118

Aligned Design

Ch 21

The car turned left onto Clinton from Flushing. It slowed and the right turn blinker came on. It made a wide right turn into the driveway of Big Apple Storage and stopped at the gate.

The woman got out, unlocked the gate, swung it open wide, returned to her car and drove through. She turned right and drove to the end, turned left and stopped at the third door of the first building. She unlocked her unit, raised the door, stepped inside and began shifting boxes.

Three buildings away lay two bodies. Rigor had come and gone and the flies arrived.

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"Thank you Mr. Mazurowsky. You have been very helpful," Eames said as the three of them stood.

"Yes, thanks for all the copies, too. That was very considerate of you," Bobby added sticking out his hand.

"Glad to be of service," Mazurowsky said, shaking Bobby's hand and nodding to Eames. "You have my card if you have other questions."

"This officer will show you out," Eames said.

The insurance broker left and Bobby said to Eames, "You need to restack that folder, Eames."

She looked at him, "What?"

Bobby stopped at the door and turned back. "The folder, you need to restack everything face down on the left. That way it all will be in chronological order of receipt."

Eames looked at him as if he was nuts.

"What?" Bobby looked back at her and then looked at the floor.

"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head. Was he always this odd?

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"Did I do ok?" Bobby asked, entering the watch room.

Deakins looked at the tall detective sheepishly. "You did fine, Goren."

"So, am I off house arrest?"

Deakins looked at Bobby questioningly.

"I want to get to some hardware stores. I want to find the type of hose used to strangle the artist. I haven't been able to find anything matching the ligature marks on-line. Can I go to some hardware stores?" Bobby looked at Deakins like he was twelve and asking his dad if he could go to the movies.

Deakins recognized the plaintive look, he'd seen it in his youngest daughter, so many times. To be honest, he was afraid to let his best detective out by himself. Bobby is unstable. Anything could set him off. He took a deep breath, prepared to respond to Bobby, when . . .

"Excuse me, captain, detective, the gallery owner is here for his interview. Is there anyway you can expedite this?" the officer interrupted at the door.

The three turned and looked at the uniformed leaning into the watch room.

"Really, this guy is having a hissy. He wants to speak to the Commissioner," the cop said with raised eyebrows. He looked like he was ready for a drink.

Deakins spoke first, "Who wants to speak to the Commissioner?"

Eames spoke to the officer, "Thanks. We'll be right there. Offer him something to drink. Make him comfortable." She turned to Deakins. "This is Canvettelli, the gallery owner. He's a little . . . excitable. We should go."

As if on cue, Deakins and Eames looked at Bobby and the boss said, "How about this one? You want to be in on the interview?"

Bobby really wanted to get out. He wanted to go to hardware stores. He wanted to get out and try to call Gleason again. This gallery owner had gotten under his skin so quickly yesterday. He wasn't sure.

"Uh, um, this, this is the guy I had the run in with. Are you sure you want me to be in there with him again?"

Deakins rubbed his face with his right hand. Jesus, what do I do? "Eames, you start. Bobby and I will watch. Just like with the insurance broker." He looked at Bobby, "Are you ok with that?"

Bobby shrugged and then nodded reluctantly. He wanted to get these interviews done so he could get outside.

"Ok, Eames. Are you ready for this guy?"

"Yeah, I'm ready."

She left the other two in the dark of the watch room and turned right to interview one.

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The cab dropped Gleason on Clark Street at the Sculpture Garden.

"Thank you," she gave the cabbie a smile with the fare and a tip.

She stepped onto the sidewalk and pulled up the raincoat's hood. She adjusted herself so that her leather bag hung on her shoulder inside the coat. She was completely covered save for her shoes. She shoved her hands into the bag-like pockets and began to walk among the pieces of art.

The rain tapped on the hood; it splikked on her shoulders. Drops drew straight silver lines in front of her face. Her feet splished quietly in the shallow puddles. The smell of the saturated soil filled her nose. No one else was about. From sculpture to sculpture, she moved through the steady rain. Stopping at each piece, Gleason studied it, read the placard, walked around the sculpture, stepped back and then walked on. She was so happy.

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Eames entered the interview room and faced a nearly hysterical Canvettelli.

"Thank God! I have been waiting forever! Can we get this over with, detective? I have a thriving business to attend to." Then quietly, conspiratorially, he asked, "Will the Police Commissioner be joining us?" Canvettelli looked past her to the closed door.

"Uh, no, not that I'm aware of," Eames replied with hesitation. She couldn't resist turning to the mirrored glass and raising her eyebrows to the two men on the other side.

"Commissioner?" asked Deakins. "Do you know anything about that?" he said to Bobby.

