43
Aligned Design
Ch 6.
"Hi, I'm Bill Jackson, the manager here. What can I do for you?" Bill Jackson held out his hand to Eames.
"I'm Detective Eames. I'd like to ask you a few questions about a lost shipment of paintings that was directed through here."
"Oh, yeah, sure. Those six paintings from St. Louis. I'll tell ya, I have no idea where those are. Let me get you copies of the paperwork on those. Sarah, can you find the manifest for those six paintings from St. Louis? Thanks."
Sarah reached for a folder on the corner of her desk. "Here's everything," she said, offering the folder to her boss.
"Thanks." Jackson took the folder and opened it on the counter. "Here. Here's the manifest, the insurance forms, the routing documents. Everything is complete, signed and up to date." Jackson and Eames examined each piece of paper in the folder.
"I'll need copies of each of these, please."
"Sarah, copy everything for the detective, please. Thanks."
"So, how did you realize the paintings were lost?"
"When the gallery owner called to ask about when they'd be delivered. He wanted to know what day and an approximate time. Sarah here, talked with the guy. When she realized they were showing delivered, she called me."
Eames looked over at the office clerk. "Excuse me; you spoke with the gallery owner?"
Sarah turned from the copy machine and walked back to the counter. "Yes, he was very nice about it. I put him on hold, pulled up the tracking number and it showed delivered. Copies of all of that are in the paperwork."
"Thanks," Eames said and thought a minute. So, the paintings could have been intercepted or diverted by the driver. He would have had to falsify the delivery documents. On the other hand, the gallery owner cold have taken delivery of the paintings and lied about having received them. She turned back to Jackson. "Who was the driver on that delivery?"
"Sarah, who drove that truck?"
"Joe Navicky."
"I'll need to speak with him. Is he here?"
"Uh, no. He won't be back until after six."
Eames noticed that Jackson seemed to want to say something else. "Is there something else?" she asked him.
"No. It's just that a fellow was in here earlier wanting to see Navicky."
"What did he want?"
"I'm not sure. He asked if Joe was around, I told him what I told you – that he wasn't expected back until after six. I asked if he wanted to leave a message and he said he'd catch him later. He didn't leave a name."
"Can you describe this man?"
"Thirties, white, really pale, well dressed, slight build."
"Ok, thanks. Give us a call if he shows up again. Try to get a name, too." Eames gave him her card.
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George Huang called Derek Aldridge, the leader of the anger management class Goren attended.
"Hello, this is Dr. George Huang. I'm one of the psychiatrists with NYPD. One of our detectives attended an anger management course you ran recently. I need to discuss his case with you. Do you have a minute to talk now?"
Derek Aldridge graduated from Brookbine University with a BA in Social Science at the end of the last semester. He was twenty-two and had been a counselor with the Cranston Agency for three months. NYPD had a contract with the Cranston Agency to provide various types of programs for members of the force and their families. It offered counseling on everything from substance abuse to marriage. The only exception was post trauma counseling. A select cadre of psychiatrists specifically trained to deal with the types of trauma common to members of the law enforcement family handled those cases.
"Ah, yeah, sure. What can I tell you?"
"Detective Robert Goren was a member of one of your groups. Do you remember him?"
In actuality, Aldridge had only had two AM classes so far; sixteen people total. And he knew exactly who Robert Goren was. That guy is nuts. "Uh, well, I see a lot of people, Doctor. I am not sure I recall exactly which one he might be. When were his meetings?"
Huang checked his notes, "He attended ninety minute sessions, three times a week for four weeks. He's a big white guy, six-four, six-five, two-thirty, mid-forties, dark hair, graying a little, really intense. He would have either had an attitude or was real quiet."
"Well, most of the clients I see are either really intense or really quiet. But, I do remember him. Intimidating figure, that one. What can I tell you?"
"What's your assessment of how the sessions affected Goren?"
"Uh, I'm not sure I know what you mean."
Huang hesitated and thought, great, this kid is brand new. No wonder Goren still has problems. This pup doesn't know squat.
"Well, do you think the sessions worked for the detective?"
"Oh, well, sure they worked. The sessions help the client spot situations where they experience anger, how to recognize signs of anger before they react, and tactics to stop or redirect the anger or its consequences. We do many exercises in each of those areas in each of the sessions. My clients learn how to manage their anger," Aldridge recited from memory.
"Why are you asking about this man? Has something happened? Has he lost his temper?"
Huang sighed and said, "You could say that. Thanks for talking with me about him."
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There, Gleason thought, that's good. She had added Brookbine University, the names of the courses she taught there, and the consulting work she had done with the NYPD and her work with the Cambrelli Institute. She reread her resume. I'd hire me, she thought, smiling.
She saved her work to the memory stick, printed two copies of her resume and shut down the computer. She said goodnight to the desk clerk as she exited the small business office and turned toward the lifts.
She thought about calling Bobby when she got to the room. I should, she said to herself. He'll be worried. Or, angry. No, he'll be worried. I don't know. Maybe not.
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Bobby sat at his desk not really thinking of anything. Oh, it is nice not to think, he thought. Nothing in his head, no one in his head. He felt so free, so calm. He caught himself staring ahead, at nothing. I should do something.
He looked at his 'to-do' list – number thirteen, research the painter. I shall research the painter, he said to himself. Bobby typed in, 'Meraux Peignoir/painter' on his laptop. He watched the search bar fly left to right as information on the young French painter gathered from the virtual world.
Ah, let's see . . . Bobby was stunned at the number of search results the name Meraux Peignoir provided. Peignoir's name appeared under galleries, museums, auction houses, books, videos, university classes, and society pages, gay and lesbian organizations, on and on. The guy was famous and very involved.
For the rest of the afternoon, Bobby learned all about the dead artist. He made copious notes and enjoyed himself immensely. He didn't notice when Eames returned.
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Navicky steered his struck into a parking spot in the back of the loading docks at the shipping center. He collected his code reader, lunch box, and thermos, stepped from the cab and locked the cab door.
"Hey, Navicky," Bill Jackson called when he saw the driver cross the lot. Navicky stopped, and then headed toward the boss.
"Yeah?"
"You finished already? Did you have a full load?" Navicky had returned nearly two and a half hours early.
"Yeah, a dozen went to that medical complex on Burkholtz. Just one of those lucky days, I guess."
"You're a popular guy today," Jackson said amicably.
"What do mean?" asked Navicky.
"Some guy was here this morning looking for you and then your name came up in a conversation with a detective."
Navicky went pale and then dark. "Who was here this morning?"
"I don't know, a small pale guy. Said he'd be back later today. I told him you wouldn't be back until after six."
"What about the cops? How'd my name come up?"
Navicky was a quiet guy, kept to himself usually. Hard worker; got it all done and did it well. Jackson watched the array of emotions play across the other man's face. Jackson thought he saw fear, curiosity, anger all travel across Navicky's features.
"A detective was here asking questions about those missing paintings. She wanted copies of all the paperwork. I told her you were in the clear since you delivered the paintings and got the signature. She was interested in the other guy, the one asking about you. You going to hang around, wait for the guy?"
"Hell, no. I'm gonna clock out. See you tomorrow."
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