Fine Art of Murder Page 16

  “The artist, Hampton Simmonds, is a fast-rising star on the national art scene,” the insurance woman interjected. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. “We're carrying a million-dollar policy on those three paintings.”

  “Who discovered the theft?” Kendall asked.

  “Mitchell August, the gallery owner. He got in early and turned off the security system but noticed the lights didn't come on. He walked through the gallery to investigate and discovered the pieces were missing,” Dennis said. “He called the police and they called us. We're interviewing him and some staff members downstairs right now.”

  “Is that all that's missing?” Kendall asked.

  “As far as we've been told,” Detective Jefferson said.

  Three metal pieces the size of dimes were on the floor at their feet. They looked like small watch batteries.

  “What are those?” Kendall said.

  “There are sensors on every item in the gallery. If a painting or sculpture or whatever is moved, an alarm goes off,” Dennis said. “Somehow, the thieves removed the sensors without setting off the alarm.”

  Kendall walked around the room, looking for evidence and examining the other works, how they were attached to the wall. Then she looked up at the skylight. Finally, she turned back to the others.

  “And you said the security system was on when the owner arrived? Uh-huh,” she said, looking down as if in thought, then back to the others. “That's curious.” She headed for the stairs, with the officers bringing up the rear.

  “How so?” Jefferson asked.

  “Where's Mitch August?” Kendall asked the first officer she encountered. Turning back to those trailing her, she said, “Your current theory on the theft is flawed because of the security system. My sister went on and on about it. She says it can't be hacked or bypassed.”

  Mitch August was standing in his office while an FBI agent seated at the desk questioned him. They turned as Kendall and the others entered the office. “Mr. August, tell us about your security system,” Kendall said.

  “Who are you?” the seated agent asked, but backed down after noting the expression on Agent Dennis's face.

  Kendall introduced herself and addressed the gallery owner again. “Your security system?”

  August looked at the insurance woman as he spoke. “It's a state-of-the-art system by the Nightwalt Corp. The insurance company wouldn't write the policy on Hamp's paintings unless I upgraded,” August said. “The payments are a killer.”

  Dennis stepped in front of Kendall to face August. “Tell me about the system.”

  But it was the insurance investigator who spoke.

  “The NW5000 is a civilian version of a system the government uses. It uses a ten-digit encryption algorithm of randomly selected numbers and letters. It changes daily. Only through a biometric monitor can you gain access to the encryption to turn off the system. Access to the monitor is limited.”

  “How many people had access?” Dennis asked.

  “Myself,” Mitch said, touching his chest, “my assistant, one other staffer and,” he paused before continuing, “Hamp Simmonds.”

  Glances were exchanged throughout the room.

  “Can the system be activated—turned on, that is—without access to the monitor?” Kendall asked.

  “Yes,” August said. “There is a much simpler code to turn it on but you have to leave immediately once the system is set. Most of the staff knows the code to turn it on when I'm not here.”

  “Any evidence left in the ceiling skylight is a ruse to throw us off track,” Kendall concluded. “You can't disable the system that way. Someone with access disabled the security system and probably let someone else in. Since walking in and out the front door would be too obvious, they probably entered and exited through a large vent.”

  A commotion greeted them from outside the office. It grew louder as the source got closer to the office, and erupted when Celine Simmonds entered the room.

  “Who stole my paintings?” Celine said in a loud voice. When she noticed Kendall, she added, “What are you doing here?” There was quiet for the second it took for the recognition to kick in. “Oh yeah, I remember. You're FBI,” Celine said with a disdain she made no attempt to hide. “Well, you'd better find my paintings.”

  “Your paintings?” Kendall said, stepping closer to Celine.

  “Yes. They belong to me,” Celine said defiantly.

  August introduced Celine before the questioning resumed.

  “Do you know where your husband is, Mrs. Simmonds?” Agent Dennis asked.

