Ellen Hart - Jane Lawless 18 - The Cruel Ever After p.02

14
Julia had no intention of arriving at the party at the same time as all the other guests, thus diluting her impact. When Jane saw her, after so many months
apart, she wanted it to be a special moment, uncluttered by anything else.
Waiting until just after ten, Julia opened the side gate and strolled casually into the crowd. Jane was standing about fifteen feet away, her face lit by the
glow of a Chinese lantern.
“Hey,” said Julia, carefully angling past several of the guests.
“Hey yourself.” Jane gave her a friendly hug. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”
“I couldn’t miss Ray’s birthday.”
Jane’s reaction was subtle, just a slight widening of the eyes, a slight lifting of the eyebrows, but Julia caught it. It made her smile.
“Dad will be glad to see you.”
Julia had chosen to wear clothes that looked virtually the same as the ones she’d been wearing on the night they first met: dark pleated pants, a boldly
striped vest, a white blouse, and a wide silk tie, all the pleats and tucks accentuating her slimness.
“You look great,” said Jane. “Can I get you something to drink? A glass of champagne?”
“Don’t you have anything more lethal? Brandy? Bourbon? Strychnine?”
Jane’s smile lit up her face. She gave a slow wink and then said, “I’m with you. Be right back.”
Julia found a vacant bench and sat down. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and attempted to put a mental choke hold on her feelings.
She hadn’t expected to be quite this emotional.
Jane was back in record time with two tumblers of bourbon. She handed one to Julia and then sat down. “If you’re hungry, there’s food in the dining
room, and pizza on the grills out here.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll wait a bit.” She took a sip. She rarely drank anything but wine—and lately, because of the headaches and the mix of medications,
she rarely drank even that. Tonight, however, she needed something stronger.
Jane fingered the gold necklace at her throat.
Julia had seen the necklace before, but the snake ring on her index finger was new. “That’s a beautiful ring.”
Jane drew her hand down to look at it. “It’s Roman. Second century. A friend gave it to me.”
Not good news. Julia wanted to ask who the friend was but restrained her curiosity. “What’s it made of?”
“Gold. So, you were going to tell me about some new venture you’re involved in. Something to do with Peter?”
Julia read the abrupt change of subject as another bad sign. “Sure. He came to my loft the other day. I guess I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”
“Loft? You’ve moved? You’re not still living in White Bear Lake?”
“I’ve sublet a place not far from here on Lake Calhoun. It’s got spectacular views. You’ll have to come see it.”
“I’d like that,” said Jane.
Julia wasn’t sure she meant it.
“But what about Peter?”
“I’m in the process of developing a free clinic in downtown Minneapolis. I hope some of my ideas will become a template for starting similar free clinics
in other cities around the country.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
Julia crossed her legs and turned toward Jane, closing some of the distance between them. “I’ve already got seven retired doctors on board. They’ve
committed to donating chunks of their free time to the clinic. With so many people out of work, and more losing jobs and health insurance every day, the
need is greater than ever. I’ve got a lot of connections, know a lot of people. With luck and hard work, I plan to get this up and running by the end of the
year.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Jane. “Really. But what’s Peter got to do with it?”
“I’ve hired him to film a documentary. I want to use it as a teaching tool. I need a way for others to see that what I’m doing is possible. I’ve hired a writer,
and I’ve got a director in mind. I’ll be producing it myself.”
“Always the dedicated professional—and you’re branching out. Very impressive.”
This was going better than Julia had expected. She swirled the ice in her drink, took another swallow. “I’m hoping to sign a contract with Peter in the
next week or two. I thought he might have said something to you about it. He seemed pretty excited.”
“It’s really nice of you to use him.”
“Peter is exactly what I was looking for. And it’s the way the world works, right? Friends help friends.”
Jane nodded, falling silent.
“Something wrong?”
Before she could answer, a heavyset man in an expensive-looking double-breasted suit walked up. “Jane,” he said, eyeing Julia briefly, “the culinary
powers that be want you in the kitchen. It’s time to serve the birthday cake. The head guy thought maybe you’d like to be the one to carry it in.”
Jane stood. “I had no idea it was this late.” She introduced the man as Chess Garrity, an old friend, and then said, “I’ll catch you both later.”
“We’ll mix and mingle,” called Julia to her retreating back. The bourbon had eased some of the tension in her muscles. She felt better now, more
centered and in control.
“Nice party,” said Chess. He eased down next to her, unbuttoning his coat.
The suit hid his girth well. It was probably handmade. If she had to guess, she’d say it was Italian. “How do you know Jane?”
“We go way back.”
“To the cradle?”
He laughed, tapped a cigarette out of a pack, and offered her one.
“No thanks.”
“I actually met Cordelia first,” he said, bending over a silver lighter, lighting the tip, and blowing smoke over his shoulder. “You know her?”
“Where is the dragon lady?”
“Dragon lady?”
“The Mad Carlotta? The Wicked Witch of the East? Typhoid Mary? Take your pick. They all apply.”
“Not a fan, huh?”
“Pretty much not. Do you live in town?”
“No. Istanbul. When I’m not in Amsterdam. I deal in antiquities. Mainly ancient Mesopotamian and Egyptian art.”
Julia cocked her head, deciding to take a wild guess. “Are you the friend who gave Jane the snake ring?”
“Guilty.”
She found herself grinning. “It’s a striking piece.”
“She’s worth it.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “And you’re here because—”
“A buying trip. Jane’s letting me stay in her third-floor apartment for a few days.”
Jane never let anyone stay up there anymore. “How did you two first meet?”
He took a deep drag off the cigarette, blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “That’s kind of a long story.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He laughed easily and stretched an arm along the back of the bench behind her. “Jane and I lived together once—just for a few months. We were pretty
young. I think she’d just graduated from the university.”
“I thought she moved in with her girlfriend, Christine, right after college.”
“Oh, sure. I knew Christine. She was a wonderful person. Funny, smart, athletic—if you’re into athletic. I never have been.”
She didn’t doubt it.
“What about you?” he asked. “What do you do to pay the rent?”
“I’m a doctor. An oncologist. I specialize in HIV.”
“In the Twin Cities?”
“I spent the last few years in Africa. I’ll be going back to Johannesburg for a few weeks next fall. The government is honoring me with a humanitarian
award.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations.”
It was bragging, but she’d never been averse to a blatant show of self-regard. “I’m hoping to start a free clinic here in Minneapolis sometime within the
next year.”
“You are an admirable woman.”
“I’ve never aspired to ordinariness.”
He wiped a hand across his mouth. “I can see why you and Jane are friends. Unless—are you more than friends?”
“No.”
“Then I’d say she’s missing out. And you live—”
“A loft on Lake Calhoun. If you know the city, it’s right across from the concession stand.”
“That new building? I drove past it today. Looks incredible—and expensive. It’s harder and harder these days to know where to put your money, don’t
you agree? Real estate used to be a good option, but you’ve got to be careful today. That’s one positive for my line of work. Antiquities are verifiable
pieces of real property, not just something on paper. They don’t lose value.”
Julia was always interested in a good investment, although her interest in Chess went well beyond that. “I’m a wealthy woman, Mr. Garrity.”
“Call me Chess.”
She removed her iPhone from the pocket of her slacks. “I’d like to hear more. Do you have examples you could show me?” She punched a couple of
keys, then swiped her finger down the screen, bringing up her calendar.
“Sure.”
“How about tomorrow? I have a meeting at eleven. You could come by the loft, say, nine?”
“It would be my pleasure.” He waited a beat. “What price range were you interested in?”
“Price is less an issue than the object itself. I’m interested in something unique, an object that will maintain its value. And, of course, beauty.”
His eyes lingered on her. “I’ve got several pieces that should interest you. One in particular. Although it’s expensive. Possibly too expensive.”
“Bring whatever you have. No promises, of course—but it never hurts to look.”
* * *
Irina perched on a chair in the back bedroom, rocking the crib with her foot, her arms cradling her stomach. Her son’s eyes fluttered every few seconds,
but he was definitely in dreamland. She’d held him for the longest time, giving him his bottle, rubbing her cheek against the soft fuzz on his head, humming
to him until he fell fast asleep. She didn’t want to put him down, but finally had. Now, easing back, she switched on the small boom box behind her, the one
she’d loaded with a Disney lullaby CD. It seemed so peaceful, so safe, cocooned in this room with only a tiny night-light to illuminate her baby’s face, as if
nothing could ever touch either of them or do them any harm. She’d taken a couple of Xanax, which made the world feel much more manageable. If they
could navigate safely through the next few days, find a buyer for the bull, everything might still work out okay.
She called her sister again, and this time she left a message.
“Misty, hi, it’s me. Don’t know where you are, but I thought you might want to come by, spend the night. Steve had to drive back down to Rochester. He
won’t be home until late in the day tomorrow. Let me know. Or just come over if you can. ’Bye.”
She watched her sleeping baby. She’d let him stay up too late, but rationalized that being with him soothed her, and he could sleep as long as he
wanted in the morning. He was such a good little boy. He was her future. She pressed a finger gently against his little fist, wondering if Steve had noticed
that his baby didn’t look a thing like him. That was a card she hadn’t played yet, one she wanted to reserve for just the right moment. We’re all liars, she
thought. We keep secrets. Lying wasn’t always wrong when survival was the issue.
Irina crawled into bed around eleven, listening to the silent house, thinking about her mother, the funeral that would need to be planned. Once the police
released her mother’s body, she would go to the funeral home, make all the arrangements. If Misty wanted to come along, fine. If not, she’d do it herself.
She’d spent so much of her life alone that this wasn’t anything new.
She was almost asleep when her eyes popped open. Was that a noise? She couldn’t be sure. Thinking that it was her sister coming in the front door,
she got up and walked out into the hallway.
“Misty?” she called. She froze when she saw a beam of light sweep over the living room. Rushing back to the bedroom, she closed and locked the
door, then dove for the cell phone in her purse and hit 911. A man’s voice answered. She whispered her address and told him that an intruder was inside
her home. He asked her to leave the phone on, said a squad car would be dispatched. He wanted to know more, but Irina tossed the phone on the bed.
She felt around under the pillows until her hand hit cold metal. Rising up, she backed up all the way to the window, spread her feet, and with both hands
pointed the gun at the door.
The door handle moved one way and then the other.
Her hands shook.
The handle moved again.
“Get out,” she screamed. “Get the hell out of my house.”
Dusty began to cry.
She squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice. In the darkness, the muzzle fire looked like a flame. She kept firing, through her baby’s cries, through her own
screams. “Get out! I’ll kill you! I will kill you!”
The gun kept jumping in her hand. The room smelled like the Fourth of July. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the upper part of the gun slammed back
and there were no more bullets.
She stood very still, not even breathing, realizing with a raw dread that she was out of options.
15
The grandfather clock in Jane’s living room struck one in the morning as the party wound down to a few last stragglers. Jane’s father and Elizabeth had
left just after midnight. So had Cordelia and Mel, announcing that they had to get Hattie into bed. Julia was gone. Chess was out in the backyard eating
the last of the pizza and talking to Sigrid.
Jane stood at the front door, thanking people for coming and wishing them a good night as her catering crew finished cleaning up the dining room. She
was tired, but elated that the celebration had gone so well.
At last, drifting back into the living room, she picked up a couple of empty plates, but instead of taking them into the kitchen, she sat down to think.
Peter had kept his distance all evening. She was hoping they could talk for a few minutes, if for no other reason than to break the ice between them, but it
had never happened. Still, there was one thing she had to do before he and Sigrid left.
Grabbing a pen and a pad of scratch paper from her office, she spent the next few minutes looking for Mia. She found her in the basement rec room,
curled into the corner of the couch, reading under the light of a floor lamp. Mouse was sleeping on the floor next to her. He adored kids, couldn’t get
enough of them. If there was a kid in the house, that’s where you’d find him. Maybe it was his need to protect, or his love of play. He and Mia had bonded
within moments of meeting each other.
Sitting down next to the little girl, Jane wrote on the pad, “Did you get some of the birthday cake?”
Mia nodded.
“Did you like it?”
This time, her eyes widened when she nodded.
Jane wrote, “Mia, will you forgive me? Your Dad and I aren’t on very good terms at the moment, but I shouldn’t have let that keep me away from you. I
want to be part of your life. I want you to be an important part of mine.”
Mia took the pad and the pen and wrote, “It’s okay.”
“No it’s not,” wrote Jane, “but if you’ll give me another chance, I want to make it up to you.”
Mia kept her eyes averted, gave a shrug.
Jane wrote, “Tell me what you like? Your five favorite things to do.” She handed Mia the pad and pen.
The little girl thought for a few seconds. She flipped to a clean page and wrote, “I like to draw, mostly horses, but sometimes flowers and people.” She
chewed her lower lip. “I like going for hikes in the woods. I like reading stories about girls. I like looking at picture books of artwork. I like to make cookies
and bake them in the oven.” She read it over, counting each “like” on her fingers. “Fah,” she said out loud.
Jane smiled. Mia had given her a lot to work with. She wrote, “Have you ever gone to the Institute of Arts here in Minneapolis?”
Mia shook her head.
“I think you’d like it. It’s a big building full of paintings, drawings, and every kind of artwork. Would you go with me sometime soon?”
She gave a guarded nod.
Jane continued to write. “Have you ever gone for a hike up near Taylors Falls? It’s very beautiful.”
Mia shook her head.
“Do you have good hiking shoes?”
Mia wrote, “Dad bought me boots.”
Jane grinned and wrote, “Then we’ll do a hike, too. I’ll talk to your mom and dad tonight before you all leave so we can nail down a time that would
work.”
Mia reached for the pad and pen. “Would it be just you and me?”
Jane wrote back, “Would that be okay?”
Mia looked up at her, gave a shy nod.
“Can I give you a hug?” wrote Jane.
Another shy nod.
Jane gathered the little girl into her arms, kissed her hair, held her tight, and tried her damnedest to live in the moment for once. She hoped she’d made
a breakthrough. Now she had to follow it up with more than just good intentions.
* * *
The next morning, as Jane was pouring kibble into Mouse’s bowl, the landline rang. She used the remote to turn down the TV and said hello.
“It’s Nolan.”
“You never made it to the party last night. I saved you some cake.”
“Thanks, but I thought this was more important. Nobody was watching the restaurant. I stuck around for several hours.”
“So that’s good news.” She found some chicken scraps in the refrigerator and added them to Mouse’s bowl. He was already in his “sit” position when
she set the dish down in front of him.
“Not entirely. I drove to your house after I left the restaurant, intending to come in, but found a guy sitting in a Jeep two houses away holding a pair of
binoculars. I’d say you’re the one being watched, not the restaurant. When he saw me, he took off. I chased him, but a truck pulled in between us and he
got away.”
“Did you get the license plate?”
“Already ran it. It’s a rental. Rented to a man named Eddy Redzig, a resident of Toronto. Far as I can tell, he doesn’t exist. It gotta be an alias.”
She sat down. “Did you get a look at the guy who was driving?”
