Painted Beauty (2019 Edition) Page 7

  “You know what they say about assumption, Jack,” Sin said, walking back to the front of the room.

  She leaned against the conference table, pulled a cigarette from her backpack, and lit up.

  “It’s against the law to smoke indoors, not to mention on federal property,” Jack said, never turning to look at her.

  Sin blew the smoke in his direction. “If you don’t like it, quit.”

  “Not on your life,” Jack mumbled. “So, the case,” he said, turning to face her, “care to fill us in?”

  Sin stubbed out the cigarette and handed the three of them duplicate files containing the information she’d compiled.

  They spent the next two hours going over both the data and her gut feelings.

  Jack closed his file and looked at Gonzales. “I know you were instructed at the academy to follow the facts and keep emotion out of the equation. Well, I’m here to tell you that there is always an exception to every rule.” He glanced at Sin. “You’re looking at the exception. No one I have ever come across has better instincts than Agent O’Malley.”

  Sin was speechless. Jack’s words weren’t expected, especially considering their past.

  “What does your instinct tell you, Sin?”

  Sin thought about correcting how Jack had addressed her, but she didn’t. Cut him some slack, Sin. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe he has changed.

  Standing, Sin went to the whiteboard and circled Stokler. “It’s way too early to think anything,” she said, “but the Stokler name has come up twice in the early stages, and the vic does have a resemblance to Miranda Stokler’s art, so we would be remiss if we didn’t follow up on it. Ashley’s bother, George, runs another Stokler Gallery in Coral Gables. That’s our next step.”

  A knock on the door interrupted her train of thought.

  “The Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office is here with the evidence collected from the victim’s apartment and car,” an agent said. “Where would you like them to put it?”

  “Have them bring it in here,” Sin answered. “Alejandro will organize it while Jack and I go question George Stokler. Evelyn, I hate to ask, but can you keep an ear to the hotline? We might get lucky with one of the calls.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Evelyn responded. “I’m not as spry as I used to be, so staying inside and out of the humidity sounds perfect.”

  17

  Sin reluctantly agreed to drive down to Coral Gables with Jack. It didn’t take long for him to bring up the past.

  “I tried to find you after you left.”

  “I didn’t leave, Jack, I was forced out.” She turned to face him, drawing one leg up under the other. “You were the catalyst that forced me out, or don’t you remember?”

  “You left me no choice, Sin. I was trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” she huffed. “Do you really want to go down this road? Because if you do, I won’t stop half way.”

  “I think it’s important, don’t you? Hell, we were in love at one point, or don’t you remember?”

  “I remember everything. I remember when we found a butchered twelve-year-old girl. I remember the two of us digging and clawing under every rock until we found the piece of shit that trafficked her and hundreds like her. I remember—” The pitch of Sin’s voice began to rise and her rate of speech began to quicken, “when we tracked Veloz back to his hideout in the mountains of Nicaragua, and,” Sin’s chest heaved as she paused to catch her breath, “I remember when you abandoned me! Am I missing anything? If so, why don’t you refresh my memory?”

  Jack jerked the steering wheel of the car, pulling off US 1 and into an abandoned used car lot.

  “Funny,” he said, “my memories are a bit different.”

  “Oh, then, by all means, entertain me with your story. Is that still your MO, Jack? Entertain the young, wide-eyed recruit, get her to believe you’re a nice guy, screw her for a while, and then dump her when the next one comes along?”

  “Fuck you, O’Malley!” he yelled.

  “Who’s the hottie of the week, Jack? If my memory serves me right, you dumped me for a big assed bitch named Emily. Who did you dump her for?”

  “I married that big assed bitch.” Jack threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe I just called Emily that.”

  “Truth is truth,” Sin seethed.

  “You’re way out of line, Sin.”

  “Am I?” Lighting a cigarette, she inhaled deeply. “Why don’t you tell me the truth? The truth according to the great Jack McGuire.”

  “I wanted Veloz as much as you did. I’m the one who argued for us to go into Central America and find him.”

  “And when we were told that it was out of our jurisdiction, you’re the one who tucked his dick between his legs and scurried for the first piece of ass you could find.”

  “That’s bullshit! I was working with Folsom Westcott to formulate a plan along with the CIA to go after Veloz, but you fucked that up. You had to play cowboy, go against orders, and shoot up half of Nicaragua.”

  Sin dropped her head and raked her fingers through her black hair. “I didn’t think you were that stupid but I guess I was wrong.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Sin wanted to tell Jack all about Westcott. She wanted to tell him that his buddy, Westcott, was as guilty as Veloz. She wanted to tell him that she was the one who killed the bastard—but, she didn’t. Jack McGuire wasn’t worth breaking her promise to Frank Graham.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “None of this conversation means anything.”

  Opening the door, she stepped out of the car. Sin walked a few feet and stared off into space trying to collect her emotions. Her concentration was broken by the sound of Jack’s wing tips clicking on the asphalt.

