Fine Art of Murder Read online

  “FBI,” I say, squaring my shoulders.

  Officer Billings's green eyes widen.

  I shrug. “Is it my fault law enforcement is so incompetent they have to ask a middle-aged black woman for assistance? Present company excluded, of course. The FBI insisted I work with them because the man they claim is planning to steal the mosaic we're showing tomorrow sits on the art center board with me. I've known him decades. There's absolutely no way he would do anything like this. I'm hoping you might, you know, run a check, as they say, on Noah's background and let me know if what they claim is true.”

  “I can't butt into a federal investigation.”

  I stare at her. We both know she can get around that little detail.

  Officer Billings gives me a sly smile. “However, that doesn't mean you, coming to us in your capacity as chairperson running an event that city officials will be attending, can't ask for my advice.”

  Like I said—kindred sisters.

  Officer Billings picks up her pen. “What's his full name?”

  I tell her Noah's personal history as I know it and she bounces out of the room, her ginger ponytail swaying with each step. While she's gone I call Allied Security again and get the same story. Townes is still in a meeting. I make a mental note to recommend we never use Allied again once this is over. If I didn't respond to my clients, I wouldn't have any.

  “You're not going to like what I found, Vera,” Officer Billings warns when she returns.

  “Don't sugar coat it,” I say.

  “Arrested for art theft three times when he was in his twenties. Like the FBI file says, he was sentenced to a year for the one job. They didn't recover the stolen artwork, which isn't unusual. Only a small percent of stolen art is ever found.”

  My heart sinks and I'm unable to find my voice for a response. Finally, I get out, “What I don't understand is what Noah is doing now to make the FBI suspect he's planning to steal the mosaic. This agent just claims they've got chatter. I can't believe Noah would risk the life and business he's built to go back to being a thief.”

  “Is his business in trouble? Woman problems?”

  I can't help but laugh at the last question. “At his age the only problems he has with the ladies are in his imagination.”

  “I can look further if you like, check his financials to see if there's an issue with money that might be driving him back to his old ways,” Officer Billings says.

  I think for a minute. I don't want to accept that Noah may have been wearing a mask all these years.

  With a sigh, I nod. Hating myself for it.

  * * *

  I trudge back to my car and my cell phone buzzes as I start the engine.

  “Hey, love. Are you at the salon? Is my tux ready? Coming home for dinner? As my mother used to say, I put my foot in this garlic chicken.”

  Hamp's rapid fire questions almost make me smile. I answer the same way. “No. You can pick up your tux anytime tomorrow morning after ten. I'll be home but I need to make a stop first.”

  “Uh oh. What are you up to now?”

  Hamp knows me so well.

  I'd told him about the FBI asking for my help so I give him the short version of what I learned about Noah. “It doesn't look good for him but I just know there's more to this than what the FBI is saying.”

  “Maybe you should trust the experts on this one, love. I know Noah is like a father figure to you. Sometimes we're too close to people to see what needs to be seen.”

  I straighten my shoulders with indignation as if Hamp can see the gesture. “Oh, you're Doctor Phil now?”

  I have to admit Noah does remind me of my dad, who died when I was only fourteen. He was hard working too, and always full of smiles for mama and us girls. Maybe it's why Noah and I get along so well.

  “They don't have to be right,” I say.

  Driving across the city to Castleton is the last thing I want to do. Traffic is always a mess on the northeast side, and this time of year, two weeks before Christmas, it's like being in New York City. Since it seems Brian Townes at Allied doesn't plan to return my calls anytime soon, I have no choice but to make the trip. It takes me thirty minutes to get there because sure enough 82nd Street is clogged like an artery. My mood is sour when I pull into the office complex where Allied is located. Before I can get out of my car, a familiar figure comes out the front door.

  I blink to make sure I'm seeing clearly.

  Noah.

