"Consigned to Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cleland Jane K.)CHAPTER TWOI started, speechless. What Alverez said simply didn’t register. I watched as he waited for me to react. But I couldn’t. I felt frozen. I couldn’t think. A shark. Epps had called me a shark. I shook my head, my confidence shattered. So much for my hopeful future, I thought, and fought back tears. I should have known not to trust in hope. In the dark days after the price-fixing scandal hit the news, after I wore the wire that recorded my boss conspiring with his chief competitor to hold commissions steady, I’d learned that hope could be a mirage. Day after day, I’d maintained optimism as I joined thousands of other New Yorkers in expressing shock that such a well-respected executive as the CEO of Frisco’s would participate in such a dastardly crime. I cringed as I remembered going to work the day after the news broke, expecting to be treated as a hero for blowing the lid off the conspiracy. I’d been naive enough to expect my peers to admire me, and even after it became clear that they did not, I persevered in trying to win their acclaim. I’d developed a keen ability to deny facts that, to others who were less emotionally involved, were patently obvious. I’d learned the bitter lesson that, no matter what winning football coaches and inspirational motivational speakers claim, desire isn’t enough. My former colleagues turned their backs on me then, and here, today, I was being called a shark. A shark! I took a breath, reminding myself of the promise I’d made as I drove my loaded rental van past Frisco’s en route to my new home in New Hampshire-never again would I allow despair to lead to wishful thinking. Paralysis lifted, replaced by righteous rage. “A shark?” I snapped, outraged. Max told me to be quiet. “That’s what Epps said.” “Britt Epps?” I asked, ignoring Max’s admonition. “Yes.” “The son of a bitch.” “Josie,” Max repeated. “Be quiet.” “You know him?” Alverez asked me. “Josie,” Max said quietly, “Don’t speak.” “I want to answer, Max. Yes, I know him. I thought we were friends. Well, sort of friends. Business friends. I like Britt Epps! Or I thought I did.” I couldn’t believe it. “I can’t believe it!” I said aloud. “A shark? He called me a shark?” “Yeah,” Alverez said. I heard compassion in his voice as he spoke that one word, and it made me uncomfortable. I hated the thought that my situation led him to feel sorry for me. “How well do you know him?” Alverez asked. I flipped a hand up. “I don’t know. I’ve met him here and there at fund-raisers and Chamber of Commerce breakfasts, things like that. I’ve been trying to get in to see him to pitch my company. I’m new in town, well, a couple of years, now, but that’s still considered new around here. So I’m trying to meet people. Anyway, most of my business comes from referrals from lawyers and he’s one of the most respected in town. So naturally I’ve been trying to get an appointment. He’s always been polite and friendly. I thought we’d never connected because of scheduling snafus. I can’t believe he called me a shark. I just can’t believe it.” “Why not? With a house full of valuable items up for sale, wouldn’t you expect sleazeball dealers to come out from under rocks? Wouldn’t it make sense for relatives of older people who decide to sell off their possessions to worry on their behalf?” “Yes, everything you say is true-but I’m not one of those sleazeball dealers and Epps knows it! I have a stellar reputation-one I’ve worked hard to develop-and anyone who knows me knows I’m not a shark!” “I’ll be asking him more about it,” Alverez said. “Did a lawyer introduce you to Grant?” “No.” I shifted in the chair, the horizontal slats hurting my back. “How did you hook up with him?” Max touched my arm, and whispered, “Is there anything I should know about this? Any personal relationships involved? Anything unusual?” “No. Utterly aboveboard,” I answered in an undertone. He nodded, indicating that I could answer. “Mr. Grant called me.” “How did he get your name?” he asked. “How do you “Fair enough,” Alverez said, sounding relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. “He got my name from the NHAAS brochure,” I answered. “What’s that?” “The New Hampshire Antiquarian Appraisal Society. It’s an industry association. I’m a member. I’m local. As far as I know I was the only person Mr. Grant called.” “Luck?” he asked. “Was it random?