He Will be My Ruin
Page 47
He taps the envelope. “Where’d you get this information?”
“From Celine’s phone.”
“So you found her phone?”
“Nope.” I turn and march out, before he has a chance to tell me that they can’t use any of that evidence to build a case either.
————
“If someone asks for an appraisal on this vase, it’s going to cause one heck of a commotion. I’ll hear about it.” Hans paces back and forth, his long, slender legs weaving around the boxes with surprising skill.
“Unless they go through a private dealer.”
“They would still need it authenticated by several reputable appraisers, which means I’ll hear about it,” Hans argues, his voice turning snippy.
“Now, who would like some tea?” Ruby settles her afternoon tea tray on the old trunk.
I’m watching and listening to all of this from my spot on Celine’s couch. But I’m not really watching or listening because I’m too busy wondering whether it’s better that Rosa dies believing her daughter took her own life or that she was murdered over a valuable antique, by a man who had previously paid to have sex with her.
So far, Hans has confirmed that Eleanor Everett’s collection is highly Asian-inspired and predominantly Ming Dynasty, though he sees a few pieces from other reigns.
Including the Qing Dynasty. It’s too hard for him to discern value from the pictures, though.
Doug’s tech expert, Zac, has been able to shed a little more light, finding records of Chicago, New York, and Hong Kong auction house purchases by the Everetts, dating back twenty-five years. One of those prizes cost them a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Not exactly in the league of “major” art collectors, but Zac was also able to confirm that the Everetts’ entire art collection is insured for 1.2 million dollars.
That’s considerable.
It also means that the rest of their collection—or at least a good portion of it—had to have been purchased through private dealers, and neither Hans nor Zac has any visibility on that.
It also means that Jace Everett was raised by a woman who would know the story of the twin vases. Who would appreciate the missing one for its monumental value.
But would that appreciation translate to murder?
I don’t trust Jace. That’s all I know at this point.
“We need to figure out why Celine had an IP camera shoved in her desk and wasn’t using it,” Doug says, holding up the small white rectangular device, studying it closely.
“I wonder if the police reviewed the footage from the lobby camera,” Ruby offers, her small silver spoon clanging against her china cup as she stirs three cubes of sugar into her tea. The woman seems to survive on nothing but sugar and shortbread. How she’s not diabetic, I can’t understand.
“You mean that giant dinosaur that was put up in the seventies and never turned on? There is no footage. That’s just a decoy to scare intruders and give tenants a false sense of safety,” Doug mutters, a hint of irritation in his tone, as if he’s annoyed that he’s even being questioned. “And besides, the police investigation wouldn’t have even gotten that far. Everything in this apartment pointed to suicide.”
“Oh, not the one by the door. The other one.”
Doug pauses, looks at her. “What other one?”
“The little black one that’s tucked into the corner as you step through the door. It’s kind of hard to see. I’m not surprised that you missed it.”
Doug takes off out the door, leaving it wide open, the sound of his heavy footfalls echoing.
“Where did you say you found this private investigator?” Ruby asks through a small sip, a triumphant smile on her face.
Moments later, Doug returns. “How long has that been there?” His jaw is tight. I wonder what bothers him more—that he missed it, or that the old lady didn’t. To be fair, I never noticed it either.
“I can’t say for sure, but ask Grady. He knows everything that goes on in this building.”
The mention of Grady’s name makes my heart skip a beat. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday night, in our usual spot up on the roof. Another welcomed night of intimate distraction for me.
“And which apartment is Grady’s?” Doug demands.
“Four ten.” She smiles and points that spoon to the ceiling. “Right above us.”
“Thank you, Ruby,” I say with a wink, following Doug out the door. “What am I paying you for again?”
————
“He’s in there. I hear him,” Doug insists as we wait outside Grady’s door. I’ve never been in his apartment. I’m curious to see what it looks like, and if it’s anything like the rooftop paradise he’s created.
Finally, someone begins fumbling with a chain on the inside. The door opens a crack and a sleepy-eyed Grady pokes his head out.
“You know Maggie Sparkes. I’m investigating Celine Gonzalez’s death. What do you know about that camera down in the lobby? Not the fake one. The real one,” Doug demands.
“Uh . . .” Grady runs a hand through his hair, sending it further into disarray. The bewildered look as his eyes pan between Doug and me makes me want to apologize for my PI’s lack of finesse. The fact that he’s wearing nothing but a pair of checkered pajama pants that hang provocatively low on his waist makes me want to shove Doug out of the way and lock myself in Grady’s apartment with him.
But now is not the time for that.
“I convinced Dean that he should—”
“Who’s Dean?”
“The building owner,” Grady answers coolly. “I convinced him that he should get a proper security system and he agreed.”
“And who oversees it?”
Grady shrugs. “Some security company.”
“Which one?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I can ask Dean the next time I’m in touch with him. He’s in the Caymans for the next three months so his response time is a bit slow.”
He’s acting differently today, as if we don’t know each other. It could be just a reaction to Doug, who might not bring out the best in people. But no, there’s something else there. I feel him closing off to me.
