Cursed fs-1 Read online

  The tension in Zack’s body tells me the woman is more than a stranger stopping to ask for directions. He knows who she is and he’s not happy to see her. His shoulders bunch, his mouth turns down. I can’t quite make out what she says to him as she approaches, but his response is clear. He shakes his head and motions her away. The gesture is understated, discreet, but it carries with it a sense of finality. He looks past the woman, at me.

  Her head turns, following his line of sight. Her eyes connect with mine briefly before she dons the glasses once again. The fraction of a second is all she needs to convey a warning. All I need to determine that she, too, is Were. One intent on marking her territory? I resist the urge to let my hand slide to my hip, where my gun rests securely in its holster. I choose instead to annoy her further by smiling and waving.

  “You waiting for an invitation, Monroe?” Zack calls out before climbing into the Suburban and closing the door, effectively dismissing Miss Fancy Pants.

  As I approach she turns on her heel. A confident toss of her head in Zack’s direction says she’s gotten her message across. Now that she’s seen me, now that she’s convinced I’m not a threat, she doesn’t bother to spare me a second glance. By the time I reach the Suburban, she’s returned to her car, climbed inside, and fired up the engine. With a squeal of tires, she’s gone.

  But not before I notice the license plate. South Carolina. It’s reflex to store the number away in the back of my mind.

  I open the car door. “I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.”

  Zack is waiting behind the wheel, hands at the ten and two o’clock position, knuckles white. He avoids looking me in the eye. “She doesn’t like the fact that we slept together.”

  He says it casually.

  “You told her we slept together?” I ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

  His gaze meets me head-on. “Would you have preferred I lied?”

  “She your girlfriend?”

  He throws the car into reverse and steps on the gas. “Ex.”

  I wonder if the status came before the revelation and how long they were together. I’m guessing a few months, a year at most. The breakup seems fresh. In the month we worked together, he never mentioned being involved with anyone. There were no calls to apologize for having to work late and no women showing up at the office. But I did come to know Zack’s moods well enough to interpret this one. With one single syllable, he’s effectively closing the door on that subject.

  It’s okay.

  Zack can have his secrets.

  I certainly have mine.

  CHAPTER 2

  Zack wasn’t bluffing. He gets us from our office in Kearney Mesa to the Haskell Gallery on Prospect Street in La Jolla without a single hesitation or wrong turn. We’ve managed to miss the early-morning rush hours on both Highways 15 and 52, so it only takes about twenty minutes.

  La Jolla is an enclave of the rich and famous. Prospect Street is aptly named. It’s the mother lode. A street lined with boutiques, a luxury hotel, fancy restaurants, and galleries of all sorts, the connecting artery to the center of town. Zack scores a spot right in front of the gallery.

  He’s been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride over. I don’t recall Zack being one to hold back. I suppose he’s still thinking about the unexpected visit from his ex. I am, too. What’s she doing here? It’s not exactly an afternoon’s joy ride from South Carolina. Or he might be bracing himself for lunch and what he anticipates is going to be a major confrontation.

  We sit for a minute, facing the gallery. It’s located in the middle of a block built of gray cut stone, arched entryways separating one business from the next. We could be in the center of a European village, the intent of the architects who planned La Jolla’s exclusive shopping areas. The gallery is not the largest storefront. In fact, some of the businesses on either side are bigger. There’s a simple banner reading HASKELL GALLERY above the door, and adding to the old-world charm, flower-filled clay pots sit on either side of the entrance.

  “Ready?” Zack says.

  He has a notebook and pen in his hand.

  I nod and push open the car door.

  We enter into an airy open space broken only by partitions displaying what I presume are Amy’s works. The walls are painted dove gray, the floor is an oak hardwood, and the partitions are stark white—colors picked to emphasize the brilliant hues in Amy’s paintings. They shine like jewels under the subtle lighting.

  “Abstract Expressionist.” It’s more of a statement than a question as Zack steps to take a closer look at one of the canvases. It’s about three feet by six feet and ablaze with the golds and crimsons of a fiery sunset, all intertwined until the canvas looks more like a piece of woven cloth than a painting. “Reminiscent of Jackson Pollock, only more controlled, purposeful, less chaotic, more deliberate. I like it.”

  Before I can react with surprise to Zack’s adept appraisal, a voice calls out, “Very good.”

  The reply comes from just behind the partition we’ve paused in front of. A woman steps out. “Amy’s most definitely influenced by Pollock’s techniques. Incorporating her own individual style, of course. She’s studied many of the Impressionists. Notice the short, intense brushstrokes.” She holds out a hand. “I’m Bernadette Haskell.”

  Zack grasps it. “Agent Armstrong. This is Agent Monroe.”

  Haskell gives us both the once-over. “I’m glad to see the DA has taken me seriously.”

  It’s not hard to understand why he might. Haskell’s presence screams no-nonsense career woman. I’d guess her to be in her early fifties, dressed in an expensive tailored suit made of black lightweight wool. Under the jacket is an open-necked shirt of white poplin. The cuffs of the shirt are adorned with black onyx cuff links, matching her earrings. Black suede loafers and frameless glasses complete the ensemble. Her hair is silver, feathered at the sides to accentuate piercing blue eyes.