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It’s not unusual for someone to select the appraiser based only on proximity.” He nodded. “So he called and you made an appointment?” “You bet I did.” “And what happened next?” “And as soon as I got there, I recognized that I’d walked into a great opportunity. Did you see his stuff?” “Yeah, but not to notice. Why, was it special?” “Extraordinary. I wouldn’t even know how to start to describe it. He had an eighteenth-century American oak game table with a chessboard built in-it’s magnificent-inlaid in mahogany and rosewood. He had three Jules Tavernier paintings, all garden scenes. He had a Paul Revere silver tea service. Hell, he had a set of Louis XV chairs in perfect condition-including the original fabric. No joke.” “How much are we talking here?” “Unclear. Some of the items, nothing like them has been to auction in a generation. Some items are probably unique and priceless.” Alverez whistled. “And he had locks you could pick with a credit card.” “Yeah,” I agreed. “Amazing.” “What was his reaction to your appraisal?” “I didn’t do a formal appraisal. Nothing in writing, and I didn’t go piece by piece or anything. I just saw enough to know I wanted the lot.” “And his reaction to your reaction?” “Believe it or not, he didn’t seem much interested in the things themselves. I got excited by the chess table, for example. He said his wife had bought it in Boston more than fifty years ago. But he didn’t want to talk about the table. He wanted to talk about his wife. How he’d met her during the war. World War Two. It was a real love story.” I shook my head. “He refused to go to auction. He said that it would just drag the process out.” “That doesn’t sound smart.” “No, but it’s not unusual. Some people, after a spouse dies…” I paused. “I just can’t believe this. Mr. Grant was a nice old man. Epps knows I’m not a shark. None of this makes sense.” I felt shell-shocked, somewhere between incredulous and hurt. I teared up again. “So if he didn’t want to go to auction, what did he want?” “He wanted me to buy everything outright.” “How much?” “I don’t know. I couldn’t afford to just give him cash. He was okay with consigning the goods to me. I promised everything would be sold within a month.” “A month. Isn’t that pretty quick?” “Unbelievable,” I agreed. “I would have had to bring in outside experts and begin advertising right away.” “What was his hurry?” “I don’t know. He mentioned that his family was coming for a visit. Maybe he wanted it over and done with before they arrived.” “Because they’d be upset?” I shrugged. “He didn’t say.” “But you thought his selling out was unusual?” “I wouldn’t say it was unusual, exactly. It wasn’t ordinary, that’s for sure. But on some level, every sale is unique. I mean, there is no such thing as a ‘normal’ sale.” “What might have motivated him to sell out?” “I have no way of knowing.” “Fair enough. Speculate for me.” I glanced at Max. “Just so long as you acknowledge that Josie is talking theoretically,” he said. “She’s made it clear that she has no specific knowledge of Mr. Grant’s motivation. Agreed?” “Understood,” Alverez acknowledged. Max nodded at me, indicating that I could answer. I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “There are lots of reasons why people sell their possessions, and I’m sure there are more that I’m not thinking of.” “Like?” Alverez prodded. “Like routine estate planning. Or they want or need cash for some particular purpose, like college tuition or an around-the-world trip. Maybe they’re hoping to avoid a family feud somewhere down the line. Or they’ve tired of the items and want new or different things. Or they want a fresh start, like maybe after a divorce. Or, and this might apply to Mr. Grant, there’s some kind of grief reaction-you know, they want to get rid of objects that remind them of someone who’s died, in Mr. Grant’s case, his wife.” I shrugged. “Whatever was motivating him, he didn’t act troubled in any way.” “What do you mean?” “He didn’t seem desperate for cash or anything, or like he was regretting having to sell out. He was chatty and pleasant every time I saw him.” Alverez nodded. “Did you ask any questions to try and figure it out?” “No. I never do. I mean, I need to know enough about what’s going on to gauge whether I should act happy or more serious, you know? But I never pry.” “Can you guess? I know you don’t know,” he added, glancing at Max. “But I’m wondering if you took away a general impression. What do you think? Which of those reasons applied to Mr. Grant?” “I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I