  “The truth is,” Jack sighed, “I fucked up. I was afraid.”

  Sin turned to face him and used her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. “Afraid of what?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Not good enough.”

  “I was afraid of losing you, okay? We were in over our heads, and I,” he paused, “didn’t want to ruin my career.”

  “So instead,” Sin’s voice quieted to a whisper, “you ruined mine. Way to go, McGuire.”

  Sin brushed past him and went back to the car. She turned and saw Jack, hands on his hips, staring off in the same manner that she’d been just moments before. “Coming,” she said, “or should I call a cab?”

  Jack reached down, grabbed a rock, and threw it at the boarded-up building.

  He seemed to be releasing his frustration along with the stone.

  Jack pulled his aviator sunglasses over his eyes, and walked back. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he mumbled.

  “Glad to know some things haven’t changed.” Sarcasm drenched Sin’s words.

  Jack threw the car into drive, stomped the gas, and fishtailed out of the lot, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

  They drove the last ten miles without talking. The only sound was the drumming of Jack’s fingers on the steering wheel.

  The Stokler Gallery was easy to spot. It was the bottom floor of a two-story building. The top floor appeared to be residential.

  Sin had the car door open before Jack could put it in park. Guns strung low on her hips, she waited for him to get out.

  “Is that really necessary?” Jack said, pointing to her holster.

  “Very,” Sin replied. “They’re like my American Express card. I don’t leave home without them and they get me into all sorts of places.”

  Jack shook his head. “How about you let me do the talking. If we need to shoot anyone, I’ll let you handle that part.”

  “Be my guest, you always did have a way with words,” Sin said, walking in front of him.

  Jack hurried to catch up and opened the door first. The gallery was empty except for a rainbow-tressed young woman wearing too much makeup, dressed in a fitted business suit.

  He held his creden
tials out for the girl to see and smiled as he introduced himself. “I’m Agent Jack McGuire and this is Agent Sinclair O’Malley of the FBI. Is the owner available to speak with?”

  The young woman eyed his badge. “More FBI agents?” she said with a sigh. “I’ll let George know you’re here.”

  “More agents?” Jack said. “I thought we were the only people from the Bureau working this case.”

  “We are,” Sin acknowledged, her mind spinning. “How about you let me handle George. You know; bad cop, good cop.”

  “I don’t have to guess which one you’ll be,” Jack mumbled.

  The blond reentered the room with a man behind her. He appeared to be in his early thirties and very well kept. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t one wrinkle to his designer suit, nor a single hair out of place.

  “I’m the proprietor, George Stokler. I don’t understand why you’re here.” His words seemed hurried. “I told the agents this morning that I didn’t know anything about the drugs or the property they want to search.”

  Well, I have to admit, Sin thought, walking forward, that’s one explanation I hadn’t thought of. “Lucky for you, Mr. Stokler,” she said, flashing her badge, “you won’t have to repeat your story. We’re here on a different matter entirely.”

  George crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “What is it this all about.”

  “There was a young woman found on Mid Beach,” Jack said. “Are you aware of the girl I’m talking about?”

  “I do watch the news, so yes, I’m aware. What does any of that have to do with me?”

  “Probably nothing, but we have a few questions.”

  “Fine,” George huffed. “Let’s get it over with. My day is already ruined.”

  Leading them into an office which was decorated in an art-deco motif, George Stokler sat behind his large desk, and folded his hands together. He stared at the two of them in silence.

  Sin and Jack sat in the two chairs in front of the desk and stared back.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Agents, but it’s been a very long day. I’ve read about what happened to that girl, but I don’t understand how I can help you.”

  Sin pulled a photo of the victim from her worn backpack and placed it on the desk. “Does she look familiar?”

  George’s face blanched as he looked at the photo. “Yes. I mean, I’ve seen her pictures in the paper and on the news.”

  Sin leaned into the desk and repositioned the snapshot. “The young woman you’re looking at has a connection to this and one other gallery,” she lied.

  “What kind of connection?” his voice cracked as he spoke. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I spent a lovely day with your sister up in Delray yesterday.” Sin watched George’s expression turn cold. “She sends her love.”

  His complexion deepened as Sin continued, “Vivienne Spinner, our murder victim, was a student at ASPB and frequented your sister’s gallery. It’s my guess that she frequented yours as well. She was probably here asking questions about your mother at some point.”

  George’s eyes never veered from Sin. “I get all kinds of starry-eyed, would-be artists in here asking about Miranda, Agent O’Malley. It’s not my business to memorize the face of each one.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if I asked the public if they have seen Vivienne near your gallery at my next press conference?”

  George shot out of his chair, “You can’t do that! That type of smear campaign could ruin me.”

  Sin placed a white pearlescent nail on the picture of Vivienne and nudged it forward. “Then I suggest you take a closer look.”

  George sat back down, placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and stared at the picture. “I swear, she doesn’t look familiar,” he said. “Let me ask Bobbi. She usually fields the Miranda fan club.”