  She fixes those eyes on me. “My office is in the back.”

  We follow her through the gallery to a door at the very back. Her office is ultramodern, all polished chrome and glass. She motions us to sit in two white leather chairs across from her desk. When we are settled, she starts right in.

  “Something has happened to Amy. I know it. She would not have left town without telling me. And before you ask, she didn’t have a boyfriend she ran off with, either.” She opens her top desk drawer and retrieves a set of keys. “These are the keys to her apartment. I haven’t touched anything since the police conducted their search.”

  When I take the keys from her hand, she slumps back in her chair. “The police went through everything on her computer, checked her phone records. They didn’t find one single item to shed light on Amy’s disappearance. But I’m certain someone’s taken her.”

  “What makes you so certain?” asks Zack.

  “Look around the gallery, Agents. Amy’s career is flowering. She gets so many inquiries regarding new commissions, we have to turn some away. She has a show opening in New York in two days. Her reputation is growing. She wouldn’t walk away from it. It’s what she’s worked for all her life.” She draws a quick, sharp breath. “And, quite honestly, I can’t bring myself to consider the alternative—that something worse has happened to her.”

  “You seem very close to Amy,” Zack says.

  “We are very close, Agent Armstrong.” She waves a hand. “Amy is reclusive. Doesn’t make friends easily. Her work really is her life. I am the only person Amy has let share that life since her parents died two years ago. I do more than manage the gallery. I am her friend, confidante, personal assistant, and, dare I say it”—she smiles here—“biggest critic. She looks to me to keep her grounded, on track.”

  “When did you realize Amy was missing?” I ask.

  She answers without hesitation. “March twenty-ninth. She had an appointment here at three that she missed. I called her cell, her home number. There was no answer. I left messages, spent the next two hours checking my voice m
ail. As soon as the gallery closed, I went over to her apartment. That’s when I really started to worry. Her car was there, but no Amy. By that time, my calls to her cell started to roll straight into voice mail. Either Amy had turned it off or she’d let it run out of battery. Again, uncharacteristic.”

  Zack leans forward, listening intently. “Is that when you called the police?”

  Haskell nods. “Yes. They told me I had to come to the station if I wanted to file a report. I was torn. I wasn’t sure I should.”

  “Did you?” he asks.

  “Not that night. The police suggested I call the local hospitals, the coroner’s office, the morgue. By daylight I was frantic. I called a friend in the district attorney’s office and begged her to convince the police to help. She promised she’d get SDPD to come, told me to stay put. I waited for hours. They took my statement, gave the apartment a quick once-over, then left. They’ve done nothing. Nothing. Someone needs to take this seriously. It’s been almost two weeks. I had to get you involved.”

  To Haskell, it would appear that the police have done nothing. But we have their case records to show they had done all the requisite background checks. Small comfort, though, to someone waiting for concrete news of a missing loved one.

  I let a beat go by before saying, “You mentioned Amy having missing an appointment. Do you keep her schedule?”

  “I do.” Haskell punches up something on her laptop, turns the screen so I can see. “Here are last week’s appointments. I keep it week to week.”

  “Can you print it out for us?” Zack asks. “Not only the most recent entries, but for the last two months?”

  Without replying, Haskell hits a key and the printer on a credenza behind her begins to whir. It spits out a dozen sheets of paper, which she takes from the printer, taps on the desktop to align, and hands to Zack. “You will see that Amy never missed an appointment before—” Her voice drops. “I’ve managed to put off most of what she’s missed. But now that her disappearance has become public knowledge. . . .” One manicured fingernail taps a copy of the San Diego Union-Tribune. It’s open to the Arts page where a headline reads LOCAL ARTIST MISSING.

  I rise. “We’ll head over to Amy’s apartment.” I take a business card from my pocket and hand it to her. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we finish there. We may have more questions for you.”

  “Anything,” she replies. “Just bring Amy back.”

  Her telephone rings and she glances down. “I expect I’ll be busy today answering this damned thing.”

  Zack has risen with me. “We’ll leave you to it. We’d appreciate if you didn’t mention our involvement just yet. Gives us a little time to work without the interruption of inquiries from reporters.”

  “Of course.”

  She reaches for the telephone and Zack and I take our leave.

  • • •

  “Patterson lives downtown in a high-rise at the corner of Kettner and A Street.” I’m reading from the police report. I look over at Zack. “I suppose you don’t need directions there, either.”

  Zack is back behind the wheel. He smiles. “Nope.”

  His manner is more relaxed. He seems to have shaken off the effects of his encounter with the woman in the parking lot.

  “So, how do you know your way around San Diego so well?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Right now I want to know your reaction to Haskell.”

  “Smart. Efficient. All business. But her feelings for Amy are real. She’s worried. And it goes beyond her own self-interest in a business that appears to be doing very well.”

  “We should look into the gallery’s financials, as well as Amy’s and her own.”

  I put in a call to the office and let Johnson know what we need. He says he’ll get the warrants and put one of our people right on it.

