Walt Murphy – PI – 30

I parked in the back lot of the restaurant. Hopefully, Philips had arrived and was parked in front. He had, since he was inside waiting for me. I'd given Julio, the owner, a head's-up and he made sure we were seated in the rear of the restaurant, well away from the large front windows. Ten minutes after arriving, we were in my car, heading to Ricky's. Very carefully. I took what evasive measures were needed to thwart anyone who might be tailing us.

When we got to Ricky's I pulled into the building's parking garage. Ricky had two spaces, one for him, and one for me that he rented from a tenant who didn't drive.

So far, so good. Philips was tense as we rode up in the elevator. I swear, he kept glancing over his shoulder even though it was just the two of us. Not that I could blame him. This was his first experience with trying to avoid the goons and company. Okay, the second one if you count the cab ride.

Ricky greeted us at the door to his apartment. After I introduced him to Philips—who asked him to call him Bailey—and vice versa, Ricky told us dinner would be ready soon and asked Philips what he'd like to drink.

"Wine, if you have it?" Philips said hesitantly before he went over to look at the books and the small art pieces on the shelves along one wall. "Is this what I think it is?" He touched a jade bowl, looking awed.

"Ming dynasty," Ricky replied as he poured a glass of wine and brought it to Philips. "A minor piece that my grandfather acquired during one of his forays overseas after the war."

"It's still a work of art." Philips smiled a bit. "If you ever considering selling it, I'd be happy to put you in touch with a collector I know." He chuckled, adding, "For a commission on my part of course."

Ricky laughed. "Of course. Walt? Beer or your usual?"

"Beer, thanks." I'd have loved my usual, which was scotch straight-up, but the day was catching up with me and I needed to keep a clear head if we were going to figure out what to do about Caiazzo's offer.

Ricky handed me a beer from the fridge behind the bar, took one for himself and then said he'd be right back. He needed to check on dinner. From the smell drifting from the kitchen I was betting it was his famous, at least to my way of thinking, Yankee pot roast.

As soon as he left the room Philips turned to me, asking, "Are you and he… more than just friends?"

"Why would you think that?" I said cautiously.

Philips nodded to a photo sitting on one of the shelves. It was of me and Ricky, taken when we'd celebrated our third anniversary together. We were leaning in and it was obvious that we were about to kiss. "Between that and the fact he asked if you wanted your regular… Well I'm no detective but even I can put together the clues. Don't worry, it doesn't bother me in the least if you're a couple. Although from what you said at one point, I was under the impression you had a house."

"He does," Ricky said dryly, coming back into the room. "Someday I'm going to convince him I'd be just a safe living with him as not. Until then…" he shot me a disgruntled look, "we commute."

Philips laughed. "I had a lady friend I did that with, until she decided the arrangement wasn't working for her. So I married her."

"Lucky man," Ricky said softly before announcing that dinner was ready. As we headed to the dining room, I stopped him long enough to give him a hug. He smiled up at me, murmuring, "Someday."

"I suspect so," I agreed. It wasn't that I didn't want us living together. It was just… I wanted him safe. Or as safe as possible considering we didn’t keep our… commuting… a big secret in the grand scheme of things.

When the three of us were seated, I told the others we weren't going to discuss why we were here until after dinner.

Ricky, being Ricky, immediately riposted with, "We can't talk about this wonderful meal?"

I shook my head in amusement and we did talk about it, and other general things, until we'd finished the peach cobbler he'd made for dessert. My man does like to cook when he gets the chance, and he's damned good at it.

Walt Murphy – PI – 29

With a couple of hours to go before meeting Philips, I decided to do a little reconnoitering. Something I should have done long before this. Not that I'd had the chance all things considered. First stop, Caiazzo's bookstore.

I wandered in to Endless Reads as if I was just another person with some time to kill. The place took up the entire three floors of the building that housed it, and much to my surprise it was bright, airy and modern. I guess I was expecting some dark, spooky joint filled with towering, dusty bookshelves, given how I felt about Caiazzo at this point. The clerks ranged from kids in their early twenties to more mature men and women, a couple of who asked if they could help me as I wandered around. I told them no and continued checking out the store.

