The Fine Art of Murder (6 page)

Lizzie called to set up my meeting with Randolph Pierce. We celebrated our working arrangement with coffee and strudel. Then she headed back to the office and I drove to the jail on West Fiftieth Street. It was a different man who sat there than the one I’d seen in the gallery. Randolph Pierce was frightened. When we were finally alone, he looked so relieved I thought he might cry.

“Thank God you’re here, Mrs. Sullivan. You’ve got to tell them I didn’t kill Stacey.” He pounded his fist on the table between us. “Why in the world would I?”

“Calm down, Randolph. I know you’re upset but I’ve never come across a suspect who didn’t scream he was innocent. So turn the hysterics down a notch.”

He took a deep, cleansing breath. “I’ll try.”

“Before we go any further I need you to promise that everything you’re going to tell me is the truth. I can’t help you if you lie.”

He nodded.

To make good and sure I had his full attention, I started off strong. “I know about you and Lizzie. I’m not sure how I feel about your relationship with my daughter, but my feelings aren’t relevant here. I just wanted to get that out so we don’t waste time skirting around the issue.”

“I can see how you’d be upset, but I love Lizzie. I have for years. Believe me, I would never have gotten her involved in all this mess if I had anywhere else to turn. Your daughter is a wonderful woman. I’d never hurt her, Mrs. Sullivan.”

It was the first time I’d ever had a glimpse into Randolph Pierce’s heart. But human nature being what it was, I didn’t count on there being a second look.

“I spoke with Antoine Rousseau this morning after he’d been questioned. He was released because, unlike you, he had an alibi. Randolph, I need you to tell me where you were the night Stacey was killed.”

“At home, just hanging out. I told the cops a hundred times that there was no one to vouch for me. I was alone.”

“Tell me exactly what you did.” I took a small pad and pen out of my purse and started making notes. “Every little detail you can remember.”

“I brought home a pizza and ate it while the news was on.”

“Where did you get the pizza from? Which channel were you watching? The tiniest thing can end up being important.”

He looked frustrated but began again. “I picked up a pizza at Red’s—thin crust, sausage, mushrooms, and extra cheese. I took it home and turned on the six o’clock news. After the pizza was gone and the news was over, I caught up on a few
episodes of
Mad Men
. Before going to bed, I looked through the mail. And that was it.”

“I can go to Red’s and see if anyone remembers you. There should be a record of your order, a receipt. I’ll need plots of the
Mad Men
episodes you watched. Hopefully, I can find something that will prove you were alone at home the whole night.”

“The sooner, the better. Anything so I don’t have to stay in this hole another minute longer.”

“Come on,” I laughed. “This isn’t exactly some overcrowded prison in Calcutta. From what I can see, there are three of you here, all in your own clean, modern cell. Relax.” I hated to admit it, but I was enjoying seeing a Pierce squirm.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m just not used to being treated this way.”

I knew he couldn’t shake off a lifetime of arrogance in one day and leaned in closer so he wouldn’t miss anything I was going to say. “Knock off that attitude . . . even if you have to fake it. All you’re doing is alienating everyone around you. And take that polygraph—unless you think you won’t pass.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Good.” At least I’d gotten that far with him. “Now, when I spoke with Antoine, he told me you argued with Stacey. He said everyone in the room heard. What was that all about?”

Randolph ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, Stacey was a hard worker but she was intrusive—in your face, you know? Always going where she didn’t belong. I was constantly telling her to stop nosing around and just do her job. But as soon as she thought I was gone, she’d ask the workers or
Rousseau, anyone she could find, about me and my family. How much were we worth, how had my grandfather died, on and on—she was relentless. I finally had enough. I lost it that day and told her that if she didn’t mind her own business, I’d have to let her go.”

“How did she react?”

“She got angry. She threatened to go to the authorities,” he said.

“Just because you yelled at her?”

“She’d heard the stories . . . like everyone in this town has. You know, about Grandfather buying stolen art from the Nazis.”

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a Klimt? I remember because when I studied art, I used to imagine that piece being at Buckhorn instead of hanging in some museum thousands of miles away. It was a nice fantasy.” I smirked. “But I never believed a word of it.”

