Angel With a Bullet (8 page)

“What was the time span between the last two shipments?”

“I'm not sure.”

I try the coy smile. “Could you please check? It would be such a hassle to have to go through Customs to find it.” Now I was being both a bully and a liar. I just hoped he didn't know it would be practically impossible to squeeze information out of the Customs office.

He reaches into another drawer and produces a ledger. He opens it with an annoyed sigh.

“The shipments were a month apart; twenty-eight days to be exact.”

“How many paintings in each shipment?”

“I only have invoices for the ones I keep.”

“How many was that?”

“Five.”

“Was any of the paint still wet?”

“Of course not!”

“Then—”

The chirp of a clear glass phone cuts off my question. When I first saw it on the desk, I assumed it was a piece of sculpture rather than a functioning device. As it rings, its electronic innards light up in a rainbow of neon.

When Declan answers it, I take the time to notice a simple diamond stud in his left ear and the absence of a wedding ring. He tells whoever is on the line to hold a moment, and then extends his right hand across the desk.

“This is an important call,” he says. “And I have a lot of work to catch up. I hope I've managed to answer all your questions, Ms. Flynn.” His voice is so cold it practically has freezer burn.

I squeeze his hand, pocket the Polaroid, and head for the door.

“By the way,” I say, turning around in the doorway. “What is Adamsky's first name?”

“He doesn't use one,” Declan replies stonily.

I give him my best smile with just a touch of lost-girl pout. “Well, just remember mine is Dixie,” I say. “Thanks for your time. You have a terrific gallery here.”

He doesn't reply.

I walk into the showroom, intending to look around more, but Casper scurries up beside me.

“Are you leaving, ma'am?” he sniffs.

“Yeah, but—” I narrow my eyes, voice turning ice cold. “Did you just call me ma'am?”

“Y-yes,” he stammers. “It's a sign of—”

I hold up one hand. “Just don't, OK?”

“The door is this way,” he says quickly and rushes over to open it.

I scowl at him as I walk into the concentrated heat of a blistering day, sweat instantly beading on my freckled forehead. I ponder whether to further study the Adamskys in the window, but Casper's rat-like countenance looming behind the art makes me turn away.

That's when I notice a small café perched on an upper-level balcony. Its large shady umbrellas invite me to climb the short flight of stairs and indulge in an iced mochaccino.

How can I refuse?

Ten

The cafe has a
magnificent view of the bay and a cheerful waitress who delivers a mochaccino on the rocks with a long straw peeking out from a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.

I enjoy the coffee and friendly smile before pulling out my notepad and jotting a few scribbles. There isn't much in there, but it's a start:

I have learned that the local expert doesn't recognize Diego's hidden Adamsky, and that the paintings are being shipped directly from Portugal. I also learned that Declan has never come across one that was still curing. What that means, I don't know, but it's worth filing away in the back of my mind.

I take another sip of cold coffee just as the sun is eclipsed by a broad-shouldered vision.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Declan asks.

I glance up. “Not at all.”

I indicate the empty chair facing me, while attempting to keep the puzzled amusement off my face.

Declan smiles nervously as he sits and orders a soda and lime from the hovering waitress. It may be a trick of the light, but I could swear that both the waitress's smile and her peek-a-boo bosom swell at the sight of Declan.

“I got the impression you didn't want to spend any more time with me,” I start.

“Are you always that direct?”

I shrug unapologetically, and his face melts into a mask of such boyish charm that I want to stroke his hair, coo softly in his ear, and nestle him to my chest.

“Actually,” he says, “I want to apologize for my rudeness. I'm not used to reporters and didn't realize being interviewed would make me so … nervous.”

He nibbles on his lower lip, and I have to resist the temptation to ask if I can join in.

“I should be the one apologizing,” I say, trying to lift my eyes above his lips. “My interview style can be on the rough side. Most times I don't notice what a jerk I'm being until someone kicks me in the ass.”

Declan laughs, and I join in. When his spritzer arrives, he lifts it into the air for a toast.

“To art,” he says.

“To beauty,” I agree and clink my mug against his glass.

The apologies done, Declan sighs contentedly, allowing his shoulders to slump as the tart soda cools his throat.

“Can I ask why you're interested in Adamsky?” Declan asks.