  The receptionist looked at the picture. “I know Vivienne,” she said without hesitation. “She is really sweet, but a bit quirky. Why are you asking questions about her? Is she okay?”

  Sin looked at her in dismay. “Do you watch the news or read the paper?”

  Bobbi wrinkled her nose. “No, I only watch and listen to positive stories and TMZ.”

  Sin closed her eyes and arched her brows, suppressing her frustration. “When was the last time you saw Vivienne in the gallery?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “You seem certain of the day,” Jack said. “Why is it so clear?”

  “It was the last day of the big end of summer sale at the mall.”

  Sin was getting more frustrated at Bobbi with every word that came out of her mouth, so she tried another line of questioning. “What type of questions did she ask and why was she quirky?”

  “The typical Miranda questions. Was I a fan? Did George paint? Was there anything I could tell her about Miranda that wasn’t in her book,” she shrugged. “Those sorts of things.”

  “And the quirky comment?”

  “I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” Bobbi said. “It’s just that she was very shy and seemed out of place.”

  “Meaning?” Jack said.

  “Just that she was—I don’t know—kind of awkward.”

  “Can you expound on awkward,” Sin interjected.

  “She always stared at the ground and spoke in whispers. And then there was the way she looked,” Bobbi added. “She was pasty, like she never went out in the sun, and she was always dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.” She looked at Sin who was dressed in black jeans and a white ‘t.’ “Not like you . . . you rock those jeans. Vivienne was more the farmer jeans type.”

  Sin had had just about enough of Bobbi. “Thank you for your time. Please write your name, phone number, and address on a piece of paper in case we have any more questions.”

  Sin and Jack were about to leave when she stopped and faced George. “One more thing,” Sin said and pulled a piece of paper out of her back pocket. “Do these words mean anything to you?”

  George read the page and his posture stiffened. “No, they mean nothing,” he said. “What do they mean?”

  “Not really sure,” Sin said taking back the paper. “We’re just checking all the bases.”

  Back outside, Jack was quick to comment. “Did you notice his mannerisms when he read the words? They mean something to him.”

  “Yup,” Sin agreed, as they walked back to the car. “He’s lying, just like his big sister. Now we just have to figure out why.”

  18

  Ashley Stokler was busy with a client when she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. Using discretion, she pulled it out and checked the number. It was a Coral Gables area code and she only knew one person who lived there. Politely excusing herself from the customer, she walked back into her office and answered the call.

  “My dear brother, what’s the occasion? It’s not my birthday and I’m sure it’s not Christmas. I—”

  “Why the hell didn’t you warn me about the goddamn FBI?”

  Ashley sat at her desk and crossed her long legs. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

  “Do you know what this kind of publicity could do to our business?”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me with an attitude,” Ashley voiced through gritted teeth. “Listen to me, you little freak, do you know how many people will want Mom’s paintings if her work is somehow connected to these killings?”

  There was silence on the other end before she heard a high pitched giggle. “We could make a killing, couldn’t we?”

  Ashley leaned back in her chair and let one of her Jimmy Choo’s dangle from her pedicured toes. “We could, so stop acting like a flaming faggot and man-up.”

  “Have any other agents come to see you?” George asked.

  “No, why would they?”

  “I received a visit early this morning. The agents were asking questions about Water’s Edge Academy. It seems the drug case that’s been in the news is somehow connected to it. The Stokler name came up when they resear
ched the property, so they came by to ask questions.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I haven’t been back since I graduated. You know how much I hated that place.”

  “So that’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what’s the big deal?” Ashley said.

  “I don’t know. Too many bad memories,” George said.

  Ashley heard his voice trail off as if he didn’t realize he said it out loud. She was quiet for a moment, then stood up and straightened her skirt. “That part of our lives is over. It died with Miranda. Now put a smile on that pretty little face of yours and go sell some of the crap dear old Mom painted before her timely departure.”

  19

  Ash drove over the Rickenbacker Causeway and onto the pristine, palm tree-fringed streets of Key Biscayne. He edged his way through morning traffic getting more frustrated by the second.

  “If these pompous fools knew what you were carrying in back, they wouldn’t look so uppity,” she shrilled. Her bantering was making him anxious. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth—a nervous habit from his youth—trying to stem the tide of panic.

  It had been a few hours since he had choked the life from his canvas, and he wanted to start transforming his canvas before decomposition began.

  Traffic thinned and his anxiety lessened as he pulled off Crandon Boulevard and onto a winding one-lane dirt road heading east toward the water. The road abruptly ended at an ornate, rusted gate which bore the insignia of the Water’s Edge Academy. Using the key he kept around his neck, Ash opened the gates and made his way to the back of the complex.

  In the late eighties, when the Academy faced hard times, the Board of Governors rented one of its buildings out to a school of mortuary science. It was a building he knew well.

  This once elite boarding school was closed permanently in 2004 and remembered by no one but alumni. Ash referred to it as “the compound” because that’s what she always called it.