“He was blond. Long hair.”
“Sounds like one of the guys Lee described to me.” She’d never seriously considered that she might be the target. “What do you think I should do?”
“Work with me. We’ll figure this out.”
“We already talked about that.”
“You know, Jane, one of these days I’m going to stop asking.”
How could she make him understand? “I have to make the restaurants my first priority. Especially in this economy.”
“Fine. I never said you couldn’t do both.”
“But that’s just it. I can’t.”
“You’re afraid that if you get involved in real investigative work, it’s all you’ll want to do.”
“My restaurants are my life.”
“Your passion.”
“Right.”
“They were once. Are they still?”
If she wasn’t a restaurateur, who was she?
“I think you should give it more thought. In the meantime, I’ll dig a little deeper. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
After hanging up, she sat at the table, watching Mouse nose his favorite green tennis ball around the room. So often these days she wished she had his
life. Good food. Lots of love. A comfortable place to live. No financial or relationship worries. “What if we traded places for a while?”
He gripped the ball in his mouth, carried it over, and dropped it in her lap.
“You want to go outside and play catch?” she asked, rubbing his ears. “I suppose we can do that for a few minutes.” As she stood, she saw the words
BREAKING NEWS crawl across the bottom of the TV screen. She turned up the sound.
“Early this morning, a jogger found the body of a man in a remote area of Minnehaha Park. The name of the victim has not been released, but police
are looking for a second man in connection with the suspected homicide—Chester Garrity.”
When a picture of Chess flashed on the screen, Jane felt as if she’d touched a bare wall socket.
“If you know this man, or have any information about him, please contact the Minneapolis Police Department.”
Rushing to the door, Jane called over her shoulder to Mouse, “I’ll be right back.”
She burst out into an overcast, sticky summery day and charged up the outside steps.
Banging on the door, she shouted, “It’s Jane. Come on, Chess, open up.” She banged harder. “Wake the hell up. I need to talk to you.” He had to be
inside. She hadn’t heard him leave. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after nine. She’d slept in, something that always put her in a bad mood.
She hated getting a late start to her day.
Cupping a hand over her eyes, she peered though one of the screened windows. The interior was dark. The small TV set across the room was off.
Swearing under her breath, she charged down the steps, returning a few minutes later with a key. She opened the door and went in, not caring if he was
asleep, dead drunk on the couch, or naked in bed with another man.
“Where are you?” she called. His suitcase was open on the floor next to the drop-leaf kitchen table. Clothes littered the living room. The remnants of his
breakfast—half a frozen burrito and a partially filled glass of orange juice—sat on the draining pad next to the sink. Crossing into the bedroom, she found
the bed unmade.
“Dammit,” she shouted to the empty room, her mind flashing to the men who were watching the restaurant and her house. She had no proof of a
connection, but she also had little doubt. “What are you mixed up in? What the hell have you got me mixed up in?”
* * *
Five stories above Lake Calhoun, Chess sat in Julia’s loft, drinking a cup of French pressed coffee and eating a chocolate pistachio biscotto. He couldn’t
believe his good fortune. Running into a rich narcissist was always a stroke of luck, but to find one with the door to her heart hanging open was like
winning the lottery. He figured it was best to let her steer the conversation.
“You brought something for me to see?” she asked, her warm smile muting the frank appraisal in her eyes.
He nodded to the leather case next to him.
She sat down, arranging herself in a Bauhaus-inspired chair by unbuttoning the classic gold-buttoned blazer she wore over a pair of precisely creased
tan slacks. “I have to admit that I’m curious about you,” she said.
“About my relationship with Jane?”
“We can start there.”
As if there were anything else she wanted to know. “You said that you two were just friends.”
“We’ve dated in the past.”
Unrequited love. Too good to be true. He’d seen the way she looked at Jane last night, part possession, part yearning.
“Jane never told you about me?” he asked.
“Not that I recall.”
“I hope you don’t find this too forward, but I admire you, Julia. I pride myself on being a good judge of character. You seem like someone I can trust.”
He’d come to the conclusion that she was smart, even clever, but not terribly subtle. What he’d said was blatantly disingenuous. Even so, her eyes
flickered with interest. “Twenty-one years ago next week, Jane and I were married.”
Her mouth opened. She was silent for a good half minute. “Married,” she repeated, the word coming out guttural, harsh. “Are you still—”
“I flew to the Dominican Republic and got a divorce.” He explained the essentials without lingering on the particulars. “I still care about her, as she cares
about me.” He paused, mostly for dramatic effect. “This episode in our lives isn’t something she likes to talk about, so if you’d keep it to yourself—”
“Don’t give it another thought,” said Julia, a little too quickly.
“I’m worried about her,” continued Chess, leaning forward and helping himself to another biscotto. “She seems lonely.”
“You think so?”
Actually, he didn’t think so, but it was the right thing to say. “She needs someone to love, someone to take care of. Maybe that’s old-fashioned, but it’s
the way I see it.”
“No, I agree. I suppose we all want to find that one special someone.”
“You two seem perfect for each other.”
The look in Julia’s eyes was nothing short of ecstatic, but she stayed cool, didn’t comment.
Chess sighed. “You’ve probably already got someone in your life.”
“No,” she said hesitantly.
“But the love is gone. You’ve moved on.”
Her eyes drifted to the grand piano. “Since we’re being honest, maybe—oh hell, why not. I might as well tell you the truth. I’m still in love with her.”
Chess set his cup on the coffee table. “I thought so.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little. I also formed my opinion from watching Jane. She’s still carrying a torch for you, that’s pretty apparent, even though she’s fighting it.”
She sat up straighter. “Did she say anything to you about me?”
“Just that you’re a very important person in her life.”
“She actually said that?”
“Exact words. Then again, you know Jane. She’s very private. She didn’t elaborate.”
“Something I admire about her.”
“Oh, yeah. Me, too.”
She ran her fingertips along the arm of the chair.
“To be honest,” said Chess, eying yet another biscotto, “I’m a romantic at heart. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“Unreservedly. If you’re fated to be together, you will be.”
Fate. Perfect concept for a besotted narcissist. “Sometimes fate needs a bit of a shove.”
She laughed at that one. “You have a point.”
“I also believe in past lives. Reincarnation. I’ve experienced it personally. I know that may sound strange to a doctor, someone who’s used to dealing
with facts, reason, objective reality.”
“You’re talking about hypnotic regression?”
“I’ve undergone several.”
“You’re right to think I don’t give that theory much credence. Even so, I’m always willing to listen. It’s not like we’ve discovered everything there is to
discover.” She poured them each more coffee.
She might be a manipulative narcissist, but under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed getting to know her. “I think it’s time to look at what I
brought.”
She nodded, seeming far more eager and open to him now that they’d shared a juicy secret.
He pulled the case in front of him. “Let’s start with the least expensive.” He removed a cloth, set it on the table, and drew back the folds. “These are
Roman gambling dice, first century A.D. They were carried by soldiers. Each one is hand-carved from a single piece of animal bone. This particular set
was discovered at a Roman military site near the Danube River. I have all the paperwork. Everything I sell has a documented provenance.”
“How much?” asked Julia, picking one up.
“Three hundred and eighty-five dollars. That’s a very good price.”
“They’re intriguing, but I guess I’m interested in something a little more dramatic.”
“Of course.” This time he took out a box. Opening it, he handed her a four-inch Egyptian blue scarab. He explained that it was made somewhere
between 1000 B.C. and 700 B.C., between the twenty-first and twenty-fifth dynasties. “Eighteen thousand,” he said.
She turned it over in her hand. “I’ve always liked scarabs. I gave Jane a scarab ring once.”
“What a lovely gift.”
“I doubt she ever wears it anymore.”
Next he removed an Egyptian inlaid steatite pectoral. “This was placed on the breast of a mummy, outside the wrappings. It’s from the New Kingdom,
probably around 1300 B.C. There’s a chip on the lower right corner, otherwise it’s in mint condition. I could sell this for—” He hesitated. “Thirty-five
thousand. A piece very much like it sold at Christie’s in New York last month for forty-eight thousand.” He could tell he hadn’t found her price range yet.
None of the artifacts had hit her sweet spot.
“Just in case none of those catch your fancy, I’ve brought you something truly special,” he said, removing a rectangular wooden case. He opened it and
handed her a small, mottled brown piece of carved rock. “This is a cylinder seal. It was used to authenticate tablets before paper was invented. The man
who owned this would roll it over the wet clay to make his mark. It was his seal, his signature if you will. It’s at least two thousand years old, possibly older.”
Her eyes finally lit up. “What’s it made of?”
“Steatite, which is considered a precious stone. It’s actually a compact form of talc. In a way, I think it’s fair to say that it’s a voice from the cradle of
civilization.”
“What would something like this sell for?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand. I couldn’t let it go for any less.”
She nodded, mulling it over.
“I do have another, utterly extraordinary piece,” he said. “I don’t have it with me because it’s too precious to carry around.”
“What is it?” she asked.
He felt a rush of anticipation. If she bought the seal for two hundred and fifty thousand, he’d be a happy man. If he could sell her the bull, he’d be over the
moon. “It’s called the Winged Bull of Nimrud. Nimrud was the capital of ancient Assyria—in the Bible it was called Kalakh. It’s located south of Nineveh on
the Tigris River. The Nimrud gold, which is roughly two thousand eight hundred years old, has been called the most significant archaeological discovery
since the treasures of Tutankhamen were discovered in 1923. I can assure you, very few of these pieces have found their way into private collections.”
“Do you have a picture?”
He removed one from the breast pocket of his tan cashmere sport coat. “You can keep it.”
She studied the photo. “It’s incredible,” she said, awe in her voice. “The face. The wings. The craftsmanship.”
“It’s very special.”
“How big is it?”
“Approximately four inches long by six inches wide—wing tip to wing tip. Five inches high.”
“How much—”
“It’s out of most people’s price range. I just wanted you to see it.”
“Tell me the price.”
“One million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
She bit her lip, continuing to stare at the photo. “If I bought this, I would need to have it appraised.”
“Are you seriously considering—”
“It’s perfect. A one-of-a-kind piece—art and history combined.”
“If you are serious, there’s a very fine, internationally recognized gallery of antiquities in St. Paul. I’m sure someone there could provide an appraisal.”
“You have all the paperwork?”
“Everything. But, Julia, I think you’d better give this a bit more thought. Owning an artifact like this is a significant responsibility. You’d need to insure it.
Protect it. Make sure the environment in which you display it is temperature, light, and humidity controlled. In essence, you would need to become a
curator.”
“I want it,” she said, suddenly, firmly. “I’d also like to buy the cylinder seal. But only after I have them appraised.”
“Are you positive? My advice would be to wait, think it over. ”
“Do you have other potential buyers for the bull?”
“Yes. One.”
“Something like this only comes along once in a lifetime.”
“That’s true.”
“I would need to pass this by my financial manager.”
“You should—and you should take his or her advice.” He could tell by the gleam in her eye that he’d hooked her deep. It wouldn’t matter what anyone
told her, she would know better.
“When could I see the statue?”
“I’ll have to make some arrangements. Possibly tonight.”
“Perfect.”
The cheap cell phone in Chess’s pocket buzzed. “I need to take this,” he said.
“I’ll clean up our coffee. My first appointment got moved up. So I really need to get going.”
He stood by the windows looking down on the concession stands along the northeast shore of the lake. He’d parked his rust-mobile just down the
street.
“It’s me,” came the voice he heard now in his dreams. “Your buddy, Ed. We’re finished, man.”
“Finished?”
“I don’t want the money. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re poison.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the screen. The call had ended. What the hell was going on? As he slipped the phone back into his
pocket, he saw a man in a business suit walk across the street to his car. The man kept looking over his shoulder, glancing around to make sure nobody
was watching. Crouching down, he put his hand under the front fender. Then he was up and walking away.
It was a tracking device. It had to be. Somebody had found him.
“Say, Julia?” He turned toward the open kitchen. “Where’s your car parked?”
“In the lot under the building.”
Perfect. “And where’s your appointment?”
“Downtown Minneapolis,” she said, closing up the dishwasher and switching it on.
“I wonder if you could give me a lift. You can drop me anywhere along Hennepin or Marquette.”
“Don’t you have a car?”
“At the moment, I’m relying on cabs.” He picked up his case. “Let’s plan on taking the items over to the gallery in St. Paul sometime in the next day or
two. Once you have the appraisal, we can talk about how you want to pay for them.”
“A check? Money order? Cash? Whatever you like.”
He wasn’t cheating her. What she was about to buy was worth every penny of the price.
If it made them both happy, what was the harm?
16
Half an hour later, Jane was inside Cordelia’s cacophonous downtown loft, attempting, with little success, to listen to three simultaneous conversations—
Hattie’s, Cordelia’s, and Mel’s. She’d come to tell Cordelia about Chess but needed to wait until they were alone.
Melanie was getting ready to take Hattie swimming at the Y. Cordelia had commandeered the kitchen to prepare everyone breakfast to order, since no
two people wanted to eat the same thing. She hollered like a fry cook when an order came up.
“Fluffernutter sandwich,” she called.
Jane, expediting orders, brought the plate to Hattie, who was sitting on the floor in front of the TV, struggling to put on a pair of socks while watching
Animal Planet.
“Change the channel,” hollered Cordelia.
“To what?” Jane hollered back.
“Turner Classic Movies.”
“No,” whined Hattie. “I want to watch the baby beavers.”
Cordelia stepped out of the kitchen. “No whining and no blaming. Those are the rules in this loft. I want you to have a well-rounded education, Hatts.
There’s an old Cary Grant, Myrna Loy movie on right now. Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, 1948. It’s a classic.”
“But I want to watch the beavers,” she cried.
Melanie picked up her flute and started playing. “I have so little time to practice these days,” she lamented. “Do you like flute music, Jane?”
“Love it. Can’t live without it.”
“Ham and eggs,” hollered Cordelia.
“That’s me,” said Melanie, grabbing the plate from Jane’s hand and making herself comfortable at the kitchen table. “That was a wonderful party last
night. Had a long talk with your brother. Great guy. And Julia. I don’t know why you all hate her so much. She’s fascinating.”
“Jane?” said Cordelia, turning around to look at her, spatula in hand. “What about your breakfast needs?”
“How about a stiff shot of vodka.”
“I see,” said Cordelia.
Jane nodded to the toaster. “Your order is up.”
Blanche, the matriarch of Cordelia’s cat colony, had hunkered down next to the toaster, looking both bored and earnest—an emotional sleight of hand
only a cat could manage.
“Ah, my Toaster Strudel. Ambrosia.”
Hattie flew into the kitchen. “Deeya, we have to pack.”
“Pack?” said Cordelia, slathering sweet white goo on the strudel.
“Right now.” She jumped up and down. “Right now. Right now. Right now.”
“Honey, I’d like to eat my breakfast.”
“But I want to go live in a mud house. We have to pack.”
“A. Mud. House,” deadpanned Cordelia.
