False Impressions (24 page)

M
adeline did nothing that morning to quell my suspicions. She was certainly acting different. Again.

She seemed nervous, sometimes confused, sometimes surprised. What she was surprised about, I didn’t know. She was distracted when I came in. Barely said hello.
Where was the team?
I wondered.

“So,” I said, following her into her office and leaning on the door as she sat at her black lacquer desk. “I spoke with Mayburn again before I came in. He thinks it’s time to bring in the police.”

He hadn’t actually insisted or anything, just mused that maybe some official art authorities—if there were any—should be consulted eventually. But I wanted to see what Madeline’s reaction would be.

Madeline looked at me, blinking, then at something on her desk—an invite from another gallery, it appeared.

“In fact,” I said, trying to catch her attention. “He thinks it should be soon. Jacqueline Stoddard must know more about the forgeries than she’s telling us. After all, she has a lot of contacts in the art world. And you know that detective who arrested me? Vaughn. We could use him. I actually believe he can be discreet.” I thought about being in the back of that car during the blizzard, the plastic seat. “And I figure he owes me.”

Madeline had appeared mildly amused the last time I mentioned Vaughn, but now she looked fearful. She looked at me directly. “No.”

“No?” I stood a little straighter.

“Not yet. No.”

I tucked a lock of hair behind my ears. “Then when?”

“I’m not sure.” She returned her eyes back to the invitation, but she didn’t seem to be truly reading it. She cocked her head a little.

My thoughts turned to where Madeline was—the Madeline of yesterday, the one who had kissed me. Were we even going to deal with that? Truthfully, I was okay with a little avoidance on that issue, but what was going on here?

Was it possible that the whole kissing thing was just a ploy? A way to play me, and draw any suspicions from her?

Madeline picked up her phone. “Izzy, I have to talk to someone,” she said. “I printed out the shipping manifests. Could you review those at home?”

“I could…” I said, hesitantly. “Why?”

“I’ve got a designer coming in. He’ll be in the back room here, and I don’t want him to see them and start asking questions.”

Sounded reasonable enough.

Madeline looked at the door. And her meaning was clear.
Time for you to go.

I left. Not because she wanted me to, but because I had to talk to someone, as well.

60

T
he Belmont Police Station had to be one of the ugliest stations in the country—brown and squat, it sat beneath a highway underpass, as if the city found its presence distasteful and had dumped it there to keep it out of sight.

The station was near the secret club that Madeline had taken me to, the one haunted by the art crowd. As I’d seen Maggie do before, I pulled into a parking space marked
Police.
Apparently (ironically) such spots were known as the few places in the city from which they never towed.

Plus, I was there to
see
the police. That visit to the station was the first time I noticed a sculpture, big, colorful and rounded, that had been installed in front of the station. I’d never given it much notice before, but now I stopped and tried to take it in and appreciate it.

But I kept thinking of Madeline and her strange behavior that morning.

I took a breath, tried to open my eyes and really see the sculpture, its curves.

Still, Madeline—suspicions, questions and a growing feeling of distrust. I thought about Syd.
Did he have anything to do with Madeline’s change of heart? Had she seen him last night after we’d spoken to Jacqueline?
According to a plaque, the name of the sculpture was…

Nope, I couldn’t do it. I needed some help.

I turned away and headed toward the entrance of the station.

Then, I stopped again and texted Mayburn to let him know where I was—just in case Vaughn decided to randomly arrest me again.

But this time, I was the one coming to find Vaughn. When I’d called from my car, I’d been told by the front desk that Vaughn was in the office and would see me. But ten minutes later I was still tapping my fingernails on the counter.

The uniformed officer glanced at my hand, then at me.

“Sorry,” I said, taking a step back.

Finally, Vaughn sauntered into the lobby. He wore a blue buttoned-down shirt, pressed brown pants and a shoulder holster. I looked down and noticed surprisingly attractive brown boots.

He gestured across the hallway, where there was a small conference/interview room. “In here okay?” He sounded surprisingly nice.

When we were in the room, he nodded toward a small desk. I sat. A closed laptop was bolted to the top. I leaned my elbows next to it. “Thanks for seeing me. I need you to answer a hypothetical. That’s the main reason I’m here.”

