“We never slept together.”
The doubt must have been obvious on Daniel’s face, because she said, “He wanted company, someone to show off at dinners and art galleries.”
Daniel gestured at her negligée. “Come on. You dress like that around the house, and he never put the moves on you?”
The female police officer frowned at him. He ignored her. This wasn’t sexual harassment. This was legitimate questioning. Maybe the killer was a jealous lover or angry big brother. Unlikely considering the MO, but he needed to follow up everything.
The young woman’s face softened. “He couldn’t. He was impotent. Prostate cancer. They had to remove the prostate and he couldn’t get it up anymore. It messed with his bladder too. Poor guy had to wear men’s undergarments. That’s what they call diapers for adults. He just wanted to look at me and show me off in public a little. I’m a trained massage therapist, so I’d give him daily messages, but he never tried anything with me. Just talked. He was a good guy. He even paid for me to go to design school.”
Tears started rolling down those high cheekbones. Daniel’s gut told him they were real.
Daniel softened his tone to match hers. “So you were only there for massages and to show off to his friends.”
She shook her head. “He didn’t have any friends. That was my job.”
Daniel remembered the lack of any mention of him in the society pages.
“Tell me more.”
“He was like a hermit or something. He’d go out, to museums and the opera and all that, and bring me with him, but he never met anyone. And no one ever came to visit the house.”
The killer knew the house, though. Former employee? Family?
“What about family?”
“He has a sister in L.A. who he talked to sometimes on the phone. She’s got a couple of kids. I know Monty sent them nice gifts. I’d help pick them out.”
“Did they ever visit?”
“No. He’d go there a couple of times a year. He never brought me along for those trips.”
“Did you see the painting?”
“Yeah. He was very excited about it. Not sure why. It gave me the creeps. It showed this thin old guy on a horse with a big sword. Looked like he was going to kill everybody in this little town below the horse.”
“Did he say much about it?”
“No. Said he’d be studying it all night and that I should go to bed.”
“Did he mention where he bought it?”
Her brow furrowed. “You know, that’s kinda strange. He didn’t. He would always say, ‘Oh, I made a killing at Sotheby’s,’ or ‘Look what I got from Antiquities International’. He knew all the dealers. It was his only social life, besides me, that is. He’d sit with them and have lunch and talk art, and then he’d buy something.”
“Did they ever come here, or did he ever go to their homes?”
The young woman shook her head. “Never. He was pretty shy. Lost in his little world of finance and art. Outside of that he got real uncomfortable. He could only talk to the art dealers because they shared his passion. If some guy sitting next to us at the opera struck up a conversation at intermission, he’d get all awkward. I always had to do most of the talking.”
“Are there any other staff members besides the cook and the two men I’ve already met?”
Daniel already knew the cook was a woman, so she wasn’t the killer.
“A pool cleaner and garden crew come once a month or so.”
“Do they ever come in the house?”
Rebecca shook her head. “Monty never let anyone in the house if he didn’t have to.”
“Any former employees have a problem with him? Male employees?”
“Not that I know. Antonio, the chauffeur, is new. Hired last year to replace a guy named Kevin who wanted to move to Chicago to get married. I don’t know any other male employees. He must have had others over the years. Ask Winston. That’s the butler.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. If Dyson had been such a hermit with no family, it had to have been an ex-employee.
“All right,” Daniel said, leading the two women out of the room.
Going back to the living room where Winston and Antonio waited with the male police officer, Daniel went up to the butler.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Dyson?” he asked Winston.
“Eighteen years, sir,” the butler said with a note of pride.
“Can you write me a list of all former male employees?”
“Certainly, sir. I can go through the records and give you their last known addresses and telephone numbers.”
“That would be great. Are you familiar with the books in the East Gallery?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One or two are missing. Go and try and figure out which.”
“Yes, sir. Before I look through the employee records, sir?”
“Yes.” Daniel turned to the driver. “Are you familiar with the East Gallery?”
“Not really.”
“Go with him anyway.”
They left. The male officer gave him a significant look. Daniel nodded and the policeman followed the butler and chauffeur.
Daniel sat in a comfortable old armchair, rubbing his temples and wondering why he was here. Sure, this murder involved the theft of some old painting, but that wasn’t enough to attract the Antiquities Division of the FBI. He supposed it was because Dyson was rich. If he had been some middle-class slob who saved up to buy a nice painting, the FBI wouldn’t have cared.
Closing his eyes, he settled into the armchair and cursed his luck. He should be back in the Behavioral Affairs Unit chasing serial killers. That was his true talent, not looking for some weirdo who scythed a billionaire to death. He’d been switched to the Antiquities Division as a demotion thanks to his habit of mouthing off to superiors and rough handling of suspects.
At least his first case with the new division had been a serial killer. Solved in record time thanks to an extremely useful and often annoying civilian advisor.
But getting a serial killer case in the Antiquities Division had been a fluke. There wouldn’t be another one. This seemed like a pretty obvious case. Ex-employee or fellow art lover had a grudge against Dyson and came to kill him in a showoff sort of way. Maybe he got hurt financially by one of Dyson’s business dealings. You couldn’t make that much money without ripping someone else off.
