After a frustrating morning of trying to make some progress on the investigation but getting nothing accomplished, I began feeling restless, but not in a way where I wanted to exercise. My head was feeling clogged with facts, suppositions, and open questions regarding these three deaths that I was becoming more convinced were connected. I needed to clear my head, so I walked over to the Art Institute. I called Lacey Vinton, who informed me that she had thirty minutes to take me to see the Basquiat before she started her shift. We made a plan.
Lacey met me in the lobby, dressed more modestly than she had been when we first met. Her hair was tied into a bun, and she wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that completed her transformation to full geek hotness.
“How’s the case going?” she said as we walked back toward the modern wing of the museum. Foot traffic in the galleries was light but steady.
“It’s going,” I said. “I need a break, so no thinking or talking about investigations or crimes. I need the next thirty minutes to be all about Basquiat.”
“Well, I can deliver on that,” she said. “Have you seen Johnnypump in person yet?”
“Nope, only online.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. Seeing a Basquiat in person is a much different experience than seeing photographs online. He painted with such energy and emotion that you have to be in the room with it to fully appreciate all that he brought to his work.”
“What attracts you to him the most?”
“His art, obviously,” Lacey said. “But also his story. There really wasn’t anyone like him in the world. He was part of the Neo-Expressionist movement in the eighties with other experimental artists like Julian Schnabel, Susan Rothenberg, and Francesco Clemente. Not to take anything away from the other great artists, but Basquiat stood out from the rest. And part of that might be his story.”
“I remember reading that he died really young,” I said.
“Twenty-seven. Overdosed in his apartment on Great Jones Street in New York City. His story is as fascinating as his art. He was born in Brooklyn, New York, to a Puerto Rican mother and Haitian father. He got his start tagging graffiti on subway trains. Dropped out of high school a year before he was supposed to graduate and made a living selling one-dollar postcards and sweatshirts with his artwork on them. He was even homeless for a while. But like most art icons, he finally got the break he needed when some of his work was featured in a group show. He was only twenty. The art world was blown away by how he creatively fused words, stick figures, animals, and symbols. There really had been nothing like it before, and so he went from selling postcards for a dollar to original artwork for fifty thousand dollars.”
“Gotta imagine that for a kid on the outs for several years, suddenly making that kind of money must have been a total mind fuck.”
“Like many great artists, he struggled to handle his fame. Drugs were his liberation but also his prison. He knew he needed help, so he went to a ranch in Hawaii to get away from it all and deal with his addiction. He returned in less than a week, claiming he had kicked his habit. Just a few weeks later, he died of an overdose in the East Village apartment he rented from the estate of Andy Warhol, one of his mentors and friends.”
Hearing her describe Basquiat’s ending made me think of Bianca Wembley, even though I was supposed to be avoiding any thoughts or conversations about work. Had she still been alive when they hung her up on that statue, left alone to die in the middle of the open parkland? I imagined she had been duct-taped when they hung her, but then maybe they removed it because she was already dead. I hoped she died before they hung her. Being hung to death seemed so cruel and painful.
We walked through an airy court then finally into the gallery. The painting hit you as soon as you entered the room. The first thing that got your attention was its massive size, eight by fourteen feet. The vibrancy of the colors and images jumped off the canvas. I stood there for a moment to just take it all in. A skeletal stick figure of a Black boy next to a skeletal black dog baring its teeth stood in the center of flashes of red and strokes of white and gray that represented an open fire hydrant. The background was all bright, hot colors that represented summer.
“Jesus Christ,” I finally whispered. “Sheer genius.”
“This is why I tell people that it’s nice to be able to see art online, but it still remains a medium where, if you want to get the true essence, you really have to see it in person.”
We stepped feet away from the painting for a closer inspection. The freneticism of the brushstrokes was even more impressive up close.
“The way he drew the boy was how he liked to represent Black figures in his art,” Lacey said. “But look at the dog. Notice how strong and rapid the brushstrokes are. This was a technique at the core of Neo-Expressionism, and no one did it better than Basquiat, especially when he added the primitive forms.”