“I'm not, really.”

“Then why the questions?”

“Curiosity. The painting is an anomaly in Diego's death.”

“Anomaly? I thought it was a clear suicide.”

“The cops think so too.”

Declan narrows his eyes. “I don't understand?”

“Neither do I. That's why I'm looking into it.”

Declan takes another sip of soda. “You don't buy that he killed himself?”

I shrug. “Makes a better story if he didn't, but apart from a few oddities, everything points to the official verdict.”

Declan smiles. “You're a curious one, Ms. Flynn.”

“Call me Dixie.”

“OK.” He smiles wider. “Will you have dinner with me tonight, Dixie?”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Change of … I don't understand.”

“Earlier, you couldn't wait to get rid of me, but now you want to take me out? I know I'm charming and gorgeous, but …”

Declan's laugh is like butter sauce: smooth and dreamy.

“You intrigue me. Is that so wrong?”

“You intrigue me too.”

“Does that mean you'll join me?”

“I would love to,” I say. “But I don't know if I have anything in my wardrobe that costs more than the shoelaces for your Fluevogs.”

Declan laughs heartily. “I play the part of the successful gallery owner, but underneath …” He pauses, and I can feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck. “Underneath I like blue jeans and T-shirts like everyone else.”

My cheeks hurt from smiling.

“OK,” I relent. “Pick me up at seven-thirty.” I write my address and phone number on a napkin and hand it to him.

“I'll be there.”

His eyes sparkle.

Eleven

“My God, Dix,” Stoogan
bellows across the newsroom as I stroll to the copy runners' desk. “Gracing us with your presence twice in one day?”

“It's always better the second time, boss,” I call over my shoulder.

The baby-faced copyboy looks at me expectantly as I slide my rump onto the edge of his desk.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“John … Underwood.”

“I've got an assignment for you, John. Up for it?”

“What is it?”

“Wrong answer.”

He blushes slightly. “Yes,” he says. “I'm up for it.”

I show him the Polaroid and explain that I want him to visit every gallery that carries Adamsky's art to see if anyone recognizes it. If they do, he is to get their contact info. Simple.

“Will I get overtime?” he asks.

“Doubt it.”

He accepts the photo. “Is it for a big story?”

“Yep.”

“Will I be mentioned?”

“Nope.”

“But you'll know I helped?”

“Yep.”

John slips on his jacket, picks up a small stack of signed taxi vouchers, and takes off.

I had been hoping for more enthusiasm, but copy runners—or editorial assistants as they've been renamed in our electronic age—are a different breed now. When I started in the news business, I was eighteen and full of cocky idealism.

My first job was running copy at the
San Francisco Chronicle
. There, I spent my days tagging and redirecting page proofs, phoning the weather office, checking the crossword puzzle, and fetching files from the morgue (news morgue, that is, not the dead-body morgue). I also had the character-building chores of getting coffee, ordering pizza, and picking up off-sales.

My first real break came courtesy of a veteran photographer who forgot the first rule of journalism:
Report the story, don't become it
. Then again, maybe he had his eye on a television career, where the mantra seems to be the exact opposite.

It was close to deadline and digital photography was still in its infancy. I was tasked with picking up film from a Rolling Stones concert in time to make first edition. That way, the photog could stay at the concert in case a better shot presented itself for the city run.

Luckily for me, a minor riot broke out and the photographer had his skull cracked open by an irate drunk swinging a bottle of Jack Daniels. Before the paramedics rushed him to hospital, I grabbed his camera. After safely delivering the film, I talked the city editor into letting me write a few paragraphs on the incident.

It made the front page, inserted into the middle of a staff reporter's story. My byline was nowhere to be seen, but my words were mostly unchanged.

Two years later, after studying journalism at college by day and working for the paper at night, I made staff reporter. Another three years and I was making good money as a seasoned senior.

I resigned the following year, headhunted by
NOW
.

NOW
was a brand-new venture with few assurances and a riskier paycheck. But they offered me something the
Chronicle
couldn't: a chance to sink my teeth into investigative reporting, where my worth would be judged on quality rather than an accountant's tally of bylines.