God, why am I stuck with a case like this? The BAU needs me.
And I need the BAU.
“Are you all right?” Rebecca asked. Daniel had forgotten she and the female police officer were there.
Daniel opened his eyes.
Rebecca stood close to the armchair, too close. Daniel tried not to look at those legs within easy reach. Instead, he looked at her face and saw genuine concern there.
“You look upset,” Rebecca said.
Just lost her sugar daddy and she’s actually worried about me. No wonder Dyson chose her. She doesn’t just have looks; she’s got heart too.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You want me to make you some coffee or a sandwich or something?”
Daniel smiled. “No thanks.”
A fantasy about her began to form in his mind. He pushed it away.
She’s out of your league. Just because you’re going through a divorce you can’t start slobbering over every college girl who shows you a bit of kindness.
The look the female officer was giving him showed she agreed.
Fortunately, the two male servants returned just at that moment. The butler took a step closer to him.
“We keep a full list of every antiquarian book in the house, sir, and its location. The missing book is A Map and Guide to the Heavens, published in 1648.”
Winston held out a spiral folder and pointed to a spot on the list.
“An astronomy book?” Daniel asked, standing up.
“So it would seem, sir. Members of staff were asked never to touch the antiquarian books or artwork. Mr. Dyson was quite particular on that point, sir. He would clean, hang, and arrange everything himself. It was his passion.”
“Anything else missing?”
“Not that I could see, sir.”
“Did he keep a list of paintings?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, holding out another spiral bound volume of printouts. “He had not yet added his most recent acquisition.”
“Where did he keep his receipts?”
“In his desk, sir, until the accountant goes over them.”
“Show me his office.”
The butler led him to a quiet office with a Persian rug and oak paneling. In the desk Daniel found a folder of recent receipts, including one for a nineteenth century Chinese snuffbox purchased at Christie’s the week before and the receipt for lunch at Eleven Madison Park from the day before, but no receipt for a painting.
The butler looked puzzled. “It should be here.”
The police had already given Daniel an itemized list of the objects on the victim’s person, including the wallet that was still in his pocket. There had been no receipt in there either.
“Would it be unusual for him not to put his receipt in here?”
“Very unusual, sir. Mr. Dyson was a very methodical man. Perhaps Mr. Mitchell has it. He’s Mr. Dyson’s attorney. Mr. Dyson consulted him on major purchases. For such high expenditures and customs duties, it is best to have an attorney on hand for legal advice.”
Daniel tapped his thumb against his thigh three times, glanced around the office, and said, “Let’s go.”
He led Winston back to the other staff members, then went alone to the East Gallery to take another look.
The room gave a beautiful, unobstructed view of the Atlantic, where the last shadows of evening were fading into the weak light of a new day. Out to sea he could see the distant lights of ships. He found himself wishing he was out there on one of them, sailing somewhere. Anywhere.
The sound of muffled footsteps on the Persian rug made him turn. The male police officer entered.
“I’m thinking,” Daniel said.
The guy cocked his head, irritated.
“I said I’m thinking.”
Eye contact, for half a second. Then the officer slumped a fraction of an inch, turned, and left.
Daniel took a look around at the paintings and could name most of the artists.
Giotto. Degas. Manet. Lots of big names. He didn’t recognize any of the paintings, though. Must have always been in private hands.
“Works of art should be in public galleries,” Uncle Ray said, walking with him through the Louvre, arm around thirteen-year-old Daniel’s shoulder. “Beauty should be seen, admired, not hidden away.”
Uncle Ray gave his shoulder a squeeze. Daniel blushed, not replying. He knew what Uncle Ray meant.
“Getting a bit tired?” Uncle Ray asked. “We’ve been here a couple of hours already.”
“I’m fine. We can stay.”
“Maybe we should go back to the hotel and … rest for a while.”
“No. I’d like to stay.”
“Oh, but I’m tired too,” Uncle Ray said.
Daniel’s stomach turned.
“Just a couple more rooms?” he pleaded.
Uncle Ray chuckled. “An admirer of beauty! That’s good. So am I. Let’s go look at the Greek statues. An interesting culture, the Greeks. Let me tell you a bit about them …”
Daniel shook himself, glanced around to make sure no one saw, then wiped his brow.
Focus on the present.
I can’t with all this stuff reminding me.
Focus anyway. Want to get back to hunting serial killers? You need to crack a few cases in this junk division.
His gut told him the missing painting was bought illegally. That would explain the lack of a receipt and Dyson telling his chauffeur to get lost for the day. So this really was a job for the Antiquities Division. Stolen artwork was big business.
But he wasn’t an expert on the art world. He’d been given this job because he had a strong educational background in art history and a bit of archaeology, but he didn’t know much about the business of art.
At least he knew someone who did.
He pulled out his phone and smiled. It would be good to talk with her again. As irritating as she could be, Remi Laurent was good company.