“And the other reason?”

“Figuring out what in the hell happened the other night.”

I stopped, sat back, so he could jump in and apologize.

He didn’t say anything.

“Okay, let’s start there. With the other night,” I said. “On one hand I get it—you Chicago cops are always looking out for your own, and you have buddies who are bar owners. And they had some girl who didn’t pay the cover. Fine. Why did
you
have to handle it? I don’t know.”

He coughed, seemed like he was going to say something, but stopped.

“What?” I prompted.

He sighed.

“What?”

“I do have a lot of buddies who are bar owners, and they have been calling me more frequently.”

“Why?”

He shook his head; he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You know, since the breakup.”

“Oh, I see. Are they trying to get you
in
the bars so you can pick up chicks?”

He glared at me. But he didn’t correct me.

“So you could meet women,” I said, revising.

This time he nodded.

“Ah,” I said. “How’s that going?”

He shook his head again.

“Okay, fine,” I said. “So they call with the excuse that a blonde didn’t pay the cover. They get you away from your beat where you can maybe meet some girls, and then…”

He didn’t explain.

“What were you thinking?”

“Initially? That the blonde was hot.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice.” I shifted on the chair. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But then you realized it was me.”

“Yeah.”

“And you got this disgusted look on your face. What was that about?”

He sighed. “I was thinking that you get to have all the fun.”

“
I
get to have all the fun? Like last year when you were accusing me of murder? That was a big bowl of fun cherries.”

He paused. Glared. “I guess it’s just that everything works out for you.”

“Oh, that’s rich. Did you notice I’m not engaged like I was when I met you last year? That the boyfriend I had after that relationship is now out of the country? Did you notice that I’m not employed by that huge law firm anymore?” Truthfully, I was glad I wasn’t at Baltimore & Brown, but I wasn’t about to tell Vaughn that.

He said nothing.

“So, why arrest me, when you realized it was me?”

His head was hanging low now. “It’s so fucked up. I’m embarrassed.”

I was about to say,
You
should
be embarrassed.

“It’s like I don’t know how to date anymore,” he said, speaking faster than I’d heard. “I don’t…” He looked around the room as if searching the walls for words. “Okay, here it is…” He exhaled, didn’t look at me, but he kept going. “It’s like I don’t know how to talk to women without the shield of my badge and my marriage.”

My eyebrows drew together, thinking of something. “Oh. You said you thought I looked hot that night. You arrested me, when you knew it was me…so we could spend time together?”

A mere nod.

“Dude, that is
so
flubbed up.” The swear word replacement wasn’t working. “
So
fucked up,” I corrected.

Nothing from Vaughn.

“Look,” I said, feeling bad for him. “I have a buddy, Grady, from my old law firm. He’s got a girlfriend now, but he’s always been quite the ladies’ man. Maybe I can put you two together for a beer, and he can give you some tips.”

More glaring, more head hanging. Why,
why,
had I said that?

“Why don’t we table this part of the discussion?” I suggested.

“Please.”

“Great. So let’s get to the hypothetical I want you to answer.” I sat up straighter. “What do you do—as a police officer—when you have a victim of a crime, but the victim doesn’t want to press charges?”

Vaughn looked at me for the longest time. “This isn’t about me?”

“No.”

“In any way?”

I thought about it. “No.”

His body relaxed. He leaned back in the chair across from me and pointed. “Well, as a lawyer, you know that it’s not up to the victim if he wants to press charges.”

I nodded. “So what’s the protocol? How do you handle it?” Vaughn seemed to be mulling over the situation, so I kept talking. “Do you just move forward?” I asked. “Do you just process the charges, start the ball rolling?”

“No.” Vaughn shook his head in ponderous arcs. “No.”

“What then?”

“The first, and only, thing I’d do right now?”

I nodded.

“Make damn sure you have the right guy.”

Or right
girl,
I thought.

I debated whether or not to tell Vaughn about Madeline’s case. But Madeline had seemed insistent this morning that the authorities not be contacted yet. She was my client, via Mayburn. I had to listen, at least for now, to what she wanted me to do.