As if he doesn’t really want to help with my investigation.
“From Celine’s phone.”
“So you found her phone?”
“Nope.” I turn and march out, before he has a chance to tell me that they can’t use any of that evidence to build a case either.
————
“If someone asks for an appraisal on this vase, it’s going to cause one heck of a commotion. I’ll hear about it.” Hans paces back and forth, his long, slender legs weaving around the boxes with surprising skill.
“Unless they go through a private dealer.”
“They would still need it authenticated by several reputable appraisers, which means I’ll hear about it,” Hans argues, his voice turning snippy.
“Now, who would like some tea?” Ruby settles her afternoon tea tray on the old trunk.
I’m watching and listening to all of this from my spot on Celine’s couch. But I’m not really watching or listening because I’m too busy wondering whether it’s better that Rosa dies believing her daughter took her own life or that she was murdered over a valuable antique, by a man who had previously paid to have sex with her.
So far, Hans has confirmed that Eleanor Everett’s collection is highly Asian-inspired and predominantly Ming Dynasty, though he sees a few pieces from other reigns.
Including the Qing Dynasty. It’s too hard for him to discern value from the pictures, though.
Doug’s tech expert, Zac, has been able to shed a little more light, finding records of Chicago, New York, and Hong Kong auction house purchases by the Everetts, dating back twenty-five years. One of those prizes cost them a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Not exactly in the league of “major” art collectors, but Zac was also able to confirm that the Everetts’ entire art collection is insured for 1.2 million dollars.
That’s considerable.
It also means that the rest of their collection—or at least a good portion of it—had to have been purchased through private dealers, and neither Hans nor Zac has any visibility on that.
It also means that Jace Everett was raised by a woman who would know the story of the twin vases. Who would appreciate the missing one for its monumental value.
But would that appreciation translate to murder?
I don’t trust Jace. That’s all I know at this point.
“We need to figure out why Celine had an IP camera shoved in her desk and wasn’t using it,” Doug says, holding up the small white rectangular device, studying it closely.
“I wonder if the police reviewed the footage from the lobby camera,” Ruby offers, her small silver spoon clanging against her china cup as she stirs three cubes of sugar into her tea. The woman seems to survive on nothing but sugar and shortbread. How she’s not diabetic, I can’t understand.
“You mean that giant dinosaur that was put up in the seventies and never turned on? There is no footage. That’s just a decoy to scare intruders and give tenants a false sense of safety,” Doug mutters, a hint of irritation in his tone, as if he’s annoyed that he’s even being questioned. “And besides, the police investigation wouldn’t have even gotten that far. Everything in this apartment pointed to suicide.”
“Oh, not the one by the door. The other one.”
Doug pauses, looks at her. “What other one?”
“The little black one that’s tucked into the corner as you step through the door. It’s kind of hard to see. I’m not surprised that you missed it.”
Doug takes off out the door, leaving it wide open, the sound of his heavy footfalls echoing.
“Where did you say you found this private investigator?” Ruby asks through a small sip, a triumphant smile on her face.
Moments later, Doug returns. “How long has that been there?” His jaw is tight. I wonder what bothers him more—that he missed it, or that the old lady didn’t. To be fair, I never noticed it either.
“I can’t say for sure, but ask Grady. He knows everything that goes on in this building.”
The mention of Grady’s name makes my heart skip a beat. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday night, in our usual spot up on the roof. Another welcomed night of intimate distraction for me.
“And which apartment is Grady’s?” Doug demands.
“Four ten.” She smiles and points that spoon to the ceiling. “Right above us.”
“Thank you, Ruby,” I say with a wink, following Doug out the door. “What am I paying you for again?”
————
“He’s in there. I hear him,” Doug insists as we wait outside Grady’s door. I’ve never been in his apartment. I’m curious to see what it looks like, and if it’s anything like the rooftop paradise he’s created.
Finally, someone begins fumbling with a chain on the inside. The door opens a crack and a sleepy-eyed Grady pokes his head out.
“You know Maggie Sparkes. I’m investigating Celine Gonzalez’s death. What do you know about that camera down in the lobby? Not the fake one. The real one,” Doug demands.
“Uh . . .” Grady runs a hand through his hair, sending it further into disarray. The bewildered look as his eyes pan between Doug and me makes me want to apologize for my PI’s lack of finesse. The fact that he’s wearing nothing but a pair of checkered pajama pants that hang provocatively low on his waist makes me want to shove Doug out of the way and lock myself in Grady’s apartment with him.
But now is not the time for that.
“I convinced Dean that he should—”
“Who’s Dean?”
“The building owner,” Grady answers coolly. “I convinced him that he should get a proper security system and he agreed.”
“And who oversees it?”
Grady shrugs. “Some security company.”
“Which one?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I can ask Dean the next time I’m in touch with him. He’s in the Caymans for the next three months so his response time is a bit slow.”
He’s acting differently today, as if we don’t know each other. It could be just a reaction to Doug, who might not bring out the best in people. But no, there’s something else there. I feel him closing off to me.
As if he doesn’t really want to help with my investigation.