  I watch him walk to his truck. For some reason he looks more stooped than I've ever noticed. This man who still works ten to twelve hours a day running his restaurant usually looks younger than his years but right now he looks every day of them. There must be a good explanation for why Noah would come here and not call me to tell me what he was up to, I try to convince myself. After he drives off, I gather my sense of purpose and go into the building. A twenty-something woman with strawberry curls at the reception desk offers me a seat and a promise to get Brian Townes after I tell her who I am and that I'm not happy I haven't been able to reach him all day.

  The little display of attitude does the trick as a few minutes later Townes finally shows his face. Last time we'd met was when he'd presented his security proposal to the board. He was in a suit and tie. Today he's dressed in casual khakis and a jacket with an eagle logo on the chest. His comb-over isn't doing the job, and you can see his bald spot peeking through. Were he to come to my salon I would advise him to just embrace Michael Jordan smoothness. Truth is, men are vainer than women. He'll probably hang on to those blond strands until they scream for freedom.

  “Mrs. Ames, so good to see you again,” he says and gives me one of those spaghetti handshakes I loathe. A person shaking your hand like that is either a fraud or thinks you're carrying a virus. He shuttles me into a small conference room.

  “Excuse me for dropping by without an appointment, but I called several times,” I say.

  “Been a real full day,” is all he offers. Then adds, “I just had a visit from your colleague, Mr. Gardner. He doesn't think we have enough people assigned to the show. I went over our plans and reassured him we'll be fine.”

  “That's exactly why I'm here. If you don't mind repeating yourself tell me why you think your current plan is sufficient?”

  Townes punches his palm with his index finger as he ticks off, “Tapped into the center's surveillance so we've got eyes on it from here twenty-four seven, we'll have twice the number of staff on site for the event tomorrow, and we'll have our top crew delivering it to whoever buys it at the auction. Trust me, there's no need to be concerned. I'm on call every minute. Nothing is going to happen to that masterpiece with me in charge.”

  I'm reassured after meeting with Townes and anxious to compare notes with Noah. Back in my car, I call Noah's cell phone. I get no answer, so I try the restaurant, and a staff member tells me he went to pick up supplies. I'm about to check in at my salon when my phone vibrates. It's Officer Billings.

  “You're not going to like this, Vera. Your friend is carrying enough debt to sink a ship. Mainly student loans for his grandkids, it looks like. He has two second mortgages on his house and one on the business. It appears he's barely making it on what the restaurant is bringing in.”

  Just like that, my sense of relief vanishes.

  * * *

  My new jitters send me to the art center as I need to see for myself that the mosaic is secure. The center closes at five on Thursdays but, as executive director of the board, I have keys, security codes, and access at all times. It's almost six when I get there in the winter darkness. The center is located in a secluded area surrounded by gorgeous landscaping and sculptures. It's usually inviting and pleasant. Tonight, not so much. Tonight it makes chills run through me.

  I park in the front lot, glad the exterior and main exhibit area lights remain on at all times. With a glance over my shoulder, I slip in and punch in the security codes so the alarm doesn't go off. Then I reset it.

  The click of my sued
e Louboutin pumps on the tile floor echo in the empty hall. The main reception area is already set up for the hors d'oeuvres and champagne bar. I take a left turn to head to the Marian Broadnax exhibit room where Cecil's work is being displayed and use my key to let myself in.

  My chest swells with pride seeing it again suspended from the ceiling in all its glory.

  No Place Like Home. Cecil's tribute to his home state. The painstakingly assembled pieces of colored glass shimmer in the room. The pieces represent significant events and places in Indiana black history. As magnificent as it is, I still can't process that it could sell for a small fortune.

  A sound snaps me out of my musing. My heartbeat picks up speed. Calm down, Vera, I tell myself. It's probably nothing. But now I'm sure I hear footsteps. Who could have gotten in without the alarm going off? A smaller exhibit room adjoins this one; I run in there and crouch down behind a sculpture.

  “Well, look. They left the room unlocked for us,” a male voice says.

  “Let's unhook this baby. Time to get paid,” another male voice says.