Randolph put his head down, trying to hide his lips from the security camera on the wall. “Well, believe it, Mrs. Sullivan. The Klimt is there.”

I couldn’t think straight after Randolph told me about the masterpiece. It was like suddenly learning Santa Claus was real and living in the attic. Of course I wanted proof, to see it with my own eyes. But I was torn between the realist and the artist in me.

The creative part of my psyche yearned to touch the canvas, hold it close, and get lost in each brushstroke. But the cop in me was outraged and wanted to return the painting to Austria where it belonged. Was there actually a Klimt hidden in the walls of an old mansion in Minnesota? The idea seemed too farfetched for either part of me to believe.

***

Before going home, I dropped in at my old station to see if there had been any new developments in their investigation. Bostwick had left for the day and even the cops who had been hired after my retirement disliked their chief so much they were eager to help me. Word had come down that I had
dared to challenge their boss. Knowing how cops thought, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were taking bets in the back room to see who would solve the case first.

DeYoung was on duty and laid out the facts. The murder weapon had still not been found. It would take a few more days until results came in from prints taken at the scene. They’d already started the laborious task of fingerprinting all the workers at the mansion. But there had been so many construction crews in and out over the past six months that a few would surely slip through the cracks. An autopsy was being performed; the medical examiner’s report had not come in yet. There wasn’t one new piece of evidence for me to work with.

But the court of public opinion doesn’t need hard-core evidence; it operates on gut feelings. Randolph Pierce had not only been uncooperative but flaunted his contempt for the police. Most of the men on duty had gone to school with him, but he never acknowledged having known any of them. He was beyond arrogant, they said—he was mean. And even though none of them would say it out loud, they were already thinking of him as guilty.

I needed to put my feet up and review what I’d learned so far, which wasn’t much. Making sure to thank everyone, I turned to leave. My hand was on the door and as I started to pull it open, someone on the other side pushed with such force I almost got smacked in the face.

A muscular, larger-than-life male shoved his way inside. I don’t think he was even aware I was in the room. From a thick gold chain wrapped tightly around his thick neck hung
a gold cross. He wore a sweatshirt two sizes too small, obviously to show off his muscles. Spandex bike shorts, sandals, and a few tattoos completed his ensemble. And I use the term very loosely. His hair was long, pulled into a stringy ponytail that had been threaded through the back of a baseball cap. After bursting into the room, he stopped, stood at attention, and held the door open. DeYoung stared at the man with a bemused look on his face, which I returned.

We all waited to see what was next.

After a minute, in walked a tiny, much older woman. At first I didn’t recognize her. Nothing about her stature or face looked familiar. It was her outfit that triggered a memory. She was wearing it at an awards show when a picture had been snapped, ending up in our local paper. That had to have been at least thirty years ago.

Her wrinkled face had several layers of makeup, some of it cracking across her forehead. Red circles of blush made her skin look even paler. I wondered if she was still wearing the same shade of Chanel red lipstick that had been her trademark. The whole effect made her look like a bizarre kewpie doll.

She wore a full-length silver, sequined gown—too large for her and cut far too low. A turban made of the same fabric was wrapped tightly around her head. Stray wisps of black hair stuck out around her ears. Her mink coat looked moth eaten. The sight of her made me feel sad and embarrassed at the same time.

Then she spoke. “I believe you’re holding my nephew here. I’m Jacqueline Bannister-Pierce, his aunt. I’ll assume
full responsibility for him. Are there some papers I need to sign?”

The behemoth walked over to stand by her side, all the while chomping on a thick wad of gum. “And I’m Henry—”

“Shut up, Hank,” Jackie snapped. Then to DeYoung, she said, “Mr. Slater is a close friend.”

“And her bodyguard.” He smiled.

I couldn’t move. It was all so entertaining.

“I’m sorry,” the desk sergeant said, “but Mr. Pierce isn’t going anywhere.”

“Look, I’ve just flown all the way from Las Vegas. Do you know how far that is?”

“Yes ma’am, I’ve been to Las Vegas. Spent five days at Caesar’s Palace last vacation.”