I stood there, just looking at the colors and the images. Everything was so loud and restless. There was beauty in the grotesque depictions.
“It’s so strong,” I said. “It just screams at you, and no matter what part of the painting you look at, the screaming doesn’t stop.”
“Vintage Basquiat,” Lacey said. “Not just with the symbols and the colors and the stick figures but also the messaging. He was very upset about the country’s disgusting history of slavery and racism and the events that were still happening in the eighties, with innocent Black people being beaten and killed for no reason. The boy’s hair is three-pointed, something he did in other works. This represents Black people as being kings even while living simple lives, because they enjoy freedom. Many critics gave him a hard time his entire career, but he didn’t give a shit and told them so. He was always Jean-Michel Basquiat.”
“It’s humbling just to think how much the guy did in such a short life. So much success at such a young age, then gone like that.”
“Like many of the other great artists in history,” Lacey said. “Modigliani at thirty-five, Van Gogh at thirty-seven, Seurat at thirty-one. Basquiat at twenty-seven. It’s almost like the blessings of their gifts were also curses. Makes you appreciate even more how productive they were for such short lives. Basquiat created a collection of over six hundred paintings and fifteen hundred drawings in less than a decade. Imagine how much more he could’ve done had he lived.”
I took one last look at the painting and thought about the photos I had seen of Basquiat on the internet.
“And then you look at pictures of him,” I said, “this eccentric-looking Black kid with free-form hair, casual, unimpressed, a rebelliousness in his eyes. Had you not known who he was, just looking at him, you never in a million years would imagine he was such an artistic genius.”
“But that’s life, isn’t it?” Lacey said. “Often people aren’t who you think they are or who they pretend to be.”
When I got back to the office, I kept thinking of Basquiat and his short life, about his fearlessness in the face of battering criticism from the art world elite to be true to himself and his ideals. Then I thought about Lacey’s final words: Often people aren’t who you think they are or who they pretend to be. That prompted me to wake up my computer and type The Crafty Magic, Bianca’s online store. No results for a store came back. The top results were for a glue stick. I checked page after page. Nothing about an arts-and-crafts store. I searched Facebook and Instagram and TikTok. Nothing. Had I written the name down wrong? I texted Oscar to make sure. He texted me back within minutes and confirmed that was the name. He was certain. I checked Delaware’s database of corporations, and still nothing came up. I sat back in my seat and stared out the window at the scattered clouds sliding over the lake. Rain was definitely on the way. Bianca Wembley hadn’t owned an online arts-and-crafts store, but how had she made a living, and how could she have afforded such expensive trips and gifts for nieces? I was certain Bianca was not who she had pretended to be.
I printed out the photo Oscar had sent me, then took it, along with the first page of the journal article she had written, to the board and taped them next to Kantor’s and Thompson’s photos. Then I remembered how Oscar had mentioned she would’ve fought off anyone attacking her. I looked at her autopsy report, hoping to find the same sedative that had been found in Kantor’s and Thompson’s blood. That would be an important link between the three deaths. Unfortunately, the lab results only showed her birth control medication. I stood there for a moment, looking at Bianca’s picture, then wrote underneath her name, Daphne, who are you? I looked into her vibrant eyes. It was no coincidence that her killer had taken her to Daphne Garden. They had wanted her body to be found at that specific location for a reason.
Mechanic and I were in the middle of a sparring session at Hammer’s, working up a good sweat. It was a back-and-forth type of battle, neither one of us willing to give an inch. Some of the other boxers had gathered around to watch. Mechanic delivered a nice one-two combo, jabbing me on my right flank harder than I was expecting, then landing a cross that grazed the right side of my head. I ducked and rolled and threw a left uppercut to his solar plexus, not hard enough to put him down, but with enough power to back him up a couple of steps against the rope, which is exactly where I wanted him. I delivered a rapid succession of jabs that elicited a collective groan from those watching. Mechanic raised his gloves in defense to cover his face, and I continued to work his body.