  Fear crawls through me as I pray they don't sense my presence and that my phone doesn't go off. I hear them cackle with glee after they've gotten the mosaic down. I hear the door open and close.

  My first thought is to call the police. Who am I kidding? By the time they get here, the thieves will be long gone. I peek from my hiding place and, not seeing anyone, tiptoe to the door and crack it open. They've moved fast and the hall is empty. I figure they wouldn't have parked in the front where their thievery would be on display so I race to the back entrance and, sure enough, through the big windows I see two white men loading the covered mosaic into a plain white truck. I'm angry and grateful at the same time. Angry at the thieves, grateful Noah isn't one of them.

  There's only one way out of the art center complex to College Avenue, the closest street that runs north and south, and the thieves have to go past the front lot, where I parked, to get to it. My breath is coming in spasms as I sprint to the front entrance, reset the alarm with trembling fingers, and race to my car to wait for the truck to appear. When it does, I crank the engine and pull out of the lot. I hang back as I've seen the detectives on my favorite shows do, to make sure they don't suspect I'm following them. While we're moving, I call Agent Summers and get his voice mail. I leave as detailed a message as I can. I make my second call and have to leave a message there too. Geez, doesn't anyone answer their phone anymore?

  We end up at a warehouse on Kentucky Avenue. They pull into the driveway and rumble to the back of the building. I sit across the street from the front entrance pondering my next move and hoping for a call back.

  My hand flies to my mouth as I see Noah's truck pull up. He parks a few feet from the front entrance, gets out, and slinks up to the warehouse door. “Oh, Noah.” I don't feel anger at him now, just a profound sense of disappointment.

  I watch Noah ring the bell and disappear inside when someone I can't see lets him in. I wait. Praying one of my calls will be returned. Finally, I can't take it any longer, and before I know it, I'm out the car, crossing the street and pushing the doorbell myself. A husky black guy with a scraggly beard and menacing scowl snatches it open. There's something familiar about the jacket he's wearing.

  “Hi,” I say in my most pleasant, most innocent voice. “Is this the Dixon Company? I'm supposed to meet my contractor here.”

  “You've got the wrong place,” he says and moves to close the door.

  I put my hand on it and peek around him as much as my five feet two inches will allow. “This is the address he gave me. Do you mind if I get out of this wind and call? Not safe for a lady to be standing out here by herself.”

  He hesitates as if trying to decide if he can be mean to this middle-aged woman, so I strike and slide around him. “It'll just take me a minute.”

  He tries to block me. “Lady, you can't….”

  Too late. I'm in and weaving around the boxes that clutter the floor. I see Noah in the corner of the room with the two other rats who'd stolen the mosaic.

  “There he is,” I say. I start walking fast in their direction, although I have no idea what I'm going to do or say when I reach them. The menace is on my heels.

  “Hold it, lady.” He reaches for my arm, but I speed up.

  “Noah!” I call, trotting toward him.

  Noah looks pained when I reach them.

  “Who's she?” one of the rats asks Noah.

  Noah looks sheepish. “Never saw her before.”

  Menace has reached us now. “She says the old guy is her contractor but he told us the boss sent him.”

  That's when it hits me where I'd seen those jackets with the emblem of an eagle. They're just like the one Townes was wearing.

  Before I know it, the words fly out of my mouth, “Now I know why the security alarm didn't go off. You're with Allied. Instead of protecting our art like you're paid to do, you're stealing it.”

  One of the rats grabs my arm. “The boss will be real happy to see both of yous.”

  “Yous?” I mock.

  “Oh, yous don't like how I talk?” the killer of English sneers. “Maybe yous like this.”

  They snatch us by the arms and handcuff our hands behind our backs.

  “Wannabe cops?” I snark.

  “Put ’em in storage,” the menace orders.

  The rats push us down a corridor and shove us into a dimly lit room. We land on the damp concrete floor with a thud. I drop my handbag and its contents scatter.