“We need to bring lots of clothes. And my puppets. And pudding.”
“See what happens when she watches that nature crap,” said Cordelia out of the side of her mouth.
“A mud house might be interesting,” said Melanie.
“Well, then, just friggin’ sign me up,” cried Cordelia. “Let’s grab the Easy-Bake Oven and we can all go.”
“Deeya, come on,” cried Hattie, yanking on her arm. “I want to go live with the beavers.”
Jane gave Hattie an understanding smile. She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the little girl into her arms. “You know, kiddo, if you and Deeya
are going to go live with the beavers, you’ll need to learn how to be a good swimmer. I think it makes sense for you to go to the Y with Melanie this
morning.”
Hattie twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I can swim.”
“But not very well.”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Oh, all right.”
“Go finish your sandwich,” said Cordelia. “And turn off that wretched Animal Planet.”
“Oh, look, elephants,” cried Hattie, rushing back to the TV.
“I swear,” said Cordelia, wiping a hand across her forehead, “I’m going to put a childproof lock on that channel.”
Jane sat and listened to the back-and-forth, the arguing, the coaxing, the pleading, the yelling, then the kisses, the hugs, the waves, the long good-byebye.
Hadn’t Raymond Chandler written a book with that title?
“I’m exhausted,” said Jane after Mel and Hattie were gone. The loft was a disaster. Toys and clothes everywhere.
“Tell me about it,” said Cordelia, lifting the dirty plates over to the counter. “I love it, though. Not every minute, but Hattie’s back home with me, where
she belongs.”
“You could sure use a nanny. Or an army.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Someone specific?”
“An ex-nurse from Sacramento. We’re dickering over compensation.”
“You going to let her live here, like Cecily did?”
“All part of the negotiations.”
“What’s her name?”
“Val Brown.”
“I suppose she could move in across the street, like Mel. There are still some lofts that haven’t sold. Maybe you should think about installing a tightrope.”
“Ha ha.” Cordelia poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice and crooked her finger, inviting Jane to join her in the living room. “So, what was so
important that you had to rush right over?”
Jane collapsed onto an armchair and explained about the breaking news.
“Heavens,” said Cordelia, nearly choking on the juice.
“Do you think he did it? Murdered that poor guy?”
“Not the Chester I know.”
“That’s just it,” said Jane. “Do we know him? I thought we did. Now I’m beginning to wonder.” She could see that Cordelia was resisting the idea. “I told
you about the guys watching my house and my restaurant, right?”
“What guys?”
Jane gave her the down and dirty. “I think they’re watching Chess, not me. He’s mixed up in something bad—and he’s got me mixed up in it, too.”
“We have to talk to that boy, after which we must line up all our little gray cells and go a’sleuthing.”
Jane shook her head. “I’m done with that. Nolan’s looking into it for me.”
“Done with sleuthing? Out of the question.”
“Anyway,” said Jane, “I can’t find Chess. I tried his cell, left a couple of messages, but he hasn’t returned them. Do you think I should tell the police that
he’s living in my third-floor apartment?”
“We know nothing about the man who died. What’s his name?”
“The newscaster said the cops hadn’t released it yet.”
“Janey, we’re a team. We’ve solved so many mysteries I can’t even count them all.”
“Remember what happened when we got involved with that murdered woman down in Iowa last fall. It nearly got Peter killed, and it caused a rift in our
relationship I’m still trying to repair. No, I’m done with all that. I just want to keep my head down, run my restaurants, and lead a safe, quiet life.”
“You’d be bored stiff. You, dearheart, are an adrenaline junkie, just like I am.”
“I am not.”
“Are too.”
“We sound like two-year-olds.”
Cordelia tossed the rest of her juice back and set the glass down next to her. “Look, let’s do this much. Let’s go back to your house and wait for
Chester to come home. We can interrogate him together. Good cop, bad cop.”
“I suppose we owe him a chance to explain.”
“Damn straight.”
“Maybe, if we both talk to him, we can get the real story.”
“I am a human lie detector, Janey. Never fear. Besides,” she added, rising and hanging her fringed sack purse over her shoulder, “when you’re down,
you need your friends to stick by you.”
* * *
Irina crawled around on her hands and knees, scrubbing the wood floor with a hard bristle brush and Murphy’s Oil Soap. Dusty was a few yards away,
strapped into his car seat. She’d purchased it before he was born, thinking that she’d need it. She never had—until last night. After the police left, Misty
had driven Irina and Dustin back to the house where they both grew up. It felt familiar, and yet strangely foreign to be back. Then again, she had nowhere
else to go.
Nothing was clean enough. Irina insisted that Misty go out first thing and buy an air purifier, a new portable crib, baby bottles, formula, diapers, and new
sheets and baby blankets. The air purifier now resided in the corner of the bedroom, hissing out recycled and decontaminated air. The crib had yet to be
assembled, yet to be rubbed down with disinfectant wipes. Dusty had fallen asleep, but after last night, he was restless, crying at even the smallest noise.
The constant hiss of the purifier was a steady sound that muted the world around them. It was a godsend.
Majid had phoned shortly after eight, saying he wanted to spend the day cleaning and detailing what was lost at the gallery. He suggested that he also
start the reorganizing if he had time. The police had removed the crime scene tape from the front and back doors but left it on the back stairs leading to
the second floor, which was still off-limits. The gallery would need to remain closed to the public until further notice. Irina told him she had other matters to
attend to but agreed that he should go ahead and start without her. She asked him to concentrate on the main room and to make sure he photographed
the damage. He seemed annoyed that she didn’t offer to help.
“My mother just died,” she told him.
“I know that.”
“I need some time to grieve.” She wasn’t about to let him in on what had happened last night.
“And I need to work.”
“Fine. Have at it.”
Irina finished scrubbing the bedroom floor, wiping the last of the water and soap up with a bath towel. When she walked out into the living room, she
found a disheveled man in ratty black jeans, a Nirvana T-shirt, and a black leather vest, sitting with one leg draped over the arm of a chair.
She shouted at him, “Get out of here! Take that filthy cigarette with you.”
Misty came out of the the kitchen with a beer in her hand. “You can’t order my friends around.”
“I can and I will. Get him out of here,” she said, kicking at an empty taco chip sack.
The guy made a circling motion next to his head with his finger.
By now, Irina was used to the implication, but she wasn’t about to take it, not anymore—and not from him. “Leave now or I’ll call the police.”
“You can’t call the police,” said Misty. “I live here and he’s my friend and I get to have my friends visit me.”
“Leave,” she yelled at him, balling her hands into fists.
Moving with infinite slowness, the man stood. He took a drag off the cigarette and blew a couple of smoke rings. “She’s a freakin’ nutcase,” he said to
Misty. “I’ll catch you later.”
Misty glared at Irina as the guy left. “I spend the last two hours at Target buying all that crap for you and this is the thanks I get?”
“I never want to see that man in this house again. Not as long as Dusty and I are staying here.”
“You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t own this place, I do.”
“Not until the trust is executed.” Looking at her sister, at the hurt in her eyes, she softened her expression. They had to stick together, be a family, help
each other. “I don’t want to fight with you, but I can’t have people smoking in this house. You know why.”
“You’re a freak, that’s why.”
“If calling me names makes you feel better, then go ahead. I’m only protecting my baby. People bring germs with them. I’m fighting a battle, Misty, for my
son’s life. If you love me, you need to help me.”
Her sister let out a shriek and threw herself on the sofa.
“Let’s not fight. I’m drained. I’m scared.” Irina lowered herself down on the oak coffee table in front of her sister and nodded to the can in her hand. “You
told me you weren’t using.”
“It’s just a beer.” She tipped the bottle back and finished it off.
“It’s alcohol.”
“No kidding.”
“I care about you.”
“I care about you, too. That’s why you need to see a shrink. This,” she said, pointing at the hallway into the bedroom, “it’s not right. You need help.”
The cell phone in Irina’s purse trilled. She didn’t have the energy to answer it.
“I’ll get it,” said Misty, heaving herself up. “It’s probably Steve. I talked to him a little while ago, told him what happened. He’s driving back. Maybe he’s
already home.” Flipping the phone open, she pressed it to her ear and said hello. She listened a moment, then said, “It’s somebody named Chess.”
“Tell him I’ll call him later.”
Misty relayed the message, then listened a couple more seconds. “He says it’s really important.”
Irina’s gaze rose to the ceiling. She just didn’t have the steam to tell him about last night. He should have been there, should have protected her. “Do me
a favor. Tell him what happened. I just can’t do it, but he needs to know.”
“Who is he?”
“A business friend.”
She stretched out on the couch, closed her eyes, and listened to Misty tell Chess that someone had broken into her house last night, that Irina had
called 911 and then fired sixteen shots into the bedroom door. She ended by saying that when the cops arrived, whoever had broken in was long gone.
Misty held the phone away from her ear. “He wants to talk to you.”
She breathed out, held out her hand. “Oh, all right. Will you check on Dusty?”
Misty groaned. Oozing attitude, she handed the phone over and then stomped out of the room.
“Are you okay?” asked Chess, his voice an octave higher than normal.
“That’s kind of a dumb question, don’t you think?”
“You’re upset with me.”
“I have a right to be.”
Silence. “Do the police have any idea who broke in?”
“Of course not, but I do. It was the same people who murdered Melvin and my mother. They’re after me now. And when they find you, they’ll be after you,
too.”
He didn’t say anything for several seconds. “I have a buyer for the bull.”
That got her attention. She sat up. “You do?”
“I told her that I’d bring it by tonight. That means we have to go get it.”
“How much did you ask for?”
“A million and a quarter.”
It was a good price. “She’s got the money?”
“She’s loaded. If she buys it, we don’t have to string along that woman you told me about. This will be so much quicker. I told her about the gallery, said
you could authenticate it and give her an appraisal. She wants one of the cylinder seals, too. Two hundred and fifty thousand. We’re just about home free,
baby. Once the money’s in the bank, we can get out of here for good.”
Her heart sped up. “We?” He’d never said that before, not directly. She wasn’t sure how she could travel with Dusty. She wouldn’t risk his life, not for
Chess or all the money in the world. She had the gallery to think about, too.
“Of course, we. I know there are details we need to figure out, and we will, I promise. As long as we’re a team, everything’s possible. When can you pick
me up?”
“I left my car at the house in Apple Valley.”
“Doesn’t your sister have a car?”
If Irina had to leave the house, Misty would have to babysit, so she wouldn’t need it. “Tonight,” said Irina. “I need to get some sleep first.”
“What time and where?”
“Where are you now?”
“The Caribou Coffee at Ninth and Second.”
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
17
Jane and Cordelia waited for Chess to return to Jane’s house, but by two, Jane couldn’t wait any longer. She had a meeting with her head chef at the
Xanadu Club. Cordelia extracted a promise that Jane would call if she learned anything new. Several hours later, as she was standing at the Xanadu’s
bar pouring herself a cup of coffee, Nolan returned a call she’d made to him.
“Boy, you sure know how to get yourself in trouble,” he said without preamble.
“What can I say? I’m blessed with interesting friends. Were you able to find anything out about the man who was murdered in Minnehaha Park?”
“He wasn’t murdered there,” said Nolan. “He was dumped. Name’s Melvin Dial, a retired businessman.”
Jane took her coffee and moved to a far stool. “What sort of business?”
“CEO of a medical software company until he retired about ten years back.”
“Any idea how he died?”
“Knifed, according to my source. They found your friend’s passport in the grass about ten feet away. The police think it fell out of his pocket when he
dumped the body.”
Jane turned to look out the window. It was rush hour in Uptown. Traffic was starting to back up along Twenty-eighth. “Should I be afraid of him?”
“Yeah, you should.”
“I suppose I should call the police, tell them I know where he is.”
“That would be my advice. And then I’d kick his ass to the curb. You don’t need friends like him.”
“What if he’s innocent?”
“Apologize later. Put your safety first.”
Jane had already come to the same conclusion. “I’m about to head home.”
“You need me, you call. Anytime, day or night.”
* * *
The doorbell rang just as Jane was letting Mouse into the backyard. Hoping that it was Chess, she rushed back through the house to the front door. She
looked through the peephole before opening it, finding a plainclothes cop standing on her front steps. He detached the badge clipped to his belt and held
it up.
“Jane Lawless?” he asked, looking her over.
“Yes?”
“You Ray Lawless’s daughter?”
“That’s me.”
“Thought so. I voted for your dad.”
“Wish more people had.”
He was black, like Nolan, though not as tall or barrel chested, and he was younger. Jane glanced over his shoulder and saw a dark blue Crown Vic
parked in front of the house. She supposed there was a reason cops drove that kind of car, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, think of one.
“I’m Sergeant Kevante Taylor. I need to talk to you. Won’t take long.”
She led him into the dining room. “Actually, I was about to call you guys.”
They each took a seat at the shiny mahogany table. Jane offered him a soft drink, but he shook his head. “How come you were about to call us?”
“Chess Garrity. That’s why you’re here, right? You’re a homicide cop?”
He hesitated for just a second before saying, “Yeah.”
“How did you connect us?”
“My partner’s been digging into Garrity’s past. We found a marriage license database with your name—and his—on it. Since you’re the only Jane
Lawless in the Twin Cities, I took a chance and drove over.”
It was the last thing she wanted to hear. She needed that part of her life to remain buried. Now, with Chess’s name on the front burner because of a
possible murder charge, it would be a miracle if it didn’t make the papers and the local nightly news.
“So tell me, are you married to this guy, because I’d heard—”
“We’re divorced,” she said, cutting him off before he could say any more. This was a bad dream coming true. She wondered what he was reading in
her face.
“You have any idea where I could find him?”
“He’s living upstairs in my third-floor apartment.”
The cop’s eyebrows shot up. “My LT said this trip would be a waste of time.”
“Guess your LT was wrong. I just got home, so I’m not sure if he’s here. I left him a couple of cell phone messages, but he hasn’t returned them.”
“Not surprising. He probably knows we’re looking for him.”
“You’re welcome to go up and see if he’s there. I’ll give you a key. If nobody answers, you have my permission to go in.”
“That’s great, thanks.”
She might as well be cooperative. She had nothing to lose except her sterling lesbian credentials. She waited at the table while he ran up the outside
steps. She heard him bang on the door. Heard no response. He returned a few minutes later.
“Not home. I went in and looked around, but nothing jumped out at me. I’d like to come back with my partner.”
“No problem.”
He sat back down at the table. “Maybe you can fill me in on some background information. The passport we found indicated that Mr. Garrity lives in
Istanbul. That right?” He removed a notepad from the inside suit-coat pocket.
“He’s here on a business trip—he buys and sells antiquities.”
Taylor made a few scratches on the pad. “You been in touch with him since the divorce?”
“We were only married a few months. We stayed friends for a while, but I haven’t heard from him or seen him in over twenty years. Not until he showed
up at my restaurant on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Wednesday.” He thought about it, then nodded. “Did he give a reason for the sudden appearance?”