The third floor had a bargain book section taking up half the space. Unsurprisingly it was very popular. The rest of the area was closed off with a door marked 'Employees Only'. I wondered if Caiazzo was back there somewhere, plotting his next robbery, and chuckled to myself. Still, it would have been interesting to go inside to check out his office. Presuming he had one—which was likely. If he was keeping Philips' book there I could end things real fast. That was highly unlikely.

My next stop was the gallery where Hugh Williams had worked before his arrest for the theft of the sculpture. I wanted to get a look at the owner, Mr Eber. It bothered me that he had supported Williams rather than asking the judge to throw the book at him. If it had been me I'd have been pissed as hell if a trusted employee had done that.

The gallery was located in an upscale shopping center about a mile from Caiazzo's store. A few customers were checking out the paintings hanging on the walls and the art objects decoratively displayed on shelves or standing on pedestals in the open space in the center of the room.

There were two clerks, one behind an impressively large counter to one side of the gallery, the other talking animatedly with a well-dressed, middle-aged woman who seemed interested in one of the paintings. Behind the counter was a doorway leading, I figured, to the inner workings of the gallery. I went over to look at a modern sculpture on one of the pedestals. From where I stood I had a decent view of the hallway behind the partially opened door. As I watched, a door opened. A woman I instantly recognized as Annabelle Dixon, aka 'Ms Bell', was talking to whoever was in the room. She did not look happy. Then she whirled around, heading further down the hall. I moved just enough to see that her destination was a door with an exit sign over it.

I could have made a run around to the back of the gallery, but I figured she'd be gone by the time I got there. Instead, I stayed where I was, waiting to see if Mr Eber—because I was real sure that's who she'd been talking to—appeared.

My wait was rewarded when a short, dark-haired man came out of the room and entered the gallery. His looked around, his gaze landing on me momentarily before moving on. Then, he looked at me again. I knew from the expression on his face he was aware of who I was and he wasn't happy I was here. He took a step toward me, hesitated, then turned quickly and beat a hasty retreat, closing the hallway door after him. I heard a snick and knew he'd locked it.

Of course all of this sent my curiosity into high gear. Why had Ms Dixon been talking to Eber, and by extension, what—if anything—did he have to do with the necklace and the book?

Not a question I could answer right now as I had to meet Philips as planned.

Walt Murphy – PI – 28

What I needed right now was a good stiff drink. That wasn't happening though, so I tried calling Ms Bell after talking to Tom—to no avail. According to the message I got, her phone number was no longer in service. Surprising, but then I was presuming the number she gave me really was hers. A quick check at an online reverse directory told me it had belonged to one Annabelle Dixon—with an address that didn't match the one Ms Bell had given me. Hoping Chelsea hadn't deposited Ms Bell's check yet, I went to see if it was in the cashbox. No such luck, although there were two other checks from clients that I knew had come in yesterday's mail.  

I made a call to my always efficient girl-Friday.

"It should be there, Walt," she told me once I'd explained why I called. "I didn't do my usual deposit today because of the break-in. You don't suppose…"

Yeah I supposed. I supposed they probably took the check because it was a fake—just like 'Ms Bell'. Not the primary reason they'd paid my office a visit—but since they found it during their search they decided to get rid of it. After all, it probably would have bounced, thus putting 'Ms Bell's' entire story in question. Did they really think that I—we—wouldn't have noticed it was gone? Apparently so.

Philips called soon afterwards to say he'd heard from Caiazzo, or he presumed it was him, to set up the exchange on Monday.

Of course my first question was "Where and when?"

"Ten, at River Oaks. He wants me to bring the book's provenance papers."

"He what? Uh-uh, no way."

"That's what I told him. If we're doing an exchange he doesn't need them, any more than I'd need the papers for the necklace. He said no papers, no book and he'd let the police know I was holding stolen property."

"Which phone are you calling me from?"

"My cell, and I'm not at the store," he replied.

"Good man. Okay, I have to figure out what game he's playing now, although I have a pretty good idea." I thought for a moment. "We need to talk. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll call you back to tell you where we'll meet."

As soon as we hung up I called Ricky. "Do you mind if I bring someone with me this evening?" I asked.