  “You all right, little girl?” Noah asks, his voice quivering.

  I manage to sit up. “I guess.” I scan the room and all I see is box after box. No sign of the mosaic. I wonder where they stashed Cecil's masterpiece.

  “Want to tell me what you're doing here?” we ask each other at the same time.

  “Ladies first,” Noah says.

  “Elders.” I sniff.

  He takes a deep breath. “When I saw how worried you were this morning I decided to visit Allied about the security plan. I know what things to look for, eh, based on my past experience. While I'm there, Townes gets a call about a delivery for this evening. That bothered me. I mean, what is a security company going to be delivering? He mentions the warehouse and the address to whoever he was talking to and I decided to check it out.”

  Relief washes over me. I've never been so happy to be right about a person. A confession is in order though. “If I don't tell you this, Noah, it will eat up my insides. The FBI came to me and said you were planning to steal the mosaic.”

  “FBI?”

  “The agent told me about your record and wanted me to keep an eye on you. I agreed because I knew in my heart you would never steal from the center. That you'd never do anything like this. I was desperate to prove them wrong.”

  For what feels like hours instead of seconds, all I hear is Noah's labored breathing. I can sense his hurt. Finally, he says, “I did some things as a young man I regret. I came back from Korea trained as an engineer. Could fly any kind of plane and couldn't get a job. It was rough for a black man back then. Only job I could get didn't pay enough to take care of a cat. I had a wife. Babies were coming fast and they had to be fed. I fell in with the wrong folks and believe me I paid dearly for it. A year in hell.”

  My mind flashes back to the stories I'd heard about my father's struggles during those years. I can imagine what Noah had to fight. “FBI says you were good at what you did.”

  Noah chuckles. “Little girl, I was the best.”

  “They also say the art you stole was never found. What happened to it?”

  He's silent again. Then he says with a touch of self-satisfaction in his voice, “Let's just say it made for a nice down payment on a restaurant.”

  I shouldn't, but I smile at that.

  “Are we just going to sit here and wait for them to kill us?” I ask. “Can you use your skills to get us out of this mess? You know like on that old television show, MacGyver?”
/>   He tries to twist his arms. “I might be able to pick these cuffs if I had something small and straight.”

  “I have hairpins in my purse.” I scoot over to where the contents of my purse had scattered. I use my foot to shuffle through the items until I find the little plastic case of hairpins. I stomp it with my stiletto heel and smash it open. “Can you reach them?”

  Noah crawls over on his knees and works to pick up a hairpin. It seems to take forever but finally he says, “Let's see if I still got the touch.”

  I have to ask Noah the other question nagging at me. “FBI said they had chatter pointing to you as a suspect. What have you been doing to make them think you were planning to steal the mosaic?”

  “Shoot. Almost got it in the lock. Haven't been doing anything except working my business and the art center.”

  “It makes no sense for the FBI to single you out,” I say. “You hadn't talked to any of your old acquaintances?”

  “Folks I used to work with are either dead or too feeble to even think about our old business. When you have a record there's always a target on you. In this country folks never let you forget your past. You're always the first one they point the finger at when they need an arrest or a scapegoat. Black man's burden. How'd you find this place?”

  I tell him how I was checking on the mosaic when the thieves showed up.

  “Got it!” Noah almost shouts.

  I shake with nervous joy.

  Noah comes over to me and works on my cuffs. Shortly, my hands are free, and I scoop up the contents of my handbag, stuffing some items in my coat pocket. We make our way to the door, me on my tiptoes so as to not make noise in my heels. Noah flattens his ear against the door.

  “Can't hear a thing,” he says.

  At that moment the door is snatched open and the menace is scowling at us.

  “How the hell did you get out of those cuffs?”

  Before I know it Noah throws himself at the menace, hitting him at the knees and making him pitch forward. Without thinking, I sink the heel of my pump into his backside. He topples, taking Noah with him.

  “Run, Vera!” Noah yells.