  “No, I do not. He didn't come home last night after the gala,” she answered, but immediately returned to her original concern. “So, what are you doing to find my paintings?”

  “Is that unusual that he wasn't home?” Detective Jefferson asked. “You don't seem that alarmed. You're more concerned with the art.”

  Celine turned to the police detective. “We live separate lives. He's not always at home.” Then, to Kendall, she asked again, “What about my paintings?”

  Kendall looked at Dennis before answering. “The FBI is doing everything it can to recover the stolen artwork. But tell us, how did you know about the theft?”

  “One of Mitch's people called the house this morning,” Celine said and started to leave.

  “Hang on a minute, please, Mrs. Simmonds,” Dennis said. “We might have more questions for you.”

  She looked around the room. “Questions? What questions?” The faces of law enforcement were impassive. “You think I'm involved in this?” she said, taking a chair in the corner. “The paintings belong to me. I own them. Why in the world would I steal my own property?”

  “Because you and your husband are broke and you need the insurance money,” Kendall answered.

  “What? That's outrageous. How dare you, you government hussy.”

  Kendall's eyes narrowed on the woman. Outwardly, she remained under control. Inwardly, she felt her body temperature rise. But she was an excellent investigator—and liar.

  “My sister works at the gallery,” Kendall started. “And she told me about the financial arrangement you made to have the art displayed here. So don't try to hide that. We'll find out sooner or later when your financial records are checked.”

  Celine muttered “bitch” under her breath, although everyone in the room heard it. But she settled down.

  Using Mitch August's laptop computer, they checked the video feed for the room with the Simmonds paintings and discovered most of the cameras throughout the entire gallery were shut off shortly after 11:30, just as the catering crew finished the cleanup.

  Dennis addressed one of his agents. “We'll need to interview all the waiters from the catering company who here last night.” To August, he asked, “What caterer did you use?”

  “Buona Cucina Catering. It's on Massachusetts Avenue. Just past College Avenue,” August said.

  Although it seemed obvious, Kendall added, “And interview the women, too. The waitresses.”

  From the seat in the corner came, “There were no waitresses.”

  “Of course there were,” Kendall said, dismissing the comment.

  “No, there were not,” Celine said, pushing herself up from her chair and heading toward Kendall. “I hired the caterer for the event last night and I insisted that there be no women. You met my husband. He came on to you. I saw it, too, so don't try to deny it. He can't keep his hands to himself. Didn't your busy-body sister tell you that? Everybody else in the city knows it. I insisted no females.”

  Kendall's eyes focused on the empty space in the middle of the room, as if it could provide an answer. “But there was at least one waitress. I saw her. A couple of times. She was wearing too much fragrance.”

  “Yes, I remember a waitress,” August chimed in.

  Kendall headed over to the desk and turned the laptop around. She checked the video feed from earlier in the evening. She found a clear shot taken from a camera on the second floor of the wom
an carrying a tray full of champagne flutes.

  “There! There she is,” Kendall said. “Does anyone recognize her?” Everyone said no. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her cell phone. “I'm going to take a picture of this image, send it to the bureau, and have a tech run it through our facial recognition software. Perhaps we'll get a hit.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” Dennis said.

  As she was transmitting it, a uniformed police officer entered the office and whispered into Jefferson's ear. “Agent Dennis, there's been a development,” the police detective said. “You're gonna want to know this.”

  Jefferson and Dennis left the room after giving the underlings instructions on what to do next. Kendall followed them. “What's happening?” she said as she reached Dennis's car on the street in front of the gallery.

  “Simmonds's body was just found. He's dead. Shot a couple of times. It's in his art studio-apartment near here. Why don't you come along?”

  It was a short ride to a four-story yellow brick building on Senate Avenue. It was a former factory converted into an artist colony for musicians, writers, painters and photographers. Two uniformed police officers stood sentry on either side of the doorway to a top floor studio suite. Inside was a rather large room where the artist must have done most of his work. Officers were busy taking pictures and fingerprinting everything in the studio, which was filled with art supplies alongside paintings and drawings in various stages of completion.