He chuckled briefly. "Since when do we do threesomes?" Then he sobered. "Does this have something to do with the case?"

"Yeah. I need a safe place to talk to Philips that's not public—and not bugged."

I could almost see his elated grin when he replied, "Sure. We can figure out how to stop whatever is going on."

"For damned sure we're going to give it a shot, and as an impartial observer your input might make the difference."

"Not sure I'm impartial," he said softly, "but if I can help, you know I will."

"Yeah, babe, I do. Thanks. Unless Philips says differently we'll be there around six."

I called Philips back, gave him Ricky's address, telling him Ricky was a friend and leaving it at that. I had no idea how Philips would react if he knew Ricky was more than just my friend. Then I asked if six p.m. worked for him. He had no problem with the time, since the store closed at five. I decided, instead of his driving directly to Ricky's, I'd pick him up but not from work. No sense tempting fate—or Caiazzo's people. We arranged to meet at a restaurant, as if we were doing dinner. I knew the owner and he'd let us leave through the kitchen, without anyone being the wiser until it was too late.

Walt Murphy – PI – 27

I had some of the pieces now. All I had to do was fit them together, then figure out what was missing that made the necklace worth more to Caiazzo than a book valued at almost twice as much.

One thing I needed to do, if it was possible, was to find out what happened to Hugh Williams, the man who had brought the necklace to Philips. When I got to the office and found the door locked and the security box armed, it took me a minute to realize why. It was Saturday and we closed at noon, just like the banks. Duh. I knew that.

I settled down at my desk to do what I'd promised Ms Bell I would, way back last night. Damn had it been that recently? When this is over I'm going to grab Ricky and take a long vacation on a secluded island just to rest and recuperate.

I started by calling the two hospitals in the city. Neither one had a Hugh Williams listed as a patient. Of course if he'd been found, beaten and unable to talk—or worse—they wouldn't tell me. Confidentiality issues would be in place to keep a patient safe from an unknown assailant who might try to finish the job.   

Then I booted up my computer and went to city jail's website to see if he was listed as an inmate. He wasn't, but that didn't surprise me. The same held true for the county jail.

Next, I called the morgue. They didn't have his body, or any unidentified remains that could be him. All that told me was, if he had been killed, the killer or killers had undoubtedly buried him somewhere afterward.

Finally, I got in touch with a detective I knew on the police force, Tom Sharp. I'd passed on information to him a few times that I'd come up with while pursuing cases, so he was willing to help me out in return. Sometimes.

"Tom," I said when he answered my call, "it's Walt Murphy."

"It's been a while."

We chatted for a couple before I asked, "Can you see if you have anything on a Hugh Williams? Thirty-one, no DOB, approximately five-ten, five-eleven, brown hair, blue eyes."

"Why are you looking for him?" he asked cautiously.

"The usual, a missing persons case. His girlfriend might have filed a report, but I don't think so from what she said."

"Okay. I'll run a check and get back to you if I find out anything."

"Thanks."

I hung up, hoping it wouldn't take too long.  When the phone rang ten minutes later I was, I'll admit it, a bit disappointed to see Ricky's name come up on the ID. But only a bit. After all, it was Ricky. He said he was just about to leave work and wanted to know if I'd be free by dinnertime. I told him I'd sure as hell try to be, and I'd let him know if I was going to be late.

It took another half hour before Detective Sharp called back. He had some interesting things to say about Hugh Williams.

"To start with," he said, "there are two warrants out for him for failure to appear in court on speeding charges. He was also charged with shoplifting but that was several years ago. He did thirty days and paid his fine. Now comes the big one. He was arrested for burglary and was sentenced to three years because it was a first offence and his boss, the man he stole from, stood by him. He got out two and a half years ago."

That jibed with what Ms Bell had told me. She said she'd met him two years ago.

"What did he steal?"

"A small sculpture valued at two thousand dollars."

"And he only got three years? Didn't that put it in the felony grand theft category?"

"As I said, his boss stood by him. A gallery owner by the name of"—I heard papers being shuffled—"James Eber. Williams might not have been caught if he hadn’t tried to sell the piece on EBay and Eber saw it there."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. I'd say Williams isn't the smartest banana in the bunch. Why Eber was willing to go to bat for him is anyone's guess."