“Just said he was in town and wanted to say hi. I was surprised to see him after all these years, but he seemed like the same old Chess. He’s a friend,
Sergeant. I have a hard time believing he’s a murderer.”
“That’s understandable. We’re just beginning our investigation.”
“Chess is gay. Apparently, his boyfriend here in town kicked him out. He was mugged coming out of a gay bar in downtown Minneapolis and showed
up on my doorstep Wednesday night with scrapes on his face. I felt sorry for him.”
“The guy’s gay?” asked Taylor, giving her a quizzical look.
Jane was determined not to go there. Catching sight of movement out the dining room window, she rose from her chair. A cab was pulling up to the
curb.
“There’s Chess,” she said, watching him get out and hand the driver some cash.
“Ask him to come inside.”
Jane crossed into the front hall and opened the door. “Hey, Chess,” she called, sounding friendly. “I need to talk to you for a sec.”
“Sure,” he called back, flashing her a smile. He breezed in through the door and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Hot day. What’s up?”
Taylor stepped out of the dining room, drawing his suit coat back to reveal his badge. “Sergeant Kevante Taylor, Mr. Garrity. We need to talk.”
Chess’s smile disappeared. He looked from Taylor to Jane and then back to Taylor. “What about?”
“You haven’t heard the news?” asked Jane.
“News?” repeated Chess, his expression growing wary.
“Do you know a man named Melvin Dial?” asked Taylor.
Chess hesitated, then shoved a hand in the pocket of his dress slacks. “Ah, yeah, I do. What about him?”
Jane read the hesitation, and the attempt at a casual gesture, as guilt. She figured Taylor did, too.
“His body was found in Minnehaha Park this morning.”
“Are you saying he’s dead?”
“They found your passport in the bushes, not far from the body,” said Jane. “He was murdered.”
Chess looked away. He appeared to be absorbing the shock, or trying to figure out what to say. “Are you here because you think I had something to do
with it?”
“Can you explain how your passport ended up in the grass?” asked Taylor.
“I, ah—” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “I need a minute. Jane?” He nodded for her to follow him into the living room.
Everything he’d said and done since coming in the front door, the sweat forming on his upper lip, and the complete disintegration of his usual
bonhomie, only added to her confusion—and her growing anger. “What are you mixed up in?” she demanded.
He leaned toward her and whispered, “I can’t talk to him.”
“Why not? Did you murder that guy?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t you answer his questions?”
“Because I need a lawyer. I swear, Jane, I never touched Dial.”
“But you know something.”
“Yeah, I do, and when I explain what happened, it will look bad for me. That’s why I’m going back in there and telling that guy that I refuse to talk to him
without my lawyer present.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
His eyes flicked to her and then away. “I don’t have one. Not here, anyway. I was hoping, could you call your father? You’re my last hope—you and your
dad.”
“Jesus, Chess. What am I supposed to think?”
“I may be a lot of unsavory things, but I’m no murderer. You have to believe that. You have to.”
She needed more than just his word and a plea for trust. “How did your passport end up in Minnehaha Park?”
He slumped against the back of the couch.
“Tell me the truth, Chess. You’re not a very good liar.”
When his eyes cut to her, she had no idea how to read his expression.
“Fair enough. Here it is. I was playing poker with Dial on Tuesday night—at his house. I admit I was pretty drunk, so I don’t remember all the details, but I
always carry a couple of hundred-dollar bills in my passport. I took it out because I needed them. I stood up, set the passport on the mantel, and then sat
back down. When I left that night, I forgot to take it with me.”
“You’re saying Dial was alive and well when you left?”
“He was. I never thought about my passport again until I was looking for it the next day. I went back to his house. The door was open. I thought it was
strange, but I went in. Nobody was around. I swear, Jane. Not a soul. I looked for the passport on the mantel, but it was gone. I figured he’d found it and put
it somewhere safe. I mean, I felt funny being in there. I don’t know—it was like, I knew something was wrong, otherwise why was his door unlocked? When
I left, his neighbor saw me go. We exchanged a few pleasantries. He can vouch for the time. And then, as I was coming around the lake, I saw your
restaurant and decided to check it out, see if it really belonged to you. I could never have done that if I’d just murdered a man. You said it yourself. I’m not a
good liar.”
She recalled that he’d seemed distracted on Wednesday afternoon, but nothing extreme, nothing out of the ordinary. If he’d lost his passport, that would
account for it. “How did the passport end up in the park?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
On the one hand, she wasn’t sure what to believe; on the other, it wouldn’t hurt to call her father. Maybe he could help get to the bottom of things. “Okay,
I’ll call him. But I want you out of my third floor. Today.”
“Sure, I understand. You’ve been more than kind.”
The cop was sitting at the dining room table talking on his cell when they returned to the front hall.
“Are you here to arrest me?” asked Chess, stepping in front of Jane.
“Just to talk.” He flipped his phone closed and stood up to face them.
“Okay, but not without my lawyer present.”
Taylor switched his gaze to Jane, then back to Chess. “If that’s the way you want to play it. It would be a whole lot easier if you’d just answer a few
simple questions. Cooperation goes a long way.”
“Like I said, I want to cooperate, but I need to speak to my lawyer first.” Turning to Jane, he said, “Would you phone him?”
“Your father?” asked Taylor.
She nodded, watching the expression on his face harden.
“We’ll do it downtown,” said Taylor.
“What if I can’t reach my dad?”
“Then we’ll do it when he’s available. But it better be sometime today. Otherwise, Mr. Garrity will get a chance to be a guest of the MPD sooner rather
than later.”
18
Chess stood outside the Caribou Coffee in downtown Minneapolis, finishing a cigarette and waiting for Irina to pick him up. It was going on six fifteen,
which meant that he most likely had another fifteen minutes to wait. Irina was rarely punctual. Next to him on the sidewalk were his two suitcases and his
leather briefcase. He’d done as Jane asked, moved out of her third-floor apartment. Even if she hadn’t asked, he was planning to do it anyway. The only
reason he needed to come back to the house at all was to get his things. If someone had followed him to Julia’s apartment this morning and put a tracking
device on his junker car—without checking the car, he couldn’t be one hundred percent positive that’s what it was, but he was sure he was right—they’d
found his hiding spot. He needed another. Besides, he didn’t want anybody observing his comings and goings, especially not now, with the way
everything was coming together for the sale of the bull.
After an abortive meeting with Sergeant Taylor and his partner, Sergeant Hellickson, down at city hall, Chess had been released; much to his relief, Ray
had arrived and given the police an ultimatum: Arrest him or let him go. On the advice of counsel, no questions would be allowed. Chess shook Ray’s
hand and thanked him profusely, but in response received nothing but the evil eye. Ray made it clear that the police considered Chess their number one
suspect. They made a date to get together tomorrow to talk about his legal options, but legal options or no legal options, once Chess had the money from
the sale, he would leave the Twin Cities—without Irina—never to return. He had to use his wits and his lawyer to forestall any action by the police.
Irina pulled up to the curb in a beat-up cherry red Mercury Cougar ten minutes later. She popped the trunk so that Chess could stow his bags.
The first thing she said after he flipped his cigarette away and got in was “Tell me about this woman you’ve been staying with.”
He hid his smile behind a feigned cough and told her that she had nothing to worry about, that she was the love of his life.
“What’s her name?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Tell me.”
He gave a tired sigh and snapped on his seat belt. “Jane Lawless.”
Irina frowned and then turned. “Raymond Lawless’s daughter?”
“How do you know Ray Lawless?”
“He ran for governor last year.”
“Oh, yeah. Someone mentioned that to me. But look, she’s just a friend. I’m not lying to you.”
“I read an article about her that said she was gay.”
“Was and is. Can we drop this now?”
Last summer, after spending an intensely romantic week with Irina when she was in Istanbul on business, he actually thought he might be in love with
her. During the time they’d been apart, she’d changed. The sexy, fun-loving woman he’d gotten to know had morphed into a walking, talking bag of nerves
—and a bag of bones. She’d lost so much weight that her clothes hung on her. Worse yet, every time he saw her, she seemed more strung out, her eyes
sunk deeper in their sockets, her mouth held more tightly.
Chess reached for her hand, gave it a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”
“I had a nap, so a little better.”
“I assume you heard about Dial.”
She kept her eyes on the road this time. “What about him?”
“His body was dumped over by Minnehaha Falls. A jogger found him this morning. It made the local news. Unfortunately, so did my name.”
She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white with strain.
He explained what had happened. “The cops aren’t done with me. I’m apparently their number one suspect.”
“But what happened to the blackmailer? I thought you were working something out with him.”
“He called me this morning and announced that he’s out, that he wants nothing more to do with me. Didn’t want my money. Didn’t want anything. I
imagine the body was already in the park by then. I don’t understand it either, but what’s done is done—and I’m on the hook.”
They drove in silence until they reached the freeway entrance.
Turning the air conditioner on, Irina said, “You’re not the only one with problems.”
Chess found the comment just this side of arctic. Were they trying to one-up each other on the disaster scale?
“Someone tried to kill me last night, so what does my loving husband do?” She pointed the car at the freeway and accelerated, cutting off a guy in a
plumbing truck, causing him to hit the brakes and his horn. “Does he come home and comfort me?” she asked, paying no attention as the truck swerved
around her and the guy gave her the finger. “Not Steve. I’m not even sure he believes there was actually someone in the house. He went ballistic when he
saw the damage I’d done to the bedroom door. He’s insisting I come back to the house tonight, but that’s not happening. I’m staying put with Misty.”
“You think that’s wise? With the baby and all?”
“What the hell would you know about babies?”
In the space of a few minutes, she’d gone from jealous to sulky to simmering.
“Misty’s a slob, which means I had to scrub out the bedroom this morning. Before I go back there tonight, I need to stop at a drugstore to buy a couple of
those disposable white masks. I’m going to insist that Misty wear one around Dusty. I’m extra careful about my hygiene, but she’s drinking again, and
hanging out with some real lowlifes. I’m just being cautious, you see that, don’t you?”
In an effort to reconnect, to soothe her bruised feelings, he said, “Absolutely.” What he understood was that she was becoming absolutely wacko when
it came to her son.
“So where are we going?” he asked. He needed another cigarette, but Irina would never allow it, not even in Misty’s car.
“The gallery.”
“Why?”
“I hid it down in the basement after the gallery was ransacked. What safer place could there be? I discovered some loose bricks in the wall a few years
back. I gouged a space out behind them. It’s a perfect spot. Nobody knows about it but me.”
Chess looked straight ahead, grinding his teeth. “You told me you’d put it in a safety deposit box—in a bank.”
“I did, but I took it out.”
“I am not a happy man.”
“You’re always telling me to calm down. Now it’s your turn. It’s more accessible this way. We can get at it anytime, day or night.”
He wasn’t convinced. The statue meant everything to him—more than Irina could ever understand.
* * *
In the summer of 2005, while visiting an old friend in the ancient city of Halab, Chess had been taken to an ancient antique shop on a narrow, winding
back street, where he’d come upon the winged bull. He’d heard rumors about it but never expected to actually run across it in his travels, least of all to
learn that it was for sale at a time when he had the wherewithal to buy it. The winged bull had an aura. He commented on it, described it, but nobody else
could see it. The craftsmanship was of the highest order. When he ran his fingers to the tips of the wings, he saw an inner vision of another hand touching
it, this one covered in jewelry set with precious stones, a man’s hand with polished nails and smooth skin. He understood immediately what it meant. He’d
owned it in another life. In that instant he realized something profound: He hadn’t found it, it had found him.
* * *
Half an hour later, creeping down the back steps to the gallery basement carrying his leather attaché case, Chess let Irina take the lead. Her mood had
improved now that she had a task to perform.
“We don’t store anything down here except for shipping boxes and supplies. Whoever tossed the gallery didn’t do much damage.”
Packing boxes had been knocked around, probably to ensure they were empty. The cement floor had been swept clean, although Chess noticed that
the corners were full of cobwebs.
“It’s right here,” said Irina, carefully removing a brick about a foot above her head. She removed three more bricks next to it and then reached inside.
“What the—” she said, standing on her tiptoes, trying to see inside.
“What is it?” Chess set his case on a wooden table.
“It’s gone.”
He rushed over and sank his hand into the hole. For his effort, all he got was scraped knuckles. Turning on her, he grabbed her by the shoulders.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I take it?”
He wanted to make her feel real pain, make her pay for her incompetence. Instead, he walked around kicking boxes, venting his fury on something
inanimate. “How could you be so stupid? This is the worst place in the world to hide something like the bull.” It had been a mistake to let her take it, even
for a few days. She was a mistake.
She burst into tears.
“Stop it. Just stop sniveling.”
“You hate me. You never loved me.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? How important that statue is to me?”
“Yes,” she spat back at him.
“Who has a key to the gallery?”
She dropped down on a bench. “Just me and Majid.” She looked up at him, light dawning in her eyes. “It has to be Majid. He spent the day here
cleaning.”
“Where does he live?”
“A few blocks away. In an apartment.”
“You’ve got the address?”
“What are you going to do?”
He thought for a moment more. “I need money. Cash. How much do you have with you?”
“I’d have to check. A couple hundred, maybe.”
“I need more than that. Do you have an ATM card?”
“Tell me what you’re planning.”
He moved back to the hole, felt around inside again. Placing the bricks back into their slots, he eyed the wall from various angles, trying to see if the
loose bricks were apparent. He came to the conclusion that they were, but only slightly, probably not enough to tip someone off that something was behind
them. “Whoever took the bull knew about the hiding place. Have you ever hidden anything else behind those bricks?”
She gave a diffident shrug. “Yeah.”
“What?”
“Pot.”
“You kept a stash down here?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else?”
“I kept a journal for a year or so back in ’05. Didn’t want anyone to see it.”
“Anything more recent?”
Another shrug. “The love letters you sent me here at the gallery so Steve wouldn’t see them.”
“God, Irina, I told you to burn them.”
“I couldn’t,” she said weakly, her chin sinking to her chest.
He felt suddenly like the gold standard against which the notion of patsy was judged. Yet, lame as it was, it touched him that she couldn’t bring herself to
burn his letters. She was a mess, but she wasn’t malevolent—and at the moment, she was the only ally he had.
“Okay, here’s what we do. I’ll phone Julia, tell her I can’t bring the bull by tonight. I’ll make some excuse. But I need to get her over here tomorrow so you
can appraise the cylinder seal. How does your morning look? Say, ten?”
“Do you forgive me?”
He wasn’t willing to go that far. “If Majid did take it, I’ll get it back.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
He walked over, took her hands, and drew her up into his arms. She was shivering, still fighting back tears. Could a heart break minimally?
Microscopically? If so, that’s how his broke for her, although even that puny amount embarrassed him. She was a human wreck. How could he be drawn
to that? “Of course I forgive you. We’ve got to stick together if we’re going to make this work.” It wasn’t true, of course, but it placed him back on home turf.
Pity wasn’t his style. Nor was undying devotion. He couldn’t do happily ever after as a young man, and he sure as hell couldn’t do it now. If she was looking
for that, from him, she was in for one hell of a letdown.