“Enough already,” I heard Hammer yell. Then a strong tug on my shoulder pulled me back. “What, are ya trying to kill the man? Jesus Christ. You’re friends.”
Mechanic popped up from the ropes, took out his mouthpiece, and smiled. “That the best you got?” he said.
“Okay, tough guy,” Hammer said. “You know you can’t talk shit once I’ve gotten you out of a jam. Low-class.” He then turned to me and said, “Go answer you damn phone. It’s been ringing for the last fifteen minutes. It’s giving me a damn headache.”
I stepped down from the ring, walked over to the bench, and fished my phone out of my bag. I had two missed calls from Oscar Wembley. I dialed his number.
“Sorry to blow up your phone,” he said. “When you asked me last week if I had anything of my sister’s, like a school yearbook or other mementos like that, I told you I didn’t have anything. But then a few days after I got home, I thought about my mother’s emergency box.”
“Emergency box?” I said. I slung my bag over my shoulder, left the gym, and jumped in my car. I needed to get back to the office.
“Yes, my mother had this walnut box about the size of a small drawer. It had also been her grandmother’s emergency box. Her grandmother had escaped the Nazis, but her father and mother hadn’t made it out in time. My great-grandmother used the box to keep all of her most important possessions and papers. She taught my mother the importance of having a portable emergency box. I hadn’t looked at my mother’s box since she died. Truthfully, I had put it off all these years, almost like if I didn’t look through it, then her death was less real, and she was still with us in some way. I know that sounds weird, but that’s how I felt.”
“Not weird at all,” I said. “I lost my mother too. I get it. There are things I still do and don’t do after all this time, because I’m still dealing with it in my own way.”
“Well, I decided to look through the box just to see if there was anything there, and I think I might’ve found something. I don’t know if it means anything, but I figured it was worth a shot. She mostly kept papers in it, as well as her marriage license, our birth certificates, her and my father’s passports, my grandfather’s watch, and a couple of pictures of my grandparents over in Germany. I went through everything, but nothing seemed useful to your investigation. Then, when I was about to put all of the papers back in, I noticed there was a flap at the bottom of the box, like a secret compartment. And that’s where I found it.”
“Found what?”
“A small envelope with a letter inside that Bianca sent to my mother about four years ago.”
“Had the envelope been opened?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“At the top it says ‘Don’t tell anyone you have this information. But if something happens to me, make sure you give this to the police.’ She then wrote some words and numbers, but they don’t make any sense to me.”
“What are they?”
“The first line says ‘Eagle Rock.’ The second line says ‘Apollo.’ Then there are two rows of numbers and letters.”
I almost dropped the phone when I heard the words Eagle Rock. I had one of those dissociative moments, when my mind felt like it didn’t belong to me, and Oscar’s voice sounded distant and hallucinatory. I don’t know how I got the words out, but I said, “Please say those words that were on top of the rows of numbers again,” I said.
“‘Eagle Rock,’” Oscar repeated slowly. “‘Apollo.’”
The second hearing made it real.
“Listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you,” I said. “I need you to take a picture of the letter, then text it to me. Then I want you to put the letter in a big envelope and send it to me overnight.”
“Not a problem,” Oscar said. “I can do that.”
“Who else knows of this letter?”
“No one, except me.”
“Do you think your mother shared it with anyone?”
“I doubt it. She hadn’t even told me.”
“Oscar, you can’t tell anyone about this letter or what Bianca had written. Not even your wife.”
“What about the police?”
“No one,” I said firmly.
“Does this mean anything to you?” Oscar said.
“It means a helluva lot. Your sister was so worried that something was going to happen to her that she did all of this just in case her fears became a reality. I don’t know who knows what or who can be trusted. But what I do know is that your sister’s killer or killers are still out there, and sooner rather than later, I’m going to find them.”
A couple of minutes after we finished the call, my cell phone buzzed. I opened up Oscar’s text message and saw for myself exactly what he had just read to me. I attached the photo to an email, sent it to myself, then opened it up on my computer. I printed out two copies, posted one on the board, and placed the other on my desk.
