76

Aligned Design

Ch 13

Gleason returned to the hotel and put the rest of her stay on her American Express card. She went up to the room and put the money envelope in the bottom of her carpetbag, under the stiff bottom. She went to the bathroom and considered getting some lunch. She was hungry; she'd not eaten anything and it was way past noon. No, wait and get something there, she said to herself.

She returned to the lobby and asked for a cab.

"Bobby, do you want to go over where we are on this painter case?"

He looked up and said flatly, "Ok, here or in the conference room?"

"Either place. Do you have a lot of information?"

"Not so much. Let's do it here."

At this point, Bobby would usually pull his chair around to her side of the desks. He didn't this time. He gathered up the files and loose papers, organized them, opened his notebook, flipped back a few pages and looked at her.

"What have you got?" he asked. Bobby looked back down at his notebook.

"I want to send a couple of uniforms to the gallery to pick up Canvettelli first thing tomorrow morning. I want to interview him to get the name of the St. Louis broker out of him. He keeps putting me off. What do you think about bringing him in?"

"Yeah, sure." He looked up and asked, "What else?"

Eames stared at him for a half moment, took a deep breath and continued, "The insurance representative is coming in early in the morning. I want to talk with him about how the value changes since the artist is dead, what the procedure is, that kind of thing."

Bobby wasn't looking at Eames; his eyes were down, elbows on the table, hands up. The fingers of his right hand massaged his left knuckles. He did it unknowingly. "Be sure to ask him how often this happens. Find out if there are patterns of apparent deception in shipping related claims." Bobby offered these offhandedly, as though he really didn't care.

Eames added those two items to her list. She asked, "Did you have a chance to investigate the shipping company for previous claims?"

"Yeah, I did." His hands moved to a folder on his desk. He shuffled what looked like computer printouts, found what he was looking for and said, "There's nothing out of the usual; general breakage claims, a few lost items, but nothing on the value scale of these paintings. I don't see the company perpetrating this heist, someone on the inside, maybe, but not the company. What about the driver?" He glanced up.

Eames nodded, "Joe Navicky. I want to bring him in as well. I'll call Bill Jackson, the supervisor out there and have him reschedule Navicky for tomorrow. I'll send a couple of uniforms out to pick him up. It looks like we're going to have three or four interviews tomorrow. Are you going to be around?"

Bobby looked at her and then said, "You know I'm not allowed to interview. Deakins doesn't trust me. You don't trust me." He looked down and was quiet a moment. Eames said nothing. Then, softly, Bobby added, "Hell, I don't trust me." His head tilted to the left and he pursed his lips. He didn't look up.

Eames fought tears. She wanted to go around the desks and hold him. Tell him everything was going to be ok. She wanted to kiss him, make him forget his pain. Make him forget Gleason. She sat and looked at her broken partner.

"Bobby . . . I –," she stopped because she had no words.

He looked up, cleared his throat, and said, "I, I investigated the painter on line. I found nothing out of the ordinary." Bobby took another folder and opened it, spreading out the pages. "He would probably have died within a year or two, according to Rodgers; AIDS. I told you my theory about this being a lovers' spat gone wrong. I'm not sure anymore. I think this is a real, old fashioned, art heist." He looked at her. His face was a mask.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Navicky had three more stops until he would be empty. Christ, then Pangborn would want those canvasses. Yeah, but he'll pay me. Then all this shit will be done.

"Uh, three more stops and I'm done."

"Well, thank Christ. Jesus, what a boring job you have. I could never do this kind of work." Pangborn looked out the window. He moved his hands to his pockets. He'd not touched anything inside or outside of the truck. "So, Joey, where'd you stash the paintings, huh?"

"Let's talk about payment, first. You got the cash? I don't see a bag. How're we gonna do this, huh? Where's the cash?"

"Joey, Joey, Joey. I am disappointed in you. You think I'm going to cheat you? You are breaking my heart, my man. I am an honorable thief. Last of a rare breed. You do not need to worry about me. I will pay you fair and square. This job could not have been done without your expertise. I pay for quality work. And you, sir, do quality work. Not to worry." They rode in silence for a few minutes. "So, Joey, where'd you stash the paintings?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Mr. Jackson, please," Eames called the shipping company to ask that Navicky not leave the lot in the morning.

"Hello, Mr. Jackson, it's Detective Eames. I spoke with you earlier. Yes. I am going to send two uniformed officers over to your lot in the morning to pick up Joe Navicky. . . . No, no sir, he's not in any trouble. I just want to bring him in for questioning. . . . I'm calling to ask you to schedule him in a way that he'll be available for pick up. . . . No, don't tell him why; just make sure he's at the lot. What time does he usually show up? . . . I see. Great. Thanks Mr. Jackson. I appreciate your cooperation. Bye."

Well, that went well, she thought. Now, to arrange for Canvettelli's pick up. Ha, what an event that will be.

Eames called the one-three and Midtown South to arrange for the pickups in each of their jurisdictions. She began to organize the questions for each of the three interviews. This will be strange, interviewing without Bobby, she thought.

Bobby was the closer. He always got the witness or suspect to peel back layers, reveal what they didn't even know they knew. He could see into their minds, know what they knew and were trying to hide. He'd be watching her through the glass. She wanted to do this right. She read and reread her questions.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I've got to go out tonight and I can't change it." Jesus Christ this gay boy is such a whiner, Jenese thought. "Stop whining, for chrissakes! Jesus, you make me crazy."