  Kendall paid close attention to a couple of the drawings and photos but continued with Dennis and Jefferson into a bedroom just off the studio. Sprawled out on a bed was Hampton, tieless but still in a tux, his open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. His starched white shirt was marred with two red spots on his chest where he'd been shot.

  In the background, Kendall could hear the police officers briefing Dennis and Jefferson as she stared down at the victim. While Hampton Simmonds was still an attractive physical specimen, death took his captivating charm.

  “Officers investigating the art theft came to the studio looking for Simmonds,” someone said. “They found the door partially open, and upon entering discovered the deceased on the bed. Based on body temperature, the coroner estimated he'd been dead seven or eight hours—since about three or four in the morning. There were no signs of forced entry, so the victim must have known the assailant and let him or her in, or the assailant had a key.”

  “She was here,” Kendall said, still looking at Hampton. “And they were having an affair.”

  “Pardon?” Dennis said, turning to her.

  She walked over to the officers. “Notice the faint smell in the air?” Kendall asked. “It's the same fragrance the waitress wore at the event last night. I noticed it then. Plus, follow me.”

  They headed back into the studio and over to Hampton's work area. Taped on a board were pictures of the waitress, including several nudes. On a table were sketches of her and some early sketches of his three stolen paintings.

  “The missing paintings were of her, the waitress. One of her eyes, one of her breasts. And callipygian,” Kendall said.

  “Calli-what?” Jefferson asked.

  “Callipygian. Look it up. Means having shapely buttocks. The man obviously loved women with big butts,” Kendall said. “Typical.”

  Kendall rubbed her forehead for a moment and then pointed at one of the sketches as she continued. “My guess is the artist helped this woman steal his paintings. Probably for the money. He shut off the security, she took the paintings and stashed them in a car or van, probably parked in back. One or the other of them turned the system back on.”

  “Who killed him and why?” Dennis said.

  “Hard to tell without further evidence. But he was a married man cheating on his wife. That often doesn't end well for the parties involved,” Kendall said.

  “Yes, but generally not with murder,” the detective said.

  “True, but if she hated him for cheating… it could happen. The wife could have learned of the affair and killed him. Or the mistress could have decided Hampton had outlived his usefulness when all she wanted was his artwork,” Kendall said.

  Her cell phone beeped and she pulled it out of her jeans pocket. “Yeah, Hunter here. Yeah, hold on a sec.” Holding the phone to her ear with her right shoulder, Kendall reached into her back left pocket for a black pad and a small pencil. “Go ahead.”

  Everyone watched as Kendall grunted and took several pages of notes. She finally ended the call and looked at the notes before she spoke.

  “The bureau got a hit off that picture I emailed. Her name is Isabelle Binoche, French-Canadian, thirty-one. Was arrested in Paris six years ago for art forgery with a Frenchman named Jean-Pierre Garnier. She did time, two years. Garnier escaped and is still at large. Interpol is searching for him. Could be anywhere.”

  Kendall flipped a page and kept reading. “Binoche came to the United States three years ago. Lived in New York, then moved to….” She looked up for effect. “Indianapolis. Two years ago. They have an address. 49th and Washington Boulevard.”

  “Let's go,” Dennis said.

  The apartment building where Binoche lived was less than fifteen minutes away. Dennis called ahead and was met there by another car with three FBI agents. Behind the building was a blue truck with white lettering that said Buona Cucina Catering. Two agents entered the back of the building, while Dennis and another agent took the front. Since she did not have her gun, Kendall stood outside.

  Five minutes passed before an agent stuck his head out the front of the building and signaled for Kendall to come in. The apartment was messy, evidence of untidy living as opposed to someone having searched the place.