just don’t know. I never know. That’s not my job. I took him at his word, just like I do everyone. He wanted to sell out. I wanted to put together the deal. That’s it.” Alverez tapped his pencil on the edge of the table and leaned back in his chair, thinking it through. “Okay, then. So, all told, how often were you there?” “Three times. Once to meet him and discuss what he wanted, once to catalogue and videotape the contents, and once to make the offer. Today’s meeting was to finalize the deal. On the phone, he said he was ready to go.” We heard the recorder click off, and Alverez turned the tape over and pushed the Record button. “What did you two talk about while you were there?” he asked. “What do you mean?” “Well, you said he was chatty, did he show you pictures of his grandchildren, talk about what he planned to do with the money, what?” “Nothing like that. He always asked me how I was feeling, and usually he asked about my business. We chatted about the weather and inflation and nothing in particular.” I paused to think for another moment. “Once I got started, he left me alone to do my cataloguing.” “How come you went there alone? Wouldn’t it have been quicker to bring in help for the cataloguing?” “Would it ever! Jeez. But I’m a businesswoman. And I didn’t have a signed deal yet. It can be anxiety-producing to have strangers going through your possessions. So I went alone.” “In the times you talked with Mr. Grant, did he mention anyone else? You know, that he’d be having dinner with a friend, that he’d stopped by a coffee shop, or maybe bought a newspaper at the corner store, anything like that?” I thought for a minute. “No. No one in particular. But we talked some about how capable he was. I mean, he brought it up. The first time I was there, he made a point of telling me that I shouldn’t think he was decrepit-that’s the word he used, decrepit-just because he was old. That he could still drive and he still balanced his checkbook to the penny. We laughed about that because I told him I couldn’t.” I smiled a little. “He offered to work for me and be my bookkeeper. He winked and said he had a good head for numbers. Talking to him, I believed it. The questions he asked about my business showed without a doubt that all of his marbles were intact.” Alverez nodded and paused. He looked at me and I looked back. He looked liked an outdoors man, rugged and fit. He also looked reliable and honest, but I reminded myself that looks can be deceiving, and that sometimes people use their good looks, youthful appearance, or innocent demeanor for devious ends. “How you doing?” he asked. “I’m okay.” “Ready for that coffee?” I asked him the time and was surprised that it wasn’t yet three. I’d thought it was later. “How about a martini?” I countered. “No can do, ma’am.” “Figures,” I said. “Still, it’s been a martini kind of day.” “Yeah,” he agreed. “So, change of subject. Have you ever been fingerprinted?” I reacted as if Alverez had ripped a Band-aid off without warning, and I closed my eyes to shield my dismay. Yes, I answered him silently, I’ve been fingerprinted. It had happened on a Tuesday and I was thrilled. Frisco’s policy held that all new hires had to go through a comprehensive security check, and I’d passed. But I didn’t want to tell him that. I didn’t want to talk about my past at all. I didn’t want to reveal how much I’d loved my job, nor explain how hurt I’d been when I’d been forced to leave. I considered lying, rationalizing that a lie isn’t a lie if the information solicited is irrelevant. Yet I knew that in all probability, Alverez would expect that an art and antique auction house as prestigious as Frisco’s would fingerprint new staff. Plus, nothing said I had to talk about any other aspect of my years at Frisco’s except the fingerprinting. Certainly there was no need to reveal my involvement in the price-fixing thing. What was it Max had said? Not to volunteer information. Got it. Suddenly, words my father spoke echoed in my head: I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. Alverez’s face revealed nothing. His eyes stayed steady on mine. Max cleared his throat and leaned toward me. “Are you okay?” he asked. I smiled as best I could, took a deep breath, and said, “You bet.” To Alverez, I added, “Sorry. I just couldn’t believe my ears.” “Is that a yes? Have you been fingerprinted in the past?” Alverez asked. “What a question!” I replied, feigning indignation. “No offense intended. There are lots of reasons people get fingerprinted. Security clearance, that sort of thing.” Appearing slightly mollified, I shrugged. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I was fingerprinted once. For a job.” “Then you’ll be familiar with the procedure,” he said. “You want to take my fingerprints?” I asked. “Yeah, we need to.” “Why?” Max interjected. “Because Josie was in the house looking at the contents carefully, touching everything, and we need to know which prints are hers.” “We’ll consider it.” “Come on, Max,” Alverez said. “Don’t drag it out. You know I can get a court order.” Max looked at him for a moment, leaned over to me, and whispered, “Did you touch anything we don’t want them to know about?” “No,” I answered softly, shaking my head in disbelief. “Max, I didn’t do anything wrong!” He patted my arm again. “She’ll be glad to let you take fingerprints.” “Let’s get it over with,” Alverez said, standing up. “Then can I go?” I asked. “Yeah, but we should plan on talking some more tomorrow.” “Why?” I asked. “Tomorrow I’ll know more about what’s going on. Will you be around?” “Yeah, I’ll be working. I have an auction preview on Friday and our regular tag sale’s on Saturday.” I stood up and stretched. “How about we touch base around noon?” he asked Max. “Sure,” he said. “What will happen then?” I asked, anxious for more information, dreading his answer all the same. Alverez led the way to the main room as I spoke. “By then I’ll know if I need to ask you some more questions,” he said. Cathy was filling a coffee mug with water from a standing dispenser as we passed through the main room to a smaller area on the right. I watched her drink a little and return to her desk, ignoring us, as Alverez methodically took my fingerprints. Max stood nearby, watching the process, solemn and silent. After I’d cleaned up, Alverez led us to the exit. He opened the front door and the rush of fresh chilly air felt good. I looked at him. “Here,” he said to us. “Take my card. If you think of anything, call me.” I slipped the card in my purse. Max put out his hand. “I’ll take one, too,” he said to Alverez. Turning to me, he added, “If you think of anything, Heading back to Portsmouth because I had nowhere else to go, I gave myself a mental shake. I felt lonely and afraid, and that would never do. Get over it, I told myself, and decided to go get a martini and drink to Mr. Grant, a decent man who’d died too soon. I called Gretchen and told her where I was going and why. “Don’t worry,” she said, “Eric, Sasha, and I have everything under control.” “Thanks, Gretchen. But there’s so much to do.” “Sasha’s finished cataloguing the Wilson goods. She’s in the office doing some research.” I could picture Sasha twirling her hair, biting her lip, concentrating as she read something on the computer. She’d earned a Ph.D. in art history, and research was her favorite part of the job. “I might come back to work, I’m not sure.” “No need,” she said, her instinct as a caretaker overtaking her business sense. As I headed back to town I again began to cry. At first I thought I was crying about Mr. Grant, but then I realized his death was only a small part of it. Of course I was sorry that such a kind man had died, but after all, I hadn’t really known him, so my grief was about something else-probably, my father. Even though nearly four years had passed since my father’s death, I still felt raw. I missed him every day. He’d been my best friend and only family. I was thirteen when my mother died of cancer, but that loss had been nothing like as hard as the sudden loss of my father. When my mother died, I’d been able to say good-bye. I rolled down the window and the rush of bitter air helped chase away the blues. I smiled, remembering the exhilaration I’d felt when I landed the Frisco job right out of college, a dream come true. I told my father that as excited as I was, I hated the thought of leaving him behind in Boston, and joked that he ought to move to New York, too. “Ah, Josie,” he said, “why would you even think about that? You’re moving to New York, not Mars.” And so I went. Luckily, since my new career required that I navigate the complex and unfamiliar terrain of the antique business, he came to visit often, offering wisdom and support. In fact, for the next decade, he came almost monthly. We were a team, my dad and I. Until his death left a black hole in my heart and a vacuum in my life. Even Rick, the man I was dating at the time, couldn’t help fill the void, and our relationship had faded to nothing within weeks of my father’s death. I