Yet the certainty he felt that he could never give her what she wanted made him unaccountably, mystifyingly, unfathomably sad.
19
Late Saturday night, Jane was hard at work in her office at the Lyme House, completing the pub’s summer weekend music schedule. Her concentration
was continually broken by thoughts of Chess, what he’d done or hadn’t done, what his real reason was for coming to the Twin Cities and how his sudden
reappearance had set in motion a series of damaging reverberations through her own life. Every so often she would shake herself out of a reverie, only to
realize that she’d been staring into space for several minutes, completely unaware of the passage of time. It was during one of those reveries that she
received a call from Sigrid.
“Hey,” said Jane, dropping her pen on the desktop and leaning back in her chair, glad to change the channel in her brain, if only for a few minutes.
“Thought I’d see if you were free Monday afternoon.”
“If I’m not, I’ll make myself free.”
“Excellent. I wanted to stop by, have that conversation I promised—the one about me and Peter, and other various and sundry earth-shattering issues.”
“Did we firm up a date yet when I can take Mia to the Art Institute?”
“We’re thinking next Thursday. How does that sound?”
“Perfect. Maybe I’ll take her out to lunch first.”
“You know, this is really nice of you. In the mood she’s been in lately, she could use another adult in her life.”
“I should have been there all along. What time on Monday afternoon?”
“Peter’s meeting with Julia over at her loft at four. He’s bringing Mia with him because he says the view is incredible and wants her to see it. He’ll be
there about an hour. Thought I’d swing by after dropping them off. Maybe we could share an adult beverage and talk.”
“It’s a date. By the way, Julia told me last night that she’s hired Peter to film a documentary.”
“He’s had a couple of offers in the last month. He’s really pumped about it. Life is good, Jane. Really good. Anyway, gotta run. See you Monday.”
Life is good, thought Jane, repeating the comment to herself as she rose from her chair and walked down the hall to the pub. As she was about to go
inside to grab herself a beer, she saw Cordelia and a woman she’d never seen before barrel down the stairs from the first floor.
“You’re here,” said Cordelia, her expression full of enthusiasm. “I have someone I want you to meet.” Turning to the woman next to her, she said, “Jane,
this is Val Brown. I’m on the cusp of hiring her to be Hattie’s new nanny.”
Jane held out her hand. “You’ve got a big job ahead of you.”
“I love kids,” said Val, glancing over Jane’s shoulder into the bar.
“Cordelia said you’re from Sacramento. What made you move to the Twin Cities?”
“To be closer to my girlfriend.”
From Cordelia’s startled expression, Jane figured she hadn’t done a particularly thorough job interview.
“She lives here?” asked Cordelia.
“No, in Fargo.”
“Then why didn’t you move there?” asked Jane.
“Ever been to Fargo?”
“Actually, I haven’t.”
“My girlfriend’s a sheep rancher, lives about forty miles out of town.”
“A … sheep … rancher?” said Cordelia, raising an eyebrow.
“Does she run the ranch herself?” asked Jane.
“Her six kids help.”
“Six kids?” repeated Cordelia.
“It’s a lot of work. That’s why she’s decided to sell and move to the Twin Cities. I figured your loft would be a perfect place for all of them to crash while
she looks for an apartment. It’s big, open. Close to the bus line. Oh, and First Avenue. A couple of her boys are really into music—mostly heavy metal.”
Cordelia swallowed hard, squared her shoulders. “Val, dear, I’ve thought of a few more questions I need to ask before I make a final decision. Why
don’t I buy you a beer.”
“Sure,” said Val, looking eager to get inside. “Nice meeting you, Jane. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”
As they walked into the bar, Cordelia turned and drew a finger across her throat.
* * *
Jane left through the downstairs door just after midnight and headed up the hill to the back parking lot, where she’d parked her Mini. She was engaged in
a one-way conversation with her brother when she heard the slap of footsteps. She spun around, catching a glimpse of a man with long blond hair. He
grabbed her and forced her face-first against the rear fender of her car.
Twisting her arm behind her back and up between her shoulder blades, he said, “Tell me where he went.”
She tried to turn her head, to get a better look at him, but all she got for her effort was her face smashed against the trunk. Stars spun around her in the
darkness. The coppery taste of blood trickled into her mouth.
“I’m not playing games,” said the blond guy in a low growl. “Where’d your husband go? Tell me where he is or I’ll break your fucking arm.” He shoved her
arm higher.
She grimaced, gritting her teeth. “I don’t know,” she said, the pain triggering tears. “I’m telling the truth.”
“Bullshit. You’re protecting him.”
Her shoulder felt like it was about to pop out of its socket. “Okay, okay.” Nothing mattered except stopping the pain.
He eased up a little.
“He left town.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Chicago. The Drake Hotel. It’s where he always stays.”
“What about the bull?”
“The what?”
“Hey,” shouted a different voice, this one from farther away. “You there. Get the hell away from her.”
“What the fucking fuck,” said the blond guy, releasing her.
She stayed where she was, sprawled across the trunk, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath, all the while listening to the second guy shout a string
of obscenities at the blond man. Easing her arm around in front of her, she rubbed her shoulder, still half leaning on the fender.
“You okay?” called Lee, rushing up.
She stood, turned around, and half slid, half fell to the ground.
Lee helped ease her down, then propped her back against the tire. He got down on his hands and knees, cupped his hand around the back of her
neck, and studied her face. “This hurt?” he said, touching the bridge of her nose.
She groaned and pushed his hand away.
“I thought it might be broken, but it seems okay. Just bruised.”
She felt her upper lip, touched the blood oozing from her nostrils.
“Here,” he said, removing a handkerchief from his back pocket. “My mom always told me these would come in handy.”
“Lee to the rescue.”
“I wish I’d gotten here a few minutes earlier.”
“Was he the blond man you told me about?” she asked, her voice sounding nasal and stuffy.
“Yup,” he said, sitting down cross-legged on the pavement directly in front of her. “I’ve been watching the restaurant on and off. The boys were gone last
night, I have no idea where, and then gone most of the day today. But on the way over to my soapbox on the other side of the lake tonight, I noticed the
blond guy loitering by the wooden stairs that run down to the lake. I decided to stick around. I was over listening to the band concert earlier. I’d pretty much
decided to call it a night and was heading back to my car when I saw him jump you.”
“I owe you my arm,” she said, using her tongue to search inside her mouth. She wanted to make sure all her teeth were where they should be.
He surveyed the parking lot. “You need more light back here. If you want, I’d be happy to give you a free security appraisal. I’m not selling anything. You
can take my advice or leave it, no skin off my nose.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Those guys aren’t going to leave you alone, you know. Just a gut instinct on my part, but I’m right. What did he want?”
“He thought I knew where someone might be.”
“And do you?”
She shook her head.
“This someone—he, she important to you?”
“Not really. Someone I knew a long time ago.”
He was silent for a few seconds. “I get it. It’s this other person that’s the target. These people are trying to find him or her through you.”
“Him. And yeah, that would be my guess.”
He scratched the side of his face. “I hate to bang the same note again, but you could use better security.”
Jane was grateful he didn’t press her for more details. She drew his handkerchief away from her nose. “I’ll wash this and get it back to you.”
“Keep it.” He looked up at the sky. “Can’t see many stars in the city. Gotta get out in the country to really appreciate the night sky.”
“What did you preach about tonight?” She didn’t feel like getting up yet, mainly because she wasn’t at all sure her legs would support her.
“Read from the Epistle of Titus. That always inserts a note of terror into a romantic Saturday night.”
“You really do enjoy annoying people.”
He shrugged.
“How’s your search for home coming?”
“The more I see of the Twin Cities, the more I like it.”
“Wait until winter.”
“I lived in Chicago. Can’t be much worse than there.”
She finally garnered the courage to touch her nose again.
“Feel solid?”
“Feels swollen.”
“Maybe I should take you to the ER.”
The throbbing in her arm had subsided to a dull ache. “Help me up,” she said, using her good arm to push against the pavement.
Once she was standing more or less upright, she leaned back against the fender to get her bearings. And then she started to cry.
“Hey, there.”
It was suddenly just too much. Getting beat up. Chess. Her brother. She didn’t cry easily or often, but tonight she couldn’t seem to stop. She was about
to crumple to the ground again when she felt his arm catch her.
“You’re gonna be fine, Jane. Just fine.”
She buried her head against his shoulder.
“Everything will work itself out. You’ll see.”
She was embarrassed and needed something to say. “Look, stop in for dinner anytime you want. Order champagne. Lobster. Anything you like.”
His bushy brown eyebrows dipped. “Really?”
“It’s on the house.”
“Well, hell, you feed me and I’ll do just about anything.”
She tried to smile, but her nose hurt too much. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
20
Majid held a small flashlight between his teeth as he dipped under the yellow police tape attached to the doorway leading up to the second floor. Shining
the light on the stairs, he headed up to Morgana’s office. He’d worn a pair of soft deerskin gloves because he didn’t want to leave fingerprints.
The full moon looked as if it had been hung in the sky right outside the unshaded windows in the octagonal turret. Its weak light bathed the room in
silver. Switching off the flashlight, he pulled out the desk chair and sat down. The room reeked like a chicken that had been forgotten in the back of a
refrigerator and gone bad. On the blotter, as well as under his feet, the moonlight turned the bloodstains an inky black. He hadn’t expected anything quite
this visceral to remind him of what had happened. He sat for a moment, composing himself, buttoning back his emotions.
He’d always wondered what it would feel like to sit in the queen’s chair, to lean back and gaze around the kingdom—not to pretend to be in charge, but
to actually be in charge.
Majid drew back the top middle drawer and let his fingers trail lightly along a row of antique fountain pens. He selected the one Morgana had used most
often—a 1916 Parker with a hand-carved full gold overlay. He removed the cap, inspected it, made a few lines on the edge of a piece of stationery.
Almost like a paintbrush, the nib had lots of flex and allowed the ink to flow smoothly, evenly, with no scratchiness.
“A scepter,” he whispered.
Morgana had loved pens. He didn’t understand this minor obsession, although he liked this pen well enough. He clipped it inside the pocket of his
leather jacket. She also loved the color purple. The fountain pens were all filled with purple ink. The heavy permanent markers she used to write on her file
folders were purple. Even the ballpoints she insisted he buy for use in the downstairs gallery were ordered with purple ink.
Majid’s father had warned him years ago about women who favored purple—or lavender, or violet, or any incarnation thereof. He always seemed to
work the question of a favorite color into conversations he had with women. He felt the answer “purple” was like a neon sign flashing the words BALLBUSTING
BITCH. Women who loved purple were imperious, his father had said, despotic, thought of themselves as goddesses. In many ways, Morgana fit
the bill. She had lots of idiosyncrasies. Some of them were appealing, even fascinating. Some not so much.
The top drawer on the right side of the desk was filled with the usual office paraphernalia—a box of paper clips, a box of staples, tape, scissors, a few
purple felt-tip pens. The middle drawer contained stationery and envelopes. In the bottom drawer he found a bottle of premium Scotch and several shot
glasses. He knew the bottle would be there, unless one of the cops had taken it in for questioning.
On more than one occasion, he’d been offered a shot or two after the end of a “wicked long day,” as Morgana liked to call them. He lifted the bottle out,
set it on the desk, and stared at it, his eyes dry, his hands clammy under the gloves. Unscrewing the cap, feeling the moment like a heaviness in his
bones, he tipped the bottle back and took a swallow. It burned his throat and began, if ever so slowly, to untie the knot in his stomach. He held the bottle
up to the moonlight, saluting the oil portrait of Morgana hanging on the opposite wall.
“May Allah give you an easy and pleasant journey and shower blessings on your grave. Salaam.”
He took another swallow, and then another, and another, until a good third of the nearly full bottle was gone. He wiped the top off with his glove and set
the Scotch down on the floor next to the chair. Why put it away when he might want more?
He opened the top drawer on the left side—the only drawer on that side—and discovered a treasure trove of Morgana’s personal cosmetics: lipsticks,
powder, eyeliner, perfumes, other various and sundry potions and war paint. The perfume wafted lightly toward him, and for just a moment, he felt as if she
were there, standing next to him … but the chicken stink was too strong. It overpowered the vision and dissolved it.
Why did he feel so deeply? How had he let this happen?
Leaning forward, Majid picked up a framed photograph Morgana always kept on her desk. It was a snapshot of Irina and Misty when they were kids.
They sat together on the driver’s seat of a pontoon, arms around each other, mugging for the camera, with a shoreline covered in the confetti of fall foliage
in the background. It was an idyllic photo. Happiness, wealth, health, family. Irina couldn’t have been more than ten, Misty a few years younger. He tried to
see the future in their eyes, struggled to divine from their faces if they had any inkling at all of what life had in store for them. The answer, of course, was
no. No one knew what life would bring. Humans were at the mercy of providence, the stars, chance, luck. The future was nowhere written in stone, although
the past certainly was, cast as a sinful pillar of salt for all the world to see and revile.
Carefully, with a sense of great vigilance and solemnity, he set the frame back on the table. Then, with one lighting-swift sweep of his arm, he pitched
forward and sent everything on the desk crashing to the floor.
“God forgive us,” he whispered, his voice raw with anguish. “God forgive us all.”
21
Irina patted Dusty’s back as she walked around the bedroom, waiting for the little burp to signal that it was safe to put him down for his morning nap. He’d
been bathed, powdered, cuddled, and dressed in a clean organic cotton Onesie. She lifted him off her shoulder and kissed his forehead, then placed him
on his back in the crib and covered him with a thin cotton blanket.
“Mummy will be right back,” she said, smoothing his cheek with the backs of her fingers.
She walked briskly down the hall to Misty’s bedroom and threw back the door. “You promised you’d babysit Dustin this morning.” She felt no desire to
be nice. With beer cans littering the carpet, scuzzy people sitting around outside the house all day, and the constant late hours that caused Misty to sleep
until noon, she was driving Irina bananas.
“Chill,” mumbled Misty, rolling over and pulling the covers up over her head.
Irina found her sister’s morning mellowness intolerable.
“Get up,” she demanded. The ashtray on the once flawless nightstand overflowed with butts. The room smelled foul—sweat mixed with smoke mixed
with garlic mixed with the stale smell of beer.
“Sure thing, Kemo Sabe,” came Misty’s muttered response.
“This is important.” She yanked the blanket off her sister, let it drop to the floor.
“Jesus, are you nuts?” said Misty, pulling up a sheet to cover her nakedness. “Why are you being such a nasty-ass bitch?”
“I put Dusty down for his nap. I need to use your car again.”
“Sure, take the car. Take my credit cards. Take whatever you want. You seem to think you own the world.” She sat up in bed and ran a hand through her
tangled hair. Smacking her lips, she muttered, “I feel like hell.”
“You look like hell.”
She stifled a belch. “I never signed on for this crap. Did you call Steve?”
“No, and I don’t intend to.”
“I won’t babysit unless you call him.”