But then something else occurred. I stopped thinking about Madeline, and about Madeline and Syd. And suddenly, I wondered—
Why does Madeline Saga not want to turn in Jacqueline Stoddard?

61

“N
o,” Jacqueline Stoddard said, interrupting my introductory spiel. “I will not talk to you. I’ve hired one of the best lawyers in the city.”

I couldn’t help but wonder whom she’d retained.

“I’ve been instructed,” she continued, “not to talk to you or Ms. Saga.”

No more
Lina,
I noticed.

“Or to the police.” She hugged her arms around herself.

“May I sit?” I asked gently, pointing to the office couch where Madeline and I had sat yesterday. I needed more time. Despite her words, I could tell she had something to say. And I really, really wanted to hear it. She paused, her lips pursing. Finally, she nodded.

When I’d sat, she said, “I did not write that email you referred to. I did
not.
”

“And the sculpture?”

“What sculpture?” Her brows, perfectly waxed and arched, raised.

I got out my phone and showed her a photo of the knife in the flesh.

She looked at me. “That? You think that’s
me?
God, no.” Her words were adamant. She wanted me to believe her. And that was helpful, because I needed her to talk to me. I needed her help figuring some things out.

I leaned forward and put my elbows on my knees, letting my hair hang toward my face, giving what I hoped was a calm, kind smile. “You were the one who was keeping an eye on her, right?” I asked her. “It started out as a good thing. You really
wanted
to help her.”

“God, yes.” She covered her eyes with her hands as she had last time, but her voice sounded strangled. “I am mortified at my behavior, and how…out of control it’s gotten. The comments, the constant watching her gallery—it really did start as an altruistic endeavor.” Her hand dropped away from her eyes. She looked into mine. “I swear.”

Sitting in front of Jacqueline Stoddard then, following my discussion with Vaughn, I thought I knew right then how it felt to be a Chicago police detective—one whose true desire was to find the people who were doing the wrong, at least part of the wrong. I wanted to pin her down to the truth. That was why the police had procedure.

Since I wasn’t on the police force, I had no duty to explain anything to Jacqueline Stoddard before I asked her any more questions. But it struck me as wrong to hold the detectives, and Vaughn, to a different standard than myself in the same situation.

So I sat up straighter on the maroon couch. I asked Jacqueline Stoddard a couple of questions—
You realize I am not your lawyer? You realize you don’t have to talk to me? You’re going into this conversation to tell me your side of the story?

To all, she answered
yes.

62

“S
o, you started keeping an eye on her?” I settled back in the couch to make Jacqueline feel more comfortable.

I put on my figurative deposition hat. I was happy to be able to practice the skills, since there were few or no deps in criminal work. I pulled a notepad out of my bag. “Do you mind?” I asked Jacqueline. “I can show you everything I write.”

“That’s fine,” she said quickly, softly, as if to say,
Let’s just get this over with.

“When you first started to ‘keep an eye out for’ Madeline, when exactly was that?”

Jacqueline Stoddard leaned back in her chair, as well. She wore a soft blue scarf around her neck. It struck me as the same as the faint color under her eyes today. If I were an artist, that’s how I’d have painted Jacqueline Stoddard—with the scarf and all around the eyes as the primary color, blue. The rest would be dove gray, like Jacqueline’s outfit, her mood.

“I really did want to make sure she was okay.” Jacqueline let her chair swivel and she looked out the window. Across the street was the Wrigley Building, where Madeline’s gallery was on the first floor. Now, our view was the gray and sculpted stone surrounding the higher windows of the building. In that light, everything inside those windows looked black, soulless.

“I don’t know how to describe this,” Jacqueline said with a mirthless laugh. “It’s absurd, but I truly wanted to be friends with her. I started calling her Lina, because I felt like that was a girlfriend’s thing to do.” She looked away from window, at the side wall of her office, as if telling her sins to a priest in a confessional, preferring not to see the listener. “I’ll correct something. I didn’t necessarily want to be her friend. I wanted to be her mentor. And I thought…” A pause, the heavy scent of pain in the air. “I actually thought she would
want
to be my protégé.”