Jackie didn’t miss a beat. “Well good for you. Now just tell me how much it will cost to get Randolph out of here.”

“Considering the fact that the charge is murder and he’s a flight risk, there is no bail—that is, when he’s charged with murder. Right now he’s being held for questioning.”

Her wrinkled face sagged. “I’ll be speaking to my lawyer about that tomorrow. But for now may I see him?”

“Wait over there.” He pointed to a wooden bench.

Jackie looked mortified. “Isn’t there a private lounge where I can wait?”

***

As soon as the show was over, I left.

I’d needed to turn my phone off at the jail and switched it back on as I walked to the car. There were three messages:

I waited until I had gotten settled in the kitchen with a ham sandwich in front of me before returning Nathan’s call.

There wasn’t much to tell. I started from the beginning, reviewing my conversations with Antoine and Randolph. “There wasn’t anything new at the station either. Any suggestions?”

“Did you ever find out who made the nine-one-one call? Maybe it’s the same person who found Stacey’s body.”

“No one has a clue.”

“Why don’t you meet me for lunch tomorrow at the diner, around one? I’ll bring my crew. They’re an odd bunch, but between the six of us, we’ll be able to come up with the name of the caller.”

“I’ve never thought of you as having a ‘crew.’ It seems strange.”

“Good strange or bad strange?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

The Twelfth Street Diner wasn’t on Twelfth Street and had never been on Twelfth Street. The original owner, Benny Angelo, had moved to Minnesota from Brooklyn with his wife, five kids, and a handful of Mama Rose’s recipes. He claimed it was to give his family a better quality of life and named the place in honor of his old neighborhood so he’d never forget where he came from.

Whenever my dad had a craving for Benny’s three-bean chili, which always seemed to come in the middle of the night, he’d get us out of bed and we’d drive out to the diner. I can’t remember how many times I sent poor Sully out there for a meatloaf sandwich when I was pregnant. It was the scene of Lizzie’s first date. Over the years, going to the Twelfth became a tradition in our family. But I hadn’t been there since a Yuppie couple from Connecticut bought it and Benny moved to Florida. It was nice they kept the name.

It still smelled the same: greasy burgers and coffee. As I walked across the worn, wooden floor, it creaked and I was
happy to see nothing had changed. The old jukebox flashed in the corner, red vinyl still covered stools at the counter, but the ancient cash register had been replaced with a computer station. I guess you can’t hold back progress completely. A tall man with an apron wrapped around his waist handed me a menu and asked if I preferred a table or a booth.

“I’m meeting someone,” I told him as I surveyed the room.

“Hey, Kathy.” Nathan waved to get my attention. He’s the only person who ever called me Kathy . . . and I liked it.

“There he is,” I told the host.

Nathan stood up. “Squeeze in and I’ll make the intros.”

The booth was extra long and I slid across the red vinyl toward a tough-looking middle-aged woman. Nathan slid in next to me.

“That heathen over there,” he pointed to a muscular man, hunkered over what looked to be a triple-decker burger surrounded by a mountain of fries, “is Brock. The first time I ran into this monster, he was hauling some guy twice his size out of a club. As far as I can tell, he’s a cross between a rock and a brick.”

Brock grabbed a napkin and wiped his right hand clean then extended it across the table toward me. “So now, I’m Brock. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sullivan. Didn’t mean to start without you but I ain’t eaten in a few hours.” I couldn’t tell if he was smiling at me, his beard was so thick, matching all the hair on his head. He looked like a bear.

I expected a painful grip, but Brock shook my hand gently. “Nice to meet you. And please,” I looked around the table, “all of you, call me Katherine.”

Everyone nodded.

Nathan continued. “You may have guessed, Brock’s our muscle. Don’t let the big guy scare you; he’s a real pussycat.”

Everyone at the table laughed—except Brock, who scowled and continued eating.

“I’m E.T.,” the man across from me said. Around thirty years old, he was almost Brock’s opposite: thin, focused, and very serious. Wispy light brown hair hung to his shoulders. He seemed uncomfortable and just nodded a hello. A bottle of mineral water sat in front of him, obviously bought elsewhere. His shoulders were narrow, and under his camouflage jacket, he wore a Green Peace T-shirt.