“I can’t,” said Irina, breezing out of the room. “I’m running late.”
“You never answer your phone, so he calls me,” Misty shouted after her.
Irina was in the kitchen now, drinking a glass of orange juice.
“I’m getting sick of it,” said Misty, stomping into the room. “I mean it. I won’t take care of your little … problem unless you promise to call him back.”
“All right, fine,” she said, setting her dirty glass in the sink. “I should be back in a couple of hours. Be sure to wear one of those white masks around the
baby. And don’t smoke around him, understood?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
* * *
Jane stood on the front steps of her father’s house, touching her nose and hoping the makeup she’d used would cover the worst of the bruising. It wasn’t
as black and blue as she’d thought it would be, but it was still visible.
The information she brought with her, the conversation she was about to have, made even the minimal breakfast she’d eaten condense into concrete
inside her stomach.
“Lord, what happened to you?” said her dad, a pained look crossing his face.
“Someone jumped me last night as I was about to get into my car.”
“Where?”
“At the Lyme House.”
He held the door open. “Are you okay? Who did it? Did you get a look at him? I assume you called the police.”
The questions came out so fast that for a second she felt like she was on the witness stand and he was interrogating her, even though she knew it was
concern. Digging her hands into her pockets, she said, “I’m fine, Dad. Why don’t we sit down.”
“I thought we’d talk in the sunroom.”
“Where’s Elizabeth?” she asked as they walked through the house, the home where she’d grown up.
“At church. If you want coffee, I just made a fresh pot.”
Jane had called her father late last night, telling him she needed to talk to him this morning. He replied that he had a golf date, but that if it was
important, he could always cancel. Something in her tone must have betrayed her. They knew each other too well. He guessed that it was about Chess
even before she said his name.
Settling herself on one of the two Morris chairs facing a series of multipaned windows overlooking the back garden, she waited for her dad to resume
his favorite glider. From the newspaper sections scattered around on the floor, she assumed that he’d been reading, drinking his morning coffee, and
eating his usual toast and orange marmalade, a habit he’d developed when the family had lived in England.
After he lifted his feet up on an ottoman, his eyes narrowed into a tight, concerned focus.
First things first, she decided. “I have something I need to tell you.” She seemed unable to find a comfortable position in a chair she’d always found so
comfortable.
“About Chess?”
“It’s not something I’m proud of.”
She started slowly, telling him how Cordelia and Chess had become friends after Chess got a part in a play she was directing. It didn’t take long for the
entire story—the marriage, the money, the lies—to come tumbling out.
Through the telling, her father sat motionless. She said everything that came into her head, saying too much, too quickly, her explanations turning into
rationalizations. She finally stopped—just stopped herself, too embarrassed to go on.
Her father remained silent for a few seconds, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I wish you’d never met that man. He’s a user. He used you then, and
he’s using you now.”
“He swears he had nothing to do with Dial’s murder. You’re meeting with him this afternoon, right?”
Her father picked up his cup of coffee, held it to his chest, but didn’t take a sip. “Quite honestly, Jane, I don’t know that I’m willing to represent him. I
didn’t like him when I met him at the birthday party on Friday night. I liked him even less yesterday. And now, after what you’ve just told me—” He shook his
head. “If he was a friend of yours, I would, of course, make the effort, but he’s not.”
Jane couldn’t exactly disagree.
“Also, as much as you may not want to hear this, he may be guilty.” Looking down into his cup, he continued, “I got a call a few minutes ago. Seems the
police have been sitting on something. I don’t know what it is, but it’s big. I’ll still meet with Chess this afternoon, but unless I hear something new, which I
very much doubt, I’m going to recommend he find another lawyer.”
“He doesn’t have any money.”
“Not my problem. And it’s not yours either.” Tapping his nose, he nodded to hers and said, “Are you going to tell me about that?”
She cleared her throat in preparation for a brave leap into a subject sure to upset her father even more. “Someone’s searching for Chess. I got caught
in the cross fire.” She explained about Lee spotting two men watching the Lyme House. “Nolan saw one of them sitting in a car outside my house. He
even chased the guy, but then lost him. Seems that these men think I’m still married to Chess.”
Her father’s frown deepened. “I don’t want you anywhere near that guy, is that clear? I’m going to demand that he never contact you again. With any luck
at all, he’ll be in jail by tomorrow on a murder charge. Then let’s pray these people, whoever they are, leave you alone. He’s bad news, Janey. Very bad
news. Are we on the same page?”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Same page, same paragraph, same line.”
22
Irina was relieved that Majid had made such great strides in reorganizing the first-floor gallery yesterday. If he hadn’t, she would never have been able to
meet with Chess and Julia Martinsen this morning. Unless Ms. Martinsen wandered into the smaller galleries—the three bedrooms that had been turned
into climate-controlled exhibition spaces—she would never know that anything was wrong. To that end, Irina made sure those doors were locked.
Sitting on the stool behind the front counter, feeling fortified after downing half a Sausage McGriddle and a Diet Pepsi, Irina flipped open the cell phone
that had been shrieking at her from inside her purse.
“Hello?”
“Honey?” came Steve’s tentative voice. “It’s me. How are you?”
He didn’t sound angry, he sounded concerned. She could have dealt with anger, but not this. She wanted to hang up. “I’m okay.”
“Are you? Really?”
“Aren’t you still angry at me for shooting up the bedroom?”
“Not after I saw where the guy got in. He cut the back door screen. Broke the window and threw the dead bolt. I’m proud of you for what you did.”
“You are?”
“You’re a brave woman. You’re even a pretty good shot. Most of the bullets actually hit the door.”
His comments caught her off guard. “Just a mama bear protecting her young.”
He remained silent for a few seconds. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Or Dustin?”
“Or … Dustin.”
He knew. Maybe he’d known all along.
“Come home.”
“I can’t.”
“Why, Irina? If you’re frightened, I can protect you.”
“But you’re leaving.”
“I won’t go.”
She wanted him to go. She wanted the chance to build a new life with Chess and their son. “I need more time.”
“Don’t freak on me, okay? Go ahead. Stay with Misty. Until we can, you know, get things resolved. Oh, there’s something I need to tell you. A woman
from the medical examiner’s office called about an hour ago. Your mother’s body will be released tomorrow afternoon. They need the name of the funeral
home you’re using. They said they’d make the call and arrange the transfer.”
Irina had so much to do—relatives to call, an obituary to write, the entire funeral to plan. Steve repeated the woman’s name and number while she wrote
it down on a piece of scratch paper.
“And your mom’s lawyer called last night,” continued Steve. “Something about getting you and Misty together to discuss the terms of the trust. Do you
have his number?”
Irina didn’t think any further discussion was necessary. She and Misty had both read the trust agreement many times. Getting together was a formality
she could live without. “I’ll take care of it.”
“So, I mean, could we have lunch or something? Tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Will you?”
His concern touched her. He had to know that their marriage was past the point of repair. Then again, a few days ago, she’d been waffling herself,
wondering what to do. Now her path was clear, as clear as little Dusty’s warm brown eyes. Her future was with Chess.
* * *
“Something wrong?” asked Julia.
Chess seemed on edge this morning. He turned and looked behind them as she pulled her Porsche into a parking space across the street from the
Morgana Beck Gallery of Antiquities.
“Wrong?” repeated Chess. He fixed her with a smile of great warmth. “Nothing’s wrong.” After hesitating a moment, he added, “Well, to be honest, I
thought I saw David’s car behind us.”
“David?”
“Let’s just say he’s an ex-lover and leave it at that.”
Now she got it. “Someone who lives here in town?”
“Alas, yes. It’s much too long a story and much too convoluted.”
He didn’t want to talk about his love life. Fine with her. She already had the beginnings of a bad headache brewing. “Say,” she said, switching off the
motor and removing the key, “speaking of ex-lovers, have you had a chance to put in a good word for me with Jane?”
This time his smile fairly twinkled. “We had a long talk last night. All about you.”
“Really? And?”
“She’s torn.”
“About what?”
“Oh, you know Jane. She keeps so much inside. But I got the feeling that she believes she had her chance with you and she blew it.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I think, if you want to get your relationship back on track, that you need to do a little old-fashioned romantic wooing. Take it slow and easy. We all know
Jane doesn’t like to be pushed.”
She was impressed that he understood Jane so well. They must have remained close, although if they had, Julia found it curious that Jane had never
mentioned his name. “So, what do you think? Should I bury her office in flowers?”
“No, no. That’s too overt. Try inviting her to dinner so she can see your new loft. I guarantee that if you don’t make a pass at her, it will drive her nuts.
Then find something only she can help you do. Reel her in inch by inch. Be sweet, caring, giving.”
The approach he suggested was exactly what she had in mind, and yet it was good to learn that Jane was open to something more than the barebones
friendship they currently enjoyed—or didn’t enjoy, as the case might be.
“You’ll keep working on her, right?” asked Julia.
“Count on it.”
“She must trust you.”
“I don’t want to overstate my influence, but yeah, I think she does.”
“Did you tell her I’m buying the seal and the bull from you?”
“No,” he said, opening the passenger door and looking around before getting out. Facing her over the hood of the car, Chess added, “I keep all
business private.”
Just what Julia wanted to hear. Information was power—and power led to getting what you wanted, what you deserved.
They waited for the traffic to thin and then dashed across the street. Julia hadn’t expected the gallery to be in an old duplex, although it shouldn’t have
come as a shock. Lots of businesses along Grand in St. Paul were located in houses. This one was a beauty, well maintained, an antique in its own right.
The sign in the window said CLOSED, but the door was open. Carrying his leather briefcase, Chess led the way through dozens of tall freestanding
displays to the back of the room. The walls were covered with lighted and mounted curio cabinets, paintings, masks, and every sort of ancient art.
Classical music set an intimate, cultured tone. Julia was impressed.
A petite, thirty-something woman in a black sheath dress, a gray linen blazer, and a bold black and white scarf tied in a French twist around her neck
stood behind a long glass counter. Chess introduced her as Irina Nelson, the daughter of Morgana Beck. Without the high-fashion clothes and discreetly
applied makeup, the woman would have been plain as a stump, even mousy. Her hair was wheat blond, straight, and wispy—not quite lank, but not far
from it. She was actually rather pretty if you looked carefully, but the deep circles under her eyes made her appear ill.
They shook hands, and then Chess removed the cylinder seal from the small wooden case. Irina took it from him and began her examination.
“This is quite fascinating,” she said, her tone a mixture of surprise and reverence.
“Babylonian,” said Chess.
“No, even older, I think. Sumerian.” She carried it over to a desk, sat down, and turned on a small halogen light. Holding the seal under an enlarging
glass, she studied it for several minutes, then removed a book from a shelf next to her and began to page through it. It took a while, but she eventually
appeared to find what she was looking for. Before she returned to the counter, she measured the seal, made notations on a legal pad, and then took
several Polaroid snapshots and a few digital pictures.
“Babylonian cylinder seals are mostly presentation scenes,” she said, setting the seal on a black velvet display pad. “Earlier seals were much more
creative, with a wider range of subject and theme. This one is somewhere between twenty-five hundred and three thousand years old. It’s an extraordinary
piece. Flying birds in rows, a temple gate, and what looks like a goddess picking fruit from a sacred tree. The tree is obviously a palm, not an apple tree,
but many scholars believe this is where the origin of the forbidden fruit story in Genesis first came from. The palm was sacred in Mesopotamia and the
Persian Gulf. For many reasons, civilization wouldn’t have been possible without it.”
“So, what’s it worth?” asked Julia, running a finger along the carved surface.
“Two hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand. You could always take it over to the Institute of Arts, talk to a curator over there if you want a second
opinion.”
Julia was relieved that Irina was the one to suggest a second opinion. It put some of her worst fears to rest. “Do you have any sort of accreditation as an
antiquities appraiser?”
Irina turned and gestured to a framed document hanging above the desk. “I’m an active member in good standing of the ISA, the International Society of
Appraisers. I completed their accreditation program in 1999. I travel regularly to international art fairs, such as the BAAF in Basel, Switzerland, and in
Brussels. My specialty is Holy Land antiquities. You can find all my credentials and more about me on our store Web site. Again, if you have any
concerns, I would urge you to get another appraisal.” Looking up at Chess, she asked, “How much are you asking for the seal?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Then, in my opinion, Ms. Martinsen, you’re getting a deal. Are you a private collector?”
“Not really. Although if I buy this, perhaps I can say it’s the beginning of a collection.”
“A worthy start,” said Irina. “If you have the money, it’s worth every penny.” Glancing at Chess, she added, “May I see the provenance papers?”
Chess removed a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her.
“Ms. Martinsen, do you have a card with your name and address on it? I need that information for the paperwork.”
Julia slipped one from a thin hammered-brass card holder.
Irina appeared to know what she was doing. Even so, Julia studied her for anything that seemed false. As Woody Allen once said, Paranoia is knowing
all the facts. Words to live by.
“Do you two know each other?” asked Julia, trying to make the question seem entirely casual.
“We met last year when I was in Istanbul on a buying trip,” said Irina, sitting back down at the desk to read through the papers.
“At a cocktail party,” said Chess. “It’s a big world, but the antiquities community is relatively small. If you don’t know the major players, at least you’ve
heard of them.”
For the next twenty minutes, Julia drifted around the gallery, examining everything on offer, from bronze axes to Roman amber glass cups to rings and
bracelets and necklaces and beads. She was examining a Gnostic magical amulet when she felt a stabbing pain behind her right eye. She knew the
signal. She would be spending at least part of the afternoon in bed.
Announcing that she was done, Irina stood again at the glass display counter and slid the provenance documents across to Julia along with her
authentication and a two-page appraisal. She’d signed at the bottom and dated it. She asked Chess to sign on the line under her name.
“If you decide to buy the seal, you can sign right here.” She pointed to the line next to BUYER. “I wish you the best of luck,” she added, unsmiling.
“May I borrow your pen?” asked Julia, removing her checkbook from her purse.
Chess touched her arm. “Have you talked to your financial adviser about this?”
“He advised me to wait and think about it, talk to a couple of his friends who are collectors. But that’s not necessary. I know what I want, and I want this.”
She signed the document with a quick scribble. “If you won’t take a personal check, I’d be happy to go to my bank in the morning and get you a cashier’s
check.”
“No, a personal check is fine,” said Chess.
Julia wrote it out, feeling a surge of excitement.
Chess put the check in the breast pocket of his gray linen sport coat. He patted the pocket and then grinned. “I’m thrilled for you.”
“Next up,” she said, smiling broadly, “the Winged Bull of Nimrud.”
23
Sunday afternoon didn’t go quite the way Chess had expected. After Julia dropped him off at the Caribou Coffee on Forty-sixth and Nicollet, he planned to
take a cab to Solera, a Spanish restaurant in the heart of downtown Minneapolis, which, according to everything he’d read in the local press, had the best
tapas and traditional paella this side of Madrid. He wanted to celebrate the sale of the seal, and what better way to do it than with fabulous food.