Goren shook his head and mumbled, "Huh uh." He stood beside the captain with his arms crossed, hugging his portfolio to his chest.

Canvettelli, whispered with a knowing nod to the mirror, "He's behind the glass, isn't he?" Then aloud, "Well, let me help you solve this terrible crime. What can I tell you?"

Eames indicated that he sit and she took the seat across from him.

"Ok. You are the owner of the gallery, correct?"

"Yes, I am." Canvettelli shook his head in the same way girls with long hair shake it out of their faces. He stretched out his pencil-like arms on the tabletop and laced his manicured fingers.

"Do you have proof of ownership?"

"What? Why would you ask about proof of ownership? I own the gallery, every brick, strip of mortar, tile on the floor, and pipe and wire in the walls. Why are you asking me if I own it? Of course I do! Why are you asking me this?" He was building a head of steam looking at a full-blown hissy.

"Mr. Canvettelli, please. Calm down. That is a preliminary question. I meant no offence. Let's move on. All right?" Eames was so glad Bobby wasn't in here with her. He'd have snapped this guy's neck like a matchstick. Canvettelli took a deep breath, shook his head and straightened his shoulders.

Eames looked at her notes. "Who is the broker you purchased the paintings from?"

Canvettelli, shifted in his seat. Shit! This is what she's been wanting to know. "Well, detective, I don't know that I'm in a position to reveal that information."

"Oh, yes you are. Who did you purchase the paintings from?"

"I, uh, well, see . . . I, really. . ."

"You don't know, do you, Mr. Canvettelli?" Eames leaned across the table at the slight figure across from her. "You don't know because you didn't purchase the paintings. Someone else did all the organizing – your silent partner. Tell me who you are working with."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Yes you do. Who is behind this heist? Who set up this whole scam?"

"Are you accusing me of a crime, detective?"

"Should I be?"

"Well, no, of course not! I mean, I don't know anything. I just bought the six paintings because Meraux Peignoir is – was – a wonderful, young, contemporary French impressionist. My gallery specializes in such up and comers. I did nothing wrong."

"You still haven't answered my question. Who is the broker?"

Eames was having a good time riding this idiot. She knew from the insurance man that the broker was Palmer Tillman. She wanted to get the St. Louis police to pick him up for questioning. She planned to call right after she finished with this guy and then Navicky.

Deakins leaned slightly to Goren and asked, "What does this guy know that we need to know?"

"I'm not sure any information he has matters anymore. In light of all the information the insurance broker provided."

"Should we let this one go?"

At that moment, they heard a knock at the door and it opened. "Sorry to interrupt. This message just came in for Detective Eames from the eight-eight. They said it was important."

Bobby took it, read it and then told Deakins, "Well, Navicky – the driver of the truck that carried the paintings – never showed up at his place of work this morning. They checked his home and his car is gone."

"Great. Ok, let's spring this guy, he doesn't know anything," said Deakins.

Deakins knocked on the glass and Eames wrapped it up.

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Gleason spent more than an hour walking through the Sculpture Garden. She felt wonderful. The rain, how she loved the rain! She found a bench and sat. Her thoughts slipped back to her early childhood on the island, living in the commune. She remembered a time, she must have been three or four years old, running naked in the rain. It was summer, the ground had gone soft and muddy in front of the bungalow. She had been dancing in the rain and slipped and fell in the mud. It was glorious. Christian MacNaughton stood in the cabin doorway, watching her. She saw his head tilt back and laugh. She'd never felt so happy and safe as she did that day.

To her surprise, she felt her eyes fill. This was the second or third time in two months that she'd thought of Christian. She was certain he was her father. She'd always thought so. However, she'd never allowed herself to admit it. How strange.

A student, taking a short cut across the Sculpture Garden caught sight of the figure in the raincoat, hood up, sitting on the bench, the rain pouring down. He stopped and took in the sight. He reached for his backpack, removed his camera and positioned himself. He clicked off nearly a dozen shots at various speeds and exposures. That is a good composition, he said to himself. That is a winner!

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"Let him go. He's got nothing we need," Deakins told Eames. His phone rang and he said to Bobby, "Tell her the rest. Deakins . . ."

"Tell me what?"

"This message came for you," Bobby handed her the pink message slip. "Navicky never showed up at work. The officers checked his home and there's no sign of him."

"Well that's just wonderful! He ran. Shit!"

"Want me to go spring him?" Bobby asked, nodding to the glass.

"No, I'll do it. Crap!"

I'm never going to get out of here today, Bobby thought. Maybe we can go check out Navicky's residence. That would be good. Maybe we could stop at a hardware store on the way or on the way back. He turned and headed to his desk.