“Did Nathan give you that name?” I asked.

“Yeah, he caught me once—okay twice—eating some of the candy he keeps on his desk.”

Everyone at the table groaned.

“Get real,” Nathan said. “You’re the reason I had to start hiding the stuff.”

“You shouldn’t even be eating sweets at your age,” E.T. told Nathan.

Nathan ignored E.T.’s comment. “This guy’s our expert in nonlethal weaponry and martial arts. He installs alarms in private homes. He’s the best. In and out, without a trace.”

“I’m impressed,” I said.

The young woman next to E.T. spoke up. “Hi, I’m Polly. That’s not my real name, of course. I made this polygraph machine and brought it in to my interview with Nathan—”

“—and blew me away,” Nathan said. “Never saw anything like it.”

“So Polly it is.”

She shrugged. Polly was the youngest in the group, twenty-something and cute. Through the long straight bangs that covered her forehead, I could see an eyebrow had been pierced. Dozens of thin bracelets were stacked along her arms and on each thumb she wore a silver ring.

“Polly’s our electronics, computer, and surveillance expert. Her videos have gone viral; she’s exposed animal abuse carried on by some of the major food and cosmetics corporations in the country.”

“Give me an animal or computer anytime,” she said. “People suck, ya know what I mean?”

“I’m sorry to say I do.”

“And last but not least is Rosie,” Nathan said and nodded to the woman sitting next to me.

I turned to get a good look at her. “Hi.”

“A pleasure.” She gave me a quick smile.

Rosie looked just like the woman in the World War Two poster: Rosie the Riveter. This time I could see why Nathan had chosen her name. She gave off an aura of competence and strength. Fifty-something, she sported a short haircut. She’d rolled the sleeves of her plaid shirt up exposing tattoos on each arm. With no jewelry, no piercings, Rosie was obviously the no-nonsense type.

“Rosie had to leave Chicago in a hurry and was looking for work,” Nathan said.

“Got mixed up with some wise guys, my ex included.” She ran her large hands through the sides of her pompadour. “He was connected—know what I mean? On our honeymoon, get
this, he takes me out on my first job. Breaking into some McMansion on Lake Shore Drive. What an idiot.” She nudged me and laughed. “Him an’ his buddies didn’t know what the hell they was doin’. We got away with one thousand lousy bucks, split four ways. Can you believe it?”

“Rosie’s a master locksmith and B and E expert,” Nathan said.

“Almost makes me sound respectable, don’t he?” she asked and nudged me again.

“He does have a way with words,” I told her.

While a waitress took our order, I looked around the table. What a bunch, I thought, realizing I liked every one of them.

Nathan continued when we alone again. “Before we go any further, I want to say something about Katherine . . . and her husband, Sully,” he told the group. I couldn’t imagine what was coming next. “No one was used to seeing a black face on the force, back in the day. You young folks can’t even imagine the racial slurs, the tension. More than once, I wanted to give up. But then Sully insisted we be partners and things started to change for me. I became more accepted on the job, and Kathy, Sully, my wife and I, we all became like family. They both always had my back. We started going to each other’s homes for dinner. Our kids played together . . .”

“Come on, Nathan, you and Terry were always there for us, too. You make Sully and me sound like saints.”

“No, Kathy, you guys went way beyond the definition of friends. And I’ll never forget your kindness . . . never.”

I was overwhelmed; all I could do was pat his hand.

After a short moment of uncomfortable silence, Brock spoke up. “If the boss says you’re okay, that’s good enough for us.”

“Yeah, he laid everything out before you got here,” Rosie added. “We got you covered. Not to worry.”

“Even though their system is ancient out there at the manse, I’m sure I can come up with something,” Polly said. “Nothing’s ever lost; it just bounces around out in the ozone until someone finds it.”

“You’re all so . . . remarkable,” I stammered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No, we’re the ones who should be thankin’ you,” Rosie said. “Solvin’ a murder! This is gonna be great!”