However, instead of veal meatballs in a spicy honey glaze, piquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese, and chorizo-stuffed dates with smoked bacon, he
received a call on his cell from Ray Lawless. Ray explained that the police wanted to talk to him again downtown. Unlike yesterday, Ray urged him to
make a show of cooperation. He said that he’d sit in on the interrogation and that afterward they could find a quiet corner and have a more complete
conversation.
So, less than an hour later, Chess was seated in a small, airless room with Jane’s dad, waiting for Sergeant Taylor to enter and start the grilling.
“Do you know what this is all about?” asked Chess, tapping his thumb and little finger rhythmically against the tabletop. The gesture betrayed his
nervousness, but he couldn’t stop himself. He felt keyed up. Apprehensive. The stony look on Ray’s face didn’t do much to alleviate his worry. The silver
hair and kindly expression made Jane’s dad appear approachable, even grandfatherly, but he seemed far less friendly today than he had yesterday.
“No idea,” said Ray. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Are you sure this is smart? Talking to the police, I mean.”
“If the questions are general, your cooperation will help to establish your innocence.”
Sounded like the party line, not what Chess expected from the man who was supposed to be his advocate.
Taylor entered a few minutes later, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He was so robust, his muscles so pumped, his manner so vigorous, that simply
looking at him made Chess feel old.
Taylor flipped a file folder open, studied it for a few seconds, then placed his arms on either side of it and looked up at Ray, then at Chess. “Mr. Garrity,
I have some questions I hope you can help me with. First, I want to thank you for coming down this afternoon.”
Chess couldn’t exactly say it was a pleasure, so he said nothing.
“Tell me how you met Melvin Dial.”
He glanced over at Ray.
Ray nodded, giving him the go-ahead.
Forcing himself to remain calm, he said, “I deal in antiquities. I work for a broker in Amsterdam—Jan Ostrander. I believe I first met Dial through Jan.”
“Antiquities,” repeated Taylor, chewing the word over. “Are you familiar with the Morgana Beck Gallery of Antiquities in St. Paul?”
“Sure.”
“Ever done business with Ms. Beck?”
“A couple of times.”
“Do you know her well?”
“She’s a business acquaintance.”
“Did you see her this trip?”
“No reason to.” He didn’t like the direction this was headed but figured he’d play along. At some point, if Ray didn’t stop him, he’d stop himself. Lawyers
didn’t know everything.
“The night Mr. Dial was murdered, where were you?” asked Taylor.
He looked at Ray again.
Ray nodded for him to continue.
Chess had already told a bunch of lies to Jane. He decided he might as well stick with them. He explained briefly about playing cards with Dial at his
house on Tuesday night, how he needed more cash because he was losing. So he took out his passport, where he always kept a couple of extra
hundred-dollar bills—but then what? He couldn’t remember what he’d told Jane he’d done with it. On the fly, he made up another story.
“The card table had a small drawer in it. I slipped my passport into the drawer, just for safekeeping.” Again he admitted that he was pretty drunk but
stressed that when he left the house, Dial was fine. It wasn’t until the next day that he realized his passport was still back at Dial’s house. He went to get it
around noon, found the front door open, and walked inside. Dial was gone. He thought it was strange that the door was unlocked but figured Dial had just
forgotten. He looked in the drawer, but the passport wasn’t there. He figured Dial had put it somewhere else, somewhere safer. He wasn’t worried
because Dial had said he’d call on Wednesday afternoon so they could set up another time to play. He jokingly called it a revenge match.
“Dial was being magnanimous,” added Chess with a grim smile. “Said he’d give me a chance to get my money back.”
“How much did you lose?” asked Taylor.
“A thousand, give or take.”
“Were you good friends with Melvin Dial?”
“Cardplaying and drinking buddies.”
“But never business?”
That was a tricky question. “Sure, over the years I’d sold him a few things. He was a collector. You probably already know that.”
“Why are you in town, Mr. Garrity?”
Chess shrugged. “I’m from the Midwest, born in Chicago, went to the U of M for a few years. I wanted to come back and see what my old stomping
grounds looked like.”
“A walk down memory lane.”
“If you like.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m always on the lookout for interesting antiquities.” He wasn’t sure, but he had the sense that Taylor was fishing.
Glancing back down at the open folder in front of him, Taylor turned a page and then looked up. “Are you aware that Morgana Beck was murdered on
Wednesday night, the night after Melvin Dial was killed?”
Chess used every ounce of his acting skills to look shocked. “I had no idea.”
“Where were you that night?”
He scratched the side of his head, looked down. “I went to a movie at the Riverview Theater. Slumdog Millionaire was showing. Seems everyone has
seen it but me. It started around seven. I came out about nine.” That much was true. He’d needed something to do that night until he could meet up with
Irina and get back into Dial’s house. “I ended up having dinner at a Mexican restaurant right next door. Sorry, I don’t remember the name.”
“Pepito’s. Do you have a credit card receipt?”
“Paid cash. I didn’t think I’d need an alibi,” he added, salting the statement with just the right amount of disgust. “Are you suggesting I murdered both
Dial and Beck? You think I’m some sort of serial killer?” He glanced over at Ray for support.
Ray’s eyes bored into his.
Taylor straightened the file in front of him and then folded his hands on top of it. “So, you had nothing to do with Melvin Dial’s death. No part in dumping
his body in Minnehaha Park.”
“None.”
“He was fine when you left him Tuesday night.”
“He walked me to the door, shook my hand, slapped me on the back.”
“You were both feeling no pain.”
“True.”
“Was Dial feeling so little pain that he let you take his billfold with him when you left? All his credit cards? His driver’s license?”
Oh God, thought Chess, slamming against a truth he couldn’t talk his way out of. He’d been in such a hurry to leave Jane’s house that he’d forgotten.
“I think we’d better stop there,” said Ray.
“You told Dial’s neighbor that you’d taken him to the airport and that you were watering his plants for him while he was gone.”
“No, I—”
“Why did you say that?” demanded Taylor. He didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll tell you why. You knew he was dead because you killed him. The neighbor
noticed that his mail was piling up, and you had to tell him something to make him think everything was okay.”
“No, no—”
“But you made a couple of big mistakes. First, you dropped your passport in the grass when you dumped his body, a passport that had Dial’s blood on
it. Second, you removed Dial’s wallet after you knifed him. We found the wallet taped to the back of a mirror in Ms. Lawless’s third-floor apartment, the
apartment you’ve been staying in for the past couple of days.”
Chess felt all the blood drain from his face. He’d been hiding it from Jane, just in case she came up to snoop through his stuff. In all the chaos of
packing so quickly, he’d never given it another thought.
“I had no reason to kill Dial. None. What was my reason? Tell me.”
Ray placed a hand on Chess’s shoulder. “Unless you’re arresting Mr. Garrity, this conversation is over.”
Taylor closed the folder. A uniformed officer entered the room.
“Stand up,” ordered Taylor.
“What’s happening? Ray?”
The uniformed officer handcuffed Chess’s hands behind his back.
“Chess Garrity,” said Taylor, his voice flat, “I am arresting you on a probable cause warrant in the murder of Melvin Dial.”
“You mean I’m going to jail? I can’t. Ray, tell him.”
Instead of coming to his defense, Ray removed his hand.
* * *
While Irina was giving the appraisal, Majid had been sitting on the basement steps watching a spider build a web at the edge of the doorway. He didn’t
want her to know he was there. He hadn’t expected her to show up on a Sunday morning, so thought it was safe to spend some more time cleaning. As
soon as she’d left and locked up, he stood, removed a dust rag from his back pocket, and squashed the spider, sweeping the web away.
Crossing into the showroom, he sat down behind the desk. The papers were still spread across the top, so out of curiosity, he switched on the halogen
light to examine the Polaroids. The image of the palm tree caught his eye.
Turning to the bookshelf next to him, he examined a series of reference volumes until he found what he was looking for. He paged through an
exhaustive index and finally located the words “Kings of Sumer,” then drew his finger down until “Adab, Dynasty of” appeared.
“What are you up to now?” he whispered, absorbed immediately by his search.
24
Unable to concentrate at work, Jane came home early on Sunday evening to cut the grass. She was relaxing on the back steps, cooling off with a cold
beer, when her father walked in through the backyard gate. By the solemn look on his face, she knew he hadn’t come with good news.
“Hi,” she said, easing off the steps, brushing grass off her jeans.
“Don’t get up.”
“Want a beer?”
He leaned an arm against the iron railing. “No thanks. How’s the nose feel?”
“I think it will live.” She sat back down.
Mouse, who’d been rolling on the grass under the oak, tore himself away long enough to trot over and bury his muzzle in her father’s hands, demanding
a scratch.
“Hey there, big guy.” He rubbed him energetically, from fore to aft.
“He’s putty in your hands,” said Jane, tipping back the beer bottle. She hadn’t had much to eat today, so one beer had given her a nice buzz.
Her father took off his sport coat and folded it over his arm, then sat down next to her. “Chess is being held on a probable cause warrant in Melvin Dial’s
murder.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Taylor believes he’s guilty, but he wants more time to make his case. He may also be afraid that Chess was about to bolt. My guess is that Taylor is
doing his best to link Dial’s murder to the murder of Morgana Beck, an antiquities dealer in St. Paul. Have you heard about her?”
“I saw something on the news the other night. She owned a gallery.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on, but Chess is definitely in the thick of it.” He pulled his tie away from his collar and unbuttoned the top button of his
shirt. “Seems Chess hid Dial’s wallet upstairs in your third-floor apartment. The cops found it. If that isn’t the final nail in his coffin, I don’t know what would
be.”
“How did he explain it?”
“He didn’t.”
“Did you tell him you’re pulling out, that you’re not going to represent him?”
His gaze moved to the top of the oak tree. “As it turns out, it’s not that simple. The police can keep him for seventy-two hours on a probable cause
warrant. After that, he will either be charged or released. If he’s charged, bail will be set at an arraignment. Chess wants out. That’s all he’s interested in.
Doesn’t matter how much it costs.”
Jane heard the note of wariness in her dad’s voice. “But he doesn’t have any money.”
“He has a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Where’d he get that?”
“He sold something. He said that once he’s out, it would take a day or two to clear his bank, and then he could pay me back.”
“You? He wants you to put up the bail money?”
“Me or you. Doesn’t matter to him.”
“Why on earth would we do that?”
“Because—” His jaw tightened. “He’s your husband.”
“You mean was my husband.”
“No, honey. He still is. Did you ever really look at the divorce decree he sent you?”
She stared at him, her mouth open. “Are you telling me it was no good?” She erupted off the steps. “That the divorce was a sham?”
He reached for her hand.
“I don’t believe you.” She backed up. “I don’t believe him. Why would he want to stay married to me?”
“You’ll have to ask him that. Do you have a copy of the decree? I need to see it.”
She felt a nauseating heat rise in her throat. “It’s in my study.” Rushing into the house, she found the folder marked MARRIAGE/DIVORCE in the filing cabinet
and brought it back to him. She crouched in the grass, biting a nail, waiting.
“The marriage was legal,” said her father, removing his reading glasses after examining all the papers, “but the divorce documents are worthless. I’m
sure he bought them.”
“So what does that mean? Does he own half of my restaurants? My house? My investments?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure about that. It’s not my area of law. I’ll have to check with a family law attorney.”
“Are you kidding me? There’s even a possibility of that? How do I get rid of him?”
“Jane, listen. This could get messy. That’s why I agreed to help him. We need to keep him happy until I can figure the best way out for you.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I am still married to that bastard? Do you know how much he’s screwed up my life? I’ve got people
following me around, people staking out my restaurant. Someone attacked me last night. Now I find out he might be able to grab half of everything I’ve
worked for my entire life? I’m supposed to just stand here and take that?”
“For now, yes.”
“But why send me fake divorce papers? Was he planning this all along?”
Her father’s usual confidence seemed to have vanished. “I don’t have the answer to that, but I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. I’ll call as soon
as I learn anything. For the time being, why don’t you stick around the house. The restaurants can get along without you for a few days.”
“Sure.”
“Call Cordelia. Have her bring Hattie and Mel over. You can watch a movie together, order a pizza. I don’t want you to worry or be frightened. We’ll
figure this out.”
She wasn’t frightened. Not anymore. She was furious.
* * *
Irina had called Chess several times on Sunday afternoon and left messages, only to be sitting on the braided rug at the foot of her son’s crib in their
commandeered bedroom hours later, with no response. She wasn’t sure how worried she should be. His cell phone could be out of juice, or he could have
misplaced it. There was always the possibility, she supposed, that he’d pocketed the check from Julia Martinsen and taken off for greener pastures. Yet
she resisted the idea. He said he loved her. She had to trust that love.
Dusty wiggled on his back under an infant activity gym, his pudgy arms grasping at colorful rattles and soft squeeze toys. Since he was so happily
occupied, she tried calling Chess again. After six rings, his voice mail picked up. She leaned her back against the bed frame, closed the phone, and
considered what to do next.
Misty had left the house with one of her disgusting male friends around four. Because Irina didn’t have a babysitter, she was trapped at home. She
hated herself for feeling that way. Dustin was a gift, and it was her responsibility to care for him and make sure he thrived.
The doorbell rang.
Thinking it was okay to leave him on the floor under the gym, Irina got up and dashed into the living room, finding the usual mess. Picking up empty beer
cans on her way to the door, she spotted Steve’s truck through the front window. He looked oddly subdued when she drew back the door and found him
standing on the front steps.
“I thought maybe you’d let me take you out for dinner.”
Food sounded good, but without Misty to babysit, it was impossible. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave Dusty here by himself. You know that.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, thought it over. “Let’s take him with us.”
“It’s not safe.”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “He’s got to go out sometime. Why not tonight?”
“But the germs.”
“Listen to me, honey. I read something yesterday that said kids need to get used to germs. Being exposed to them actually makes their immune
systems stronger.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him. It might be just another one of his ploys to get her to do something she knew was wrong.
“Come on. We need to talk, and by the looks of you, you need to eat.”
“What’s wrong with the way I look?”
“Nothing,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.
The familiar aftershave pulled her in. The strength in his arms eased the tension inside her. She hated herself for being so weak, for needing a man to
lean on.
“Can’t you, just for a couple hours, bend a few of your rules? I miss you. I want to help you, if you’ll let me.” He gave her his best lopsided grin.
She did have that new car seat, but she still wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. Turning toward the doorway into the kitchen, she saw that the
counter was covered in plates with half-eaten sandwiches, boxes of cereal, open jars of food, empty Campbell’s soup cans, coffee mugs, banana peels,
and more beer cans. The sink was mounded high with dirty dishes. Misty was using the place as a crash pad and nothing more. This was no place for her
and Dusty.
“I’ll change my clothes.”
“Great,” said Steve, rubbing his hands together. “Anywhere you want to go is fine with me—as long as it serves steak.”
As she walked past the couch, she noticed that her purse was sticking out from behind one of the pillows.
“Something wrong?” asked Steve.
Misty must have been going through it. Irina picked it up, flipped the top back, and drew out her pocketbook.