shook my head, recognizing how far I’d come. I could barely even remember what Rick looked like. And mostly, I could think of my father without tears. To a greater extent than I realized, it seemed, I’d moved on, yet that accomplishment was tinged with regret. Every step that brought me closer to ending mourning seemed to take me further away from my father. “Oh, Dad,” I whispered aloud, holding tightly to the steering wheel. “Goddamn it. Talk to me. Tell me what to do.” And after a moment or two, I concluded that my tears weren’t shed for either Mr. Grant or my father. I was crying for myself because I felt scared and powerless, like a wood chip floating down a river, pummeled by rocks and a current that couldn’t be controlled. I was sitting at the Blue Dolphin bar trying to decide if I wanted to nibble or eat. Jimmy, the bartender, a chubby-cheeked, freckle-faced redhead, had offered another bowl of mixed nuts, but I was thinking that I wanted something more substantial. I took a bitter-sharp sip of my martini. I liked the way it felt to hold and drink out of a martini glass. “I’ll take the shrimp cocktail,” I said. “Thanks, Jimmy.” An old George Benson tune was playing softly. Three groups of people were concentrated near the bow windows that overlooked the Piscataqua River and Portsmouth Harbor. Their conversations were indistinct. The candles positioned along the bar turned my glass into a prism. I half watched as colors shifted when I moved the glass, but mostly I thought about the murder. “Are you Josie Prescott?” someone asked, breaking into my reverie. I turned on my barstool. A short, pudgy young man, who looked barely old enough to vote, stood beside me. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m Josie.” “Wes Smith,” he said, offering his hand. I shook it, feeling puzzled. “From the “Really?” I asked, looking at it. According to the card, he was a reporter. “Why are you surprised?” he asked. “I’ve never actually spoken to a reporter before.” “May I join you?” I shrugged. “Sure,” I said. “Thanks,” he said, smiling, and sat on the stool next to mine. “How ya doing, Wes?” Jimmy asked as he approached. “What can I get ya?” “Bring me a cup of coffee, okay?” “You got it.” “Quite a situation-the Grant murder, I mean,” Wes remarked. “Yeah,” I said. “So I have a couple of questions for you.” “For me?” “Yeah. Since you’re involved.” “What? I’m not involved.” The fear that had been dulled by martinis returned. “That’s not what I hear,” he said. “What are you talking about?” “Weren’t you interrogated for hours at the Rocky Point police station?” “I wouldn’t call it interrogated. I’d call it interviewed. But that’s neither here nor there. How do you know anything about it? How do you know me?” “Confidential sources,” he said as if he enjoyed saying the phrase. “And I looked you up on your company’s Web site. The photo of you is a good likeness. You were easy to spot.” “How did you know to find me here?” “I spoke to someone at your office and she told me you’d be here.” That would be Gretchen. I wondered how I felt about her telling an unknown man that he could find me in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, and I decided I didn’t care. I smiled a little. I could hear my mother warning me how a girl gets a reputation. Maybe true, I said to myself, but I guessed it was a rep I didn’t mind getting. A long-ago memory came to me from a college spring break vacation to Mardi Gras. My at-the-time boyfriend bought me a T-shirt that read Good Girls Go to Heaven. Bad Girls Go to New Orleans. I’d worn it so often I’d nearly worn it out. “Why did you want to find me?” I asked, bringing myself back to the here and now as Jimmy delivered the shrimp. I squeezed a lemon wedge elegantly covered with cheesecloth and dipped a shrimp into the spicy cocktail sauce. It was good. He looked around. No one sat on either side of us. Still, he lowered his voice. “What did Chief Alverez ask you about?” he asked. “I don’t think I should answer that.” “How come?” I smirked at him, a give-me-a-break look. “Seriously,” he prodded. As I took another shrimp, I said, “I don’t know much about police work, but I know enough to know that Chief Alverez wouldn’t want me to discuss specifics about an ongoing investigation with a reporter.” “Our paper is going to print a story including the fact that you were interrogated for hours today, and may be a suspect in the murder. Don’t you want the article to include your point of view?” “You’re going to write that I’m a suspect?” “That