Now on that I'd agree with him. The question was, how did Williams get involved with Caiazzo to the point of being able to steal the necklace from him? If that's what really happened.

I was starting to get a strange feeling about this whole thing. Okay, a stranger feeling. It had never felt quite right to me from the get-go. Too many—coincidences. Yeah, I'd managed to come up with explanations for them, but there was no real proof to back them up.

"You still there, Walt?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

"I won't say the obvious," he replied with a laugh. "Okay, you have what I know about Williams, so if there's nothing else you need…"

"Nope, and thanks."

"No problem. Talk to you next time you need my…services." He chuckled and hung up.

Walt Murphy – PI – 26

Philips started pacing again. "That's why it took me so long to let you know about the call. I've been debating if I should or not. The book is worth twice what the necklace is, but if I give in to his demand it makes me an accomplice to his crime. Doesn't it? I mean once I suspected the necklace was stolen…" He shook his head. "I should have called the police the minute I figured it out."

"Probably," I agreed. "But you didn't."

"Greed," he said wryly. "I wanted to believe the man would return with the provenance papers. Then I'd offer him a decent price and sell the necklace to someone who could pay what it's really worth. I did believe that, until the break-in. I may be mercenary, but I'm not totally stupid."

I didn't reply to that, because telling him he had been stupid from the get-go was not how to keep him as a client.

"Look," I said instead, "let me think about how to handle things. For whatever reason, he seems desperate to get the necklace back. Enough so that he'd give back a book which, as a dealer, he has to know is much more valuable. It might just be a pride issue–no one steals from him—or there could be something more going on. Did he set a time limit for when you had to make a decision?"

"Yes. He said he'd give me twenty-four hours to think about it before getting in touch with me again."

"Any threats about what would happen if you didn't want to make the trade?"

"Yes. I'd never see the book again and he'd call the police to report that I was dealing in stolen goods, specifically the necklace."

I shook my head. "This coming from a man who does that on a regular basis. Okay, today's Saturday and it's"—I checked the time—"almost noon. That means you'll probably hear from him in three hours, give or take. When you do, stall him. Tell him you're willing to make the exchange but you won't be able to get the necklace from your safety deposit box until Monday morning, because your bank has already closed for the day. He might not like it, but he won't have any choice in the matter."

"But it's supposed to be…"

"At the appraisers? Yeah, but they know it's not. They wouldn't have come after me again, or searched my office, if they thought it was."

"They did that?" He looked at me in shock, mixed with fear. "Are you…? Did you get hurt again?"

I shrugged. "Nothing major."

He didn't look like he believed me but he went with it, saying, "You'll come up with a plan by Monday?"

"Going to try my damnedest."

With a tight smile he replied, "Then I'd better let you go."

"Yeah. I'll stay in touch." I said, going to the door. I didn't have to ask for his personal number. I had it on the contract he'd filled out. Thinking that brought on an 'Oh hell!' moment.  Maybe that's why the people who'd searched my office had gone through my files. "One more thing. When the man called you, was it on the business phone or your personal one."

"My personal one. My cell."

"Okay. Just wondered." I debated a moment before telling him, "It's probably a given that Caiazzo's people know where you live after the break-in at my office."

It took him moment. "So they might search my condo for the necklace?"

"I'd say it's a fair guess they did as soon as you left this morning. That's why Caiazzo gave you twenty-four hours to decide to make the trade. He wanted to cover all bases—the second attack on me, searching my place, and undoubtedly yours as well. If he gets his hands on the necklace before the time limit is up, then for him it's a win-win situation. He'd have the book and the necklace and you'd never hear from him again."

"He can't sell the book," Philips said tightly. "I have the provenance papers."

"Somehow, for a man who reputedly runs a very profitable theft ring, I doubt that would be a problem. He'd just find a private collector willing to pay for it, papers or not, just to own it. But he doesn't have the necklace. So you'll be hearing from him in a couple of hours."

Leaving him with that cheerful thought, I took off, after returning the bugs to where I'd found them.