Don’t tell anyone you have this information.
But if something happens to me, make sure
you give this to the police.
Eagle Rock
Apollo
+44 20 7499 9000
1766645689
CNATKYKY
I carefully studied the two rows of numbers. I was certain the first row was an international phone number by the plus sign; however, I didn’t recognize the country code. I took out my phone and dialed the number. It rang several times before a woman answered.
“Good evening, United States Embassy,” she said.
“Where am I calling?” I said.
“You’ve reached the US Embassy in London,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“Is this a private number inside of the embassy?” I asked.
“I don’t understand your question, sir,” she said.
“The number I called, is it someone’s direct line?”
“No, you’ve reached the switchboard.”
“Thank you for your help,” I said before disconnecting the call.
I wrote US Embassy next to the first row of numbers. I studied the second row of numbers for several minutes but couldn’t make any sense of it. I dialed the number but got an automated message telling me that my call couldn’t be completed as dialed.
I shifted my attention to the row of letters. Was it an acronym? I sat at my desk and wrote the letters out on a piece of paper and tried different combinations of words, but nothing made sense. I called my father, who could finish the New York Times crossword puzzle with a pen, but he too was stumped.
“What were you trying to say to us, Bianca?” I said to myself.
My phone buzzed as I stood there, studying the note. It was Mechanic.
“Connelly finally returned to the office,” he said.
“It’s been over a week,” I said. “Makes you wonder what he’s been doing this entire time.”
“I’m not sure, but he looks confident.”
“What’s he driving today?”
“A ’69 or ’70 Cadillac coupe. Black.”
“Jesus, this man’s got some rides.”
“And he parked next to a blue Maserati,” Mechanic said. “Maybe it belongs to that girl Jenny Lee.”
I racked my brain, trying to make sense of it. Connelly took a week off from the office, but when he returned, he invited his mistress to the office for everyone else to see?
“Can you get the license plate on the Maserati?” I said.
“Yup. JWC568.”
“Give me a sec,” I said. I scrolled through my text messages with Carolina. She had run the plate for me after that first night I followed Jenny. I found it. “It’s her,” I said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Sit tight. I’m gonna see if I can rattle the cage a little.”
I found the number to Connelly’s firm and dialed it. A woman answered the phone.
“Could I speak to Jenny Lee?” I said.
“No one by that name works here,” the woman said.
“Are you sure? Her car is sitting outside of your building.”
“One moment, please.”
A few seconds later, another woman got on the phone. She had a slight Chinese accent.
“How may I help you?” she said.
“I’m looking for Jenny Lee,” I said.
“What’s this regarding?”
“I need to make an appointment with her.”
“Appointment? What kind of appointment?”
“Is Jenny there?”
“Who are you?”
“A client.”
“Then why are you trying to make an appointment with Jenny? You need to speak to one of the attorneys.”
“So you know Jenny?”
“Of course I do. She’s my daughter. Would you like to speak to one of our attorneys?”
“I would. Is Monroe Connelly available?”
“Who should I tell him is calling?”
“Ashe Cayne.”
The line when silent for a while, then Connelly’s voice came on next.
“You’re very persistent, Ashe,” he said. “You’re either courageous or foolish.”
“Well, you know what Maya Angelou said.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“‘Courage is the most important of all the virtues because without courage, you cannot practice any other virtue consistently.’”
“But sometimes courage can make even the wisest of men do the stupidest of things,” Connelly said. “All actions have consequences, intended and unintended.”
“Are you threatening me, counselor?”
“Never. Just sharing facts.”
“How about sharing your relationship with Jenny Lee and explaining why she’s driving that pretty hundred-thousand-dollar Maserati registered in your name.”
“I’ve had a chance to catch up on some of your work,” Connelly said. “You tend to play outside the lines.”
“That’s where all the fun is,” I said.
“And a lot of danger too,” Connelly said before disconnecting the line.