  I disconnect. “How do you know so much about art?” I ask when I’ve slipped my cell back into my handbag.

  “I know a little about a lot of things,” he answers.

  “Did you really like Amy’s paintings?”

  “You didn’t?”

  By now we’re making good time. Zack has navigated his way out of La Jolla, and Interstate 5 is wide open.

  “Give me Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus or Heda’s Breakfast.” I sigh. “That’s art.”

  He laughs. “You realize most people our age don’t even know who the Old Masters are?”

  Our age? I stifle a snort.

  “Age has nothing to do with preference.” It’s what I say, but actually, it does. I was living in Europe during the fourteenth through eighteenth centuries. While the art was magnificent, living conditions were decidedly not.

  Ten minutes later we’ve pulled off the highway and I sit quietly with my thoughts as Zack winds through the maze of one-way streets downtown. We’re not so lucky in finding a parking spot this time. It takes several turns around the block before we spy a driver pulling out of a metered space. Fortunately, we manage to snag it before anyone else.

  I look up at the building while Zack feeds quarters into the meter. “Nice digs.”

  It’s an upscale condo complex, lots of glass, very modern in design. We let ourselves in through a locked entry with one of the keys on the ring Haskell gave us. There’s a concierge desk, unoccupied at the moment, so we walk straight to the elevators. Amy lives on one of the top floors, requiring use of another key to gain access.

  “Secure building,” I note.

  “Maybe not secure enough.”

  The elevator opens and we realize there are only two residences on the floor. Amy’s is to the left. Zack unlocks the door. We pause for a moment to don gloves, then step inside.

  My first impression is that Amy must make a good living with her art. The layout of her apartment is open, airy, with windows overlooking the city and the bay beyond. I take mental inventory. There’s a small kitchen and a dining area just to the left of the entryway. There are no dishes in the sink, nothing on the table or on the counters. I open one after another of the cupboards. A few cups and glasses. A set of dishes. No food. Not even crackers or a box of cereal. The refrigerator contains bottled water.

  Zack is looking over my shoulder. “She must order in a lot.”

  Like me, I think.

  I look for and find a trash can under the sink. It’s empty with a fresh liner.

  “Someone tidied up.”

  “Haskell?” Zack asks. “She said she hadn’t touched anything.”

  I move on to the living room. Amy’s furniture is plain, functional. A couch and a love seat arranged to take advantage of the views. No television or other electronics. I wander over to the windows. There are no curtains or screens. The bay sparkles in the distance and I watch a plane dip into position to land at the airport just visible to the right. The streets below are dotted with houses and other apartment buildings. The city lights must be spectacular at night.

  Zack joins me, follows my line of sight across the street.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask him.

  Zack nods. “There is one building across the way that looks into this apartment. Maybe someone saw something the day Amy disappeared.”

  There’s a remote lying on a small table near the windows. It seems out of place since there’s no television or stereo in the room. I pick it up, press a button. The window brightens, as if a shield had been lifted.

  “So much for interviewing the neighbors,” Zack says. “I’ve heard of these windows. Highly energy-efficient. And impossible to see in from the outside. Appears Amy really did value her privacy.”

  I step toward a closed set of doors. They open onto a bedroom. There’s a queen-sized bed, dresser, walk-in closet. The top of the dresser is bare except for three pictures in silver frames. I recognize Amy in one of them—the one the police copied for her missing person’s report. It’s an outdoor shot, probably professional, judging from the way the background has been blurred to emphasize a pretty thirtysomething
redhead with laughing green eyes and an impish smile.

  The second is a picture of an older couple taken on what looks like the front porch of a comfortable suburban home. I hold the picture up to Zack. “Her parents?”

  “Probably. And this one.” He points to the third picture. It’s an informal shot of Haskell and Patterson. They have their arms around each other’s waists and are grinning into the camera. In the foreground is a birthday cake, ablaze with dozens of candles. “Seems to lend credence to what Haskell told us about the two of them being friends.”

  I cross the room to peek into the bathroom. Towels are hung neatly, cosmetics lined up in orderly fashion next to a toothbrush holder.

  “What woman goes on a trip without her makeup or a toothbrush?” Zack asks. He’s rejoined me and is looking over my shoulder into the bathroom.

  From the way she looked this morning, certainly not his ex, I want to say. Instead I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.

  There’s one room left and we check it out together.

  Amy’s office is the only room that reflects more personality than orderliness. This is the room where she undoubtedly spends the bulk of her time. In it are two computers, a laptop and a desktop. Her desk is covered with unopened mail and stacks of magazines. The nearby floor-to-ceiling bookshelves contain everything from Nora Roberts to Nietzsche.

  “A woman of eclectic tastes,” Zack says.

  There are double doors at the back of the room that I assume is a closet. When I pull the doors open, however, I reassess my opinion that her office is where she spends her time.

  This is the heart of Amy Patterson’s home.

  It’s her studio.

  Zack pushes past me. “Look at this,” he says with obvious appreciation. “North light, high ceiling, expansive windows. It’s the perfect setup.”