  Wearing casual street clothing instead of her waitress pants and white shirt, Binoche was on the floor next to a coffee table, shot once in the head. On the sofa were two of Simmonds's missing pieces—A Woman's Eyes and Bosoms of Love. An empty picture frame was on the coffee table.

  “They must have cut the third painting out of the frame,” Dennis remarked.

  “Callipygian was the best and most valuable of the three,” Kendall said.

  * * *

  Kendall stood next to the coroner's truck. They hadn't yet moved the body from the second-floor apartment, but she'd probably be gone by the time they did. No reason for her to stay. She'd called Kiara to come get her and her sister was waiting in her car.

  “Thank you, Special Agent Hunter. Your assistance proved invaluable,” Dennis said as he shook her hand.

  “No problem.” She turned toward Kiara's car.

  “I wonder why whoever killed her didn't take all the pieces,” Dennis said.

  Kendall stopped and turned back. “Difficult to say. But I think there are two main possibilities to track down. One, Celine Simmonds. She can't account for her time last night and their need of money is a good motive. But so is anger. Spousal infidelity can be a powerful motive for murder.

  “The other possibility is that someone else killed them. My guess would be Garnier, Binoche's old partner. In any event, Binoche was possibly not the only thief working the gala last night. Someone else probably drove the van. Someone connected with Binoche killed Simmonds out of jealousy or monetary gain, then killed Binoche for the same reason and took the painting.

  “Those are the areas of investigation I'd start with,” Kendall said.

  Dennis opened the passenger side door for her. “Thanks again for all your help.”

  “I've enjoyed working with you, but I head back to Philadelphia tomorrow. I'm due back in the office on Monday,” Kendall said. “Please keep me up-to-date on your investigation. Find the person with the painting and you'll find the person who killed Binoche.”

  “Won't they get rid of it? Sell it or what-have-you?” Dennis asked.

  Kendall shook her head. “It's too hot an item. Certainly right now it is. They can't sell it.”

  “Maybe it's for a private buyer. They arranged it ahead of time.”<
br />
  “Doubt it. I think the killer wants to keep it for some reason. A souvenir of the killing, perhaps. A reminder,” Kendall said, looking at Dennis. “Figure that out and you'll get the painting and the killer.”

  * * *

  Kendall rose early the next morning, wanting to hit the road for her ten-hour drive to Philadelphia. Despite the length, Kendall enjoyed the drive. She drove a convertible and when the top was down, the wind violently whipped her hair. Since her hair was often pulled back off her face into a ponytail when she was working, having it blown about in the wind was a sort of luxury—one her hairdresser repeatedly told her to avoid.

  After a light breakfast, Kendall hugged Kiara and Perry and went to the car, putting her purse in the trunk out of sight of her sister.

  “Call me when you get in, okay?” Kiara asked.

  Kendall nodded and blew one more air kiss to her sister. Then she got in, started the car and drove away without once looking back into the mirror.

  It was sunny and just a tad chilly, so Kendall wore long sleeves and rolled them up as it warmed. With her sunglasses on, she looked like a movie star out for a drive.

  Even with the top down and the increased drag co-efficient, the BMW had good gas mileage and an incredible range. She was more than four hundred miles from Indianapolis before she stopped for fuel. At the Somerset rest area on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Kendall pulled up to the gas pump. Despite windswept hair and sunglasses, a guy at the next pump offered a flirtatious smile. She wasn't sure if the smile was for her or her car but she didn't care.

  Kendall walked around to the back and opened the trunk. Her credit card and a hair scrunchie were in her purse, and she got them both out. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she glanced back down into the trunk. In the furthest reaches was a black shipping tube. She smiled at the tube. Inside it was a souvenir, a remembrance of the trip home.

  After getting a suitable frame, Kendall planned to hang Callipygian in the walk-in closet in her bedroom. The deadly souvenir would complement her other such remembrances. No one would ever see them because no one ever went into her closet. No one but her.