Canvettelli, pouted in the chair in his office. "Let me finish you, then." Canvettelli reached out his arm and waggled his fingers at the other man. "I want to finish you. Please. If I can't have you tonight, I want you now." He opened his mouth and waved his tongue at Jenese.

Jenese could use a good come right now. He was tense. Tonight's the night, and then this one is all over. Get the art and head to Baltimore. Tillman had better be on a plane right now. He had better have a place for us when I get there. I hope to God he's checked out that ceramicist. God, he was tired of relying on other people.

Although, Jenese could always rely on Canvettelli's mouth. Yessiree, this boy could take away tension. "All right, suck me good. And I'm not pulling out when I come." He crossed the short distance, undoing his pants as he walked.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gleason got in the cab and said, "The Sculpture Garden on Clark Street, please."

The driver pulled away from the curb and Gleason settled back. She was tired and hungry. She wanted to visit the Sculpture Garden on Northwestern's campus and then would walk to the Norris Student Center for some lunch. After lunch, she was going to check out the Shakespeare Garden. What a wonderful way to spend a day. She was excited.

Gleason was surprised at how hungry she was. And tired. Maybe she'd just visit the one garden and then eat. She really should have had something this morning. She watched the town flash by outside the window. The colors, the shapes, flashing by, smearing by.

Oh, oh no. She wasn't so hungry now as queasy. Gleason forced her lips closed. Oh, no. Don't be sick. Suddenly she was hot, sweaty. Oh, no, no. She needed to go back. Back to the hotel.

"Driver, excuse me. Driver." The world began to spin as Gleason tried to sit up to speak over the back of the front seat. "Driver . . . ," her voice failed her as she fell back against the seat. The driver noticed the movement and saw her tilt back. She was white as a ghost.

"Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you all right?" He put on his blinker, pulled to the curb and put it in park. "Lady, are you ok?" He turned around and looked at her with genuine concern.

"Please, take me back to the hotel." Her voice was a whisper.

"Yes, of course." The driver had an unopened bottle of water on the seat beside him. "Lady, here, maybe you should have a drink of water. Let me open this for you." He cracked open the bottle and handed it over the back of the seat.

It was all she could do to reach for it. "Thank you," she breathed. She lifted it to her mouth and took a tiny sip. That was a mistake. The water hit her empty stomach and sought its way back up. Gleason clapped her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes.

"Oh, lady, oh, are you gonna be sick? Don't be sick in my cab. Please. Here, you want to stand outside and get some air? Huh?"

Gleason shook her head no. "I'll be ok. Let's just go back to the hotel, ok?"

"Yeah, sure, ok. Here we go." The driver pulled back into traffic and headed back to the hotel.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Uh, be sure and ask the insurance rep about how value is determined." Bobby said to Eames glancing over at her. He'd been deep in thought for several minutes. His fingers punctuated his words. "And, and ask him why his company, Westmark Equities, agreed to take the policy." He was thinking through the interview.

He swallowed, his head leaned left and his hands chopped at air, "Uh, then, then find out if any riders were attached to the original policy. Find out who purchased the policy. Sometimes the broker will have a policy in addition to the buyer. You should have asked him about the broker already. That would have given you the broker's name. Should have done that. Maybe the broker and buyer are in cahoots. They may both profit by the insurance claim. If they are working together, they stand to double their profit."

He said all of this without looking directly at Eames. She wrote as fast as she could. Boy, I wish Bobby would be there with me. This is just the kind of thing he was so good doing.

The remark about what she should have done stung. But, he was right. Had things been right, he would have gone ahead and just done that. They would have divvied up the tasks. Things were right. Would they ever be right again?

"This is good. What else?"

She watched Bobby think. His head moved. He pressed his lips tight. She watched his eyes scan nothing. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders. "Uh yeah, find out what other artists they insure. And, if they've ever done business with this shipping company." He looked up at her. "That's all I've got. The rest is up to you. Don't go easy. Be strong. Suspect everyone." He looked down again."

He really wanted to do these interviews. Eames was not an interrogator. She was fine at a scene, gathering superficial, obvious bits of information. He preferred to have her do that first layer. He wanted to be free to examine the body, the scene. Even the second layer was ok for her to glean. He'd always been in the background for those second layer interviews. He would be free to wander, scope the home or workplace, the places where the second layer usually took place. But he was always listening, always listening. Eames missed so much. Christ she was nothing but a crack shot. He put up with her because she put up with him. No one else would.

He would watch through the glass tomorrow. They would have to work out a signal for her to leave the interview room and come get direction. Shit. He hated playing those games. She was such a fucking pawn, so goddamn weak. Stupid bitch. Whoa, what's going on here, he asked himself. Why are you getting so steamed at Eames? Knock it off, he told himself. He felt himself getting angry. At nothing. He felt it building. Christ, what's happening? He stood up. I need to get out of here. He looked at his watch, three twenty-five.

Two hours till she calls. Suddenly his mind was clear. Oh, that's better. He exhaled audibly and he sat again.

Eames watched his face darken, she saw him stand, and check his watch and then exhale. What's he doing? He sat and looked at nothing. Cold fear ran down Eames' back. She ventured, "Bobby, you ok?"

He looked up at her as if surprised she was there. "Yeah, yeah. I'm ok." He tilted his head left and began to shut down his computer. "Look, I'm going to head out. I'm, I'm going to the range if Deakins asks." He closed the lid on his laptop, stood, reached for his jacket, turned and walked away.

Eames covered her face and couldn't stop the tears.