“You lose something?” asked Steve.
“Everything seems to be here.”
“Misty wouldn’t steal from you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
As if he knew Misty as well as she did. She wasn’t sure why he was coming to her sister’s defense, because, if history served, he didn’t even like her.
She stuffed her pocketbook back into her purse, next to the sunglasses she’d found at the gallery. Pulling them out, she held them up. “These yours?”
“Hey, I thought I’d lost them. Where’d you find them?”
She stepped into the hallway, glancing into the bedroom to make sure Dusty was still okay on the floor. “At the gallery.”
A guilty look passed over his face.
“You went there?” she asked.
“Your mom called me last Monday, asked me to stop by.”
“Mom called you? About what?”
He sat down on the edge of a chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Just stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Why do you always push so hard?”
“Because I like to know what the people in my life are saying about me behind my back.”
“Why do you assume she wanted to talk about you?”
“Did she?”
He looked down, shrugged. “She was concerned about our marriage.”
“Why would she talk to you and not me?”
“She tried talking to you, Irina, tons of times, but every time she did, you blew her off.”
This was the last straw. “I don’t need people in my life who can’t support me.”
“Since your mother’s dead, I assume that means me.”
“I think you’d better leave.”
He stood, the muscles along his jawline tightening. “If that’s what you want. But first, answer one question. If a person doesn’t agree with you completely,
with all your choices, all your opinions and every other little goddamn thing you do, does that mean he doesn’t support you? Or love you?”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“Listen to yourself. The closer we get to actually having a real conversation about the issues in our marriage—our lives—the higher you build a wall. You
cut off all discussion by saying that I don’t love you, or that I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t.”
“Irina—”
“I know where you’re headed. We’re talking about Dusty now, right? You don’t think I’m taking care of him properly. You think I’m losing my grip on
reality.”
“Not losing, Irina. Lost.”
“Okay, so let’s talk about the real issue here. The one we’ve been skirting since the day he was born.” She hesitated, knowing that when she said the
words out loud, she could never take them back. “You’re not his father. You know it and you hate me—and Dustin—for it.”
She couldn’t read his expression, but when he started to laugh, she got angry.
“You think it’s funny that I slept with another man? His name is Chess Garrity. I met him on the trip I took last year to Istanbul.”
That stopped him. “You actually … you mean—”
“I love him and he loves me.”
“This is for real? He’s for real?”
“He’s an antiquities dealer, an American who lives in Istanbul and Amsterdam.”
“Antiquities,” he repeated, a frown forming. “A friend of your mother’s?”
“She knew him, but not that we were in love. As a matter of fact, he’s here in town right now. He came to ask me to marry him. I gave him my answer this
last night. He loves me, Steve, which is more than I can say for you. He’s proud to have such a handsome son.”
There it was again, the look she couldn’t read. Not that she cared. Not everything she’d told him was the absolute truth, but it was close enough.
Misty burst through the front door looking flushed and buoyant. “I picked up Mom’s wheels,” she said, pointing out the window at the Audi Roadster
parked in front of the house, behind Steve’s truck. She rattled a set of keys. “Drives like a dream. Think I’ll keep it.”
“Who told you you could have Mom’s car?” demanded Irina.
“Nobody,” said Misty, giving Steve a wink, “but it was going to get a ticket if it sat there on Grand much longer.” She dumped her two sets of keys on the
coffee table in the living room and headed into the kitchen.
Irina picked up both sets. She recognized the one that had belonged to her mother because of the custom leather key fob. Misty had only three keys on
hers. A house key, a key to her trashy Cougar, and, much to Irina’s surprise, a key to the gallery.
Her sister sauntered back into the living room, taking a swig from a can of beer. “What did I miss?” she asked, throwing herself onto the couch. “You
two look supremely jolly.”
“Walk me out to my truck,” said Steve.
Misty glanced at Irina, stuck out her tongue, then got up and followed him out.
Irina watched through the front picture window as her husband, clearly upset, talked animatedly to her sister. Before he climbed into his truck, the two of
them embraced. They were generally civil to each other, but this was the first time she’d ever seen them express any physical affection. It startled her. It
startled her even more when the embrace went on long past the point of a simple cheer-up hug.
25
“Still married?” Cordelia choked the last word through the phone line. “Is this a joke?”
“I wish it were,” said Jane, holding her cordless between her shoulder and ear as she searched through the refrigerator, trying to figure out if she had
the makings for a quiche Lorraine. Apparently, outrage made her hungry.
“This rarely happens to me, Janey. I’m speechless.”
“I’m sure your ability to communicate will return momentarily.”
“Stop all that rattling.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need to make something to eat.”
“At a time like this?”
“Nothing I learned from my dad changes the fact that I’m hungry.”
After showering and changing into fresh clothes, Jane had come downstairs into the kitchen and called Cordelia. She’d needed a reality check. Okay,
so Cordelia wasn’t necessarily the best choice for that, but she was home and therefore available to talk.
“What are you making?”
“A quiche Lorraine. I’ve got everything but Swiss or gruyère. I do, however, have an excellent Grafton Vermont cheddar, which should do just fine.”
“Not if you run into a French chef.”
“There aren’t any French chefs around the house at the moment, and besides, French cooking is all about theme and variations. I think the Cordon Bleu
would even approve, or at the very least grant me a dispensation.”
“Should we put out a contract on Chess’s life?”
“I knew you’d come up with a workable plan.” She looked through a drawer for a cheese grater. “Did I tell you somebody jumped me last night as I was
about to get in my car? I almost got my nose broken.”
“Last night? I saw you last night when I brought Val to the restaurant.”
“It happened later. When I was on my way to my car. The guy was looking for Chess. Since I’m still his little woman—”
“You think they know that?”
“The guy called me his wife.”
“I’m coming over. We need to figure out a plan of attack.”
“No plans of attack, remember? I’m letting Nolan and the police figure this one out. I’ve got enough on my hands trying to protect my assets from from a
lying ex-friend.” The cell in her back pocket vibrated. “Hold on. I’m getting another call. Hello,” she said, pressing the cell to her other ear. Both ears were
now covered.
“Jane, hi, it’s Julia.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Who is it?” demanded Cordelia.
“Just stick a sock in it until I’m done.”
“What?” said Julia.
“I was talking to someone else.”
“Are you alone?”
“Actually, I am.”
“And you’re talking to someone?”
“To explain would take too much time.”
“Explain what?” said Cordelia.
“Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to come over, see my new loft tonight,” said Julia. “If you haven’t eaten, I could make us dinner. Nothing elaborate.
Maybe a Caesar salad. Bread. Wine. It’s a beautiful evening. We could eat on the balcony. I guess I’m feeling a little lonely and thought it might be nice to
have some company.”
Several responses presented themselves. First, Jane could say, “Are you kidding? Cordelia says you’re a predator and I should stay away from you.”
Or she could say, “I’m the last person on earth to help you with your loneliness.” Or she could simply grab the nearest crucifix and hold it in front of the
phone.
“Tell you what,” said Jane, thinking the invitation sounded just dandy. She needed to get out of the house, stop grinding her teeth, and try to develop a
little perspective. “I’m making a quiche. What if I prep it here and we bake it at your place? I assume the new loft came with an oven.”
“New loft,” said Cordelia. “Who has a new loft?”
“Yes, Jane, I have an oven.”
“Whoever it is, get rid of them,” said Cordelia. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Great,” said Julia. She repeated the address and then said good-bye.
“You’ll be where in half an hour?” demanded Cordelia. “I thought I was coming over.”
“Julia’s invited me to see her new loft.”
“And you’re going? Janey, you need to see a doctor. Bumps on the head can be dangerous.”
“I got bumped on the nose. What does the Mayo Clinic say about that?”
“I’m going to come over there to sit on you.”
“I’ll be gone before you get here. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Don’t you hang up.”
Jane hung up.
* * *
While Julia finished up in the kitchen, Jane stood on the balcony, breathing in the night air and enjoying the last rays of the peach-colored sunset over
Lake Calhoun. It had been the right decision to come. She needed to change gears, to put some psychological distance between herself and Chess’s
betrayal. Julia wasn’t part of the problem, and that made a certain amount of relaxation possible.
Stepping back inside, Jane found Julia sitting at the piano, paging through some sheet music. “I haven’t heard you play in years,” she said, sitting down
on one of the matching love seats.
“I’m out of practice.”
“That’s what you always used to say.”
“It was never truer than it is right now.” She thought for a moment. “Here’s something.”
Jane picked up her wineglass and leaned back against the cushions. She didn’t recognize the piece but enjoyed watching Julia. How could there not
be a connection after the kind of love they’d once shared? It wasn’t love anymore—and yet it was something. It meant something.
When the last note sounded and Julia removed her hands from the keys, Jane asked what the song was.
“Mozart. One of his piano sonatas. I have a book of them my mother left me.”
“I’ve never heard you play so beautifully.”
“It’s the piano.”
“Only partly.” She’d noticed a certain strain in Julia’s eyes during dinner. “Are you feeling okay? You just picked at your food. Or maybe you don’t like my
cooking.”
“I have a headache. I’ve been having a lot of them lately.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Several. And I’ve had tests done. So far, everything has come back normal.”
“Except you’ve still got the headaches. Must be frustrating.”
“Everything about being sick is frustrating. I took something for the pain, but it’s not helping much.”
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Moderate.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“I’ll have the headache either way. No, stay. I had another reason for asking you to come by tonight.” She nodded to a wooden box on the coffee table. “I
bought myself a present this morning. I wanted to show it off.”
Jane leaned forward and opened the box. Inside was a piece of carved stone, about two inches high and maybe three-quarters of an inch thick. “Looks
old.”
“It is. It’s a Sumerian cylinder seal.” She explained everything she knew about it, ending by saying that she’d bought it from Chess. “I met him at your
dad’s birthday party the other night.”
“And he used the opportunity to sell you this?” She wondered how many other people he’d cornered.
“He said he sold antiquities, so I asked him to come by the loft yesterday morning. He didn’t twist my arm, if that’s what you’re thinking. I got it
appraised this morning.”
“Where?”
“The Morgana Beck Gallery in St. Paul. It’s highly reputable. I asked around, called a few people. The woman who did the appraisal encouraged me to
take it over to the Institute of Arts to have one of their curators give me a second opinion.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Chess had proof of provenance. Irina Nelson, Morgana Beck’s daughter, does this all the time. She’s licensed. Very professional.”
Chess was accused of murdering Melvin Dial. The police were trying to connect the murder of Dial to Morgana Beck. This was sounding more and
more fishy, not to say coincidental. “If you don’t mind my asking, how much did you pay for it?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You act like I got taken.”
Jane looked down at the seal cradled in her palm. “I don’t know how to say this, other than to just come right out with it. Chess is not somebody I’d trust.”
“What do you mean? He’s staying with you. You’ve been … friends for years.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“That and a lot more.”
“Like what?”
Julia hesitated, rising from the piano bench and picking up her wineglass. Folding herself onto the love seat across from Jane, she said, “He said he
could tell that I cared about you, so he confided that he was worried about you, that you seemed … lost.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t get angry. He loves you a lot. He told me you two had once been married.”
“What?”
“Was he lying?”
Jane moved to the edge of her seat. It was all she could do not to get up and start screaming. “No, he wasn’t lying. He was manipulating. Gaining your
confidence with a confidence of his own.”
“Are you telling me that the seal is fake?”
“Honestly, Julia, I have no idea. I’m not sure you do either.”
“But the appraisal—”
“Morgana Beck was murdered on Wednesday night.”
Julia stared back blankly. “I didn’t know that. But what’s it got to do with the seal? And with Chess?”
“Another man, a collector, was murdered the night before. His name was Melvin Dial. Chess is being held on suspicion—”
“He’s in jail?”
“The police think he murdered Dial, and they’re trying to link it to the murder of Morgana Beck.”
“But … that can’t be. If he murdered her, why would her daughter be so friendly with him?”
“It’s a good question, one I can’t answer.”
Julia looked around the room, pressing a couple of fingers against her forehead. “He wanted to sell me something else. The Winged Bull of Nimrud. He
showed me a picture.”
Jane almost laughed out loud. “Sounds like something from a Harrison Ford movie.” Then she remembered one of the questions her attacker had
asked last night. Something about a bull.
“He gave me a picture of it,” said Julia.
“Can I see it?”
“You can have it.” She nodded to a small brass box on an end table.
Jane removed a snapshot and leaned toward a row of candles on the coffee table. “He said this thing was real?”
“And enormously valuable.”
“How much did he want for it?”
“A million two hundred and fifty thousand.” Her eyes hardened. “Nobody swindles me and gets away with it. I’ll cancel the check. There’s nothing he
could do with it today because it’s Sunday.”
“You wrote him a personal check?” It must be the one her father had told her about—Chess’s financial ace in the hole. Now Julia was about to cancel it.
Jane felt like a kid at Christmastime who’d just been give the biggest, baddest gift in the world.
“First thing in the morning, I’ll call my bank.” Julia finished her wine. “Tell me something. Did he ever talk to you about me?”
“You mean about selling you the seal?”
“No, just in general.”
“Why would he?”
She ran a finger along the top of her wineglass. “No reason.”
* * *
Majid glanced at a menu, sitting at a table by the windows. When the waitress finally appeared—she’d been standing by the open kitchen, talking to one
of the cooks—he ordered a cheeseburger and fries and asked for a refill on his coffee. She acted as if he were a weirdo for ordering a burger at a Greek
restaurant, but it was on the menu, so screw her.
Pushing the empty mug around in his hand, he looked back at the woman who had seated him. She stood next to the cash register talking to a man and
a woman who were paying their bill. Majid couldn’t use the phone at the gallery, and he couldn’t use his cell. That’s why he’d driven here so late on a
Sunday night. The waitress was probably pissed at him because he’d come fifteen minutes before closing time. If she didn’t lighten up, he could easily
linger over his meal for hours. He’d brought a book.
Once the customers had left, Majid pushed away from the table and walked over to the counter. “Could I use your house phone? I need to make a call.”
The woman handed him a cordless as she rang up the sale.
He removed a sheet of scratch paper from his vest pocket and punched in the number. Stepping over to a bench in the front foyer, he sat down. He’d
already decided to use an accent. He might sound like a Texan, but his mother spoke with an Iranian accent softened by years of living in Britain. He had
a good ear and could slip into it with no effort at all.
“Hello?” said the woman’s voice.
“Is this Julia Martinsen?”
“Who’s calling?”
“You bought the Sumerian cylinder seal, yes?”
“Who are you?”
“It was stolen from the Baghdad Museum in Iraq. You must return it. You must not keep it. Do you understand me?”
“Stolen? You mean it’s real?”
“Very real, madam. If you thought it was not real, why did you purchase it?”
“I … who are you?”
“A friend. Do what is right. You will be cursed if you do not.”
He hadn’t planned that last bit, it just came out. Smiling to himself, he hung up and handed the phone back and then went to his table to eat his burger.
Slowly.