you “That’s irresponsible and outrageous! I’m not a suspect.” “How do you know?” I stared at him, speechless. I reached for my glass and finished the last of my second martini. Martinis tasted better, I’d discovered over the years, the more you drink them. I didn’t answer. Instead, I ate a shrimp slowly, thinking about what I should do or say. “Why do you think I’m a suspect?” I asked, relieved that I sounded calm and in control. “Answer a question with a question, huh?” Wes said with a smile. “Okay. I’ll play. Apparently you were the first person questioned. You were As I listened, I realized he was right and that I was in deeper trouble than I’d realized. I didn’t say another word to Wes, not even that I wouldn’t comment. Instead I stood up and signaled Jimmy that I wanted my check. While I waited, I ate another shrimp. Wes said something, but I wasn’t listening. When the check arrived, I paid it, and without a backwards glance, I left. In my car, I turned on my cell phone to call Max. Rooting through my purse to find my address book, I came across Chief Alverez’s card. I perched it on my thigh, found the address book, and called Max’s office. A cheerful voice told me that he wasn’t there. I tried his home number, but got a machine and hung up before the beep. His cell phone went to voice mail and I left a message. I looked at Alverez’s card. It listed his cell phone number, and on impulse, I dialed it. He answered on the second ring with a curt, “Alverez.” “It’s Josie Prescott.” “Well, hello,” he said. His tone had changed. I thought I heard warmth instead of curtness, and I felt some relief. Maybe my instincts weren’t out of whack. Maybe it would be safe to talk openly to him. “I have a question.” “Shoot.” “Wes Smith from the “He did, did he? What did you tell him?” “Nothing. But he said that the newspaper is going to print a story tomorrow referring to me as maybe a suspect. That’s my question. Am I?” I could hear him breathing. “Where are you?” he asked. I remembered Wes remarking that I was answering a question with a question. I’d done it to avoid answering the one he’d asked. I shivered, fear chilling me. “Why?” I asked. “This sounds like a situation we should talk about.” “I have a call in to Max,” I responded. “Makes sense,” he answered, and I felt a wave of terror wash over me. Now I knew: I was, in fact, a suspect. I heard the click of call waiting, told Alverez I had to go, and switched over to the other call. It was Max. I told him about Wes and Alverez. “Where are you?” Max asked. “In my car. In Portsmouth.” “Stay there. I’ll call you right back.” I waited and watched the world go by. I saw a couple walk by arm in arm, shoulders touching, laughing. Two women stopped for a moment, deep in conversation, then continued down the street. A man walking a boxer struggled to control the dog’s impatience to run ahead. An old woman with a limp made slow progress along Ceres Street. The phone rang. “It’s me, Josie,” Max said. “First, don’t call Alverez. Call me. Agreed?” “Okay,” I said, feeling like a fool. “Second, Alverez was very professional. He refused to call you a suspect, which is good news, but in reality, it doesn’t much matter because even if you’re not a suspect per se, you’re certainly a person of interest. I made an appointment for us to meet with him at noon tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at your office at eleven-thirty and we can talk en route.” I agreed to the plan, went home, got the Bombay Sapphire out of the freezer, and made myself another martini. Cathy looked up when we entered promptly at noon the next day, but didn’t speak. Chief Alverez was standing at a file cabinet near the back, and when he saw us, he closed the drawer. “How you doing?” he asked me, after greeting Max. He led us into the same room we’d been in yesterday, and I selected the same chair. Alverez turned to Max, and said, “We have some new information.” “What’s that?” Max asked. “Fingerprints.” Max and I waited for Alverez to explain. Still speaking to Max, he added, “As we expected, Josie’s fingerprints were everywhere. We learned she’s pretty darn thorough. We found her prints under furniture, on the back of picture frames, and inside drawers.” “Makes sense,” Max commented. “She’s a professional appraiser.” “Yeah,” Alverez agreed. “But we also found her prints someplace they shouldn’t be.” “Oh, yeah?” Max asked. “Where’s that?” “On the knife that was used to kill Nathaniel Grant.” |
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