The timing was right. I had become disillusioned with the shrinking world of the daily press. Television and the Internet had turned the whole business into a fast-fact chain where reporters were rarely given a chance to play out a hunch. After a while, too many journalists stopped caring.

Society's watchdog had been put to sleep, and nobody seemed to give a damn.

The saddest part was the whole industry had become so infuriatingly stagnant. As media conglomerates grew, competition disappeared along with jobs, growth, and fresh ideas. This left a decade of young journalists with no opportunity to enter the closed ranks. Instead, they became trapped in small-town limbo with pathetic wages and meatless stories. Only now are the tired boomers beginning to pack their bags, but it's too late for a legion of bitter, burnt-out reporters with nothing but ashes where dreams used to burn.

And I fear the new breed of pampered and over-educated graduates won't know a time when shifty corporations and duly elected governments used to hold us in contempt. We were tenacious, fearless, honest, and brash. With hard-earned reputations that made the unscrupulous piss blood, a politician's wrath was a standing ovation.

At one time every newspaper's motto was:
Only honest men have nothing to fear.
Now, they tend to preach:
Money buys happiness—especially if you're friends with the publisher
.

_____

I sit at
my desk and rub my eyes. Two thin cardboard sleeves filled with photocopied newspaper clippings are sitting on top of my keyboard. A yellow sticky reads:
Slim pickings, but here's what we have
.
Love, Lulu.

Although grateful for the folders, I find myself distracted by a feeling that I have missed something important. Unable to bring it into the light, I mentally retrace my steps, arrive at Diego's apartment, and begin searching again. This time, I freeze each room on the back of my eyelids. Nothing stands out. It's an empty, sterile shell. No soul, no passion, no heart.

Was it always like that?

I flip open the directory, find Millie Stewart's phone number and dial.

“Helloo,” Millie sings into the phone after the second ring.

“Hi, Millie. It's Dixie Flynn, we talked this morning.”

“Oh, yes, dear. How are you?”

“Fine, but I was wondering if you know the name of Mr. Chino's cleaning lady?”

“Why, of course,” Millie says. “That's Sheila. Such a lovely woman, lovely skin, too, but won't share her secret. Not even with me. Originally from Africa—well not her, really, but her ancestors. They were brought here as slaves.” She clucks her tongue. “Actually, we've been looking into whether her great-grandfather might have known one of my distant relatives who was sentenced to American slavery by the English for being unable to afford bread. The Sassenachs shipped out a lot of troublesome Scots that way, and who was to stop them?”

I try to interrupt, but Millie is on a roll.

“Sheila inherited some slave papers and shipping manifestos that showed my great-great-uncle listed as arriving in port on the same day as her great-grandfather. Two different ships, mind you, but it's possible they were sold to the same farm in Virginia. Isn't that something? Sheila and I usually share a pot of tea after she—” Millie gasps. “Oh, dear!”

“What's wrong?” I ask quickly.

“Now that poor Mr. Chino has, err—departed, Sheila won't be coming 'roon anymore. Won't that be a shame?”

“I'm sure she'll still visit,” I say. “She must like your company as much as you enjoy hers.”

“Och, I'm sure you're right. I always look forward to those wee visits.”

“Would you have her phone number?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. I should give her a dingle, shouldn't I?”

“That would be fine, but would you mind giving me the number as well? There are a few questions I need to ask.”

“Hold on, I have ma address book here somewhere.” Millie lowers the phone and I can hear her plodding around the room. When she returns with the number, I delicately end the conversation by promising I will see her soon.

I dial the maid's number.

“If you're selling anything, don't waste my time,” says a bored, raspy voice.

“Is Sheila in?” I ask.

“You talking at her.”

“Sheila, I'm investigating the death of Diego Chino and would like to ask you a few questions?”

“I already talked to you lot this morning. I'm sad he's gone, but he wasn't family.” She sighs noisily.

“I have just a few more questions.”

“You know how many hours I work, girl? You think I'm waiting around all day for you to call and ask questions?”

“OK, Sheila. Why don't you just tell me what you told the officers?”

“You jacking me around?” Sheila snarls.

“No, I—”

“You're not a cop?”

I clear my throat and try to deliver a warm laugh. “My name is Dixie Flynn. I work for
NOW
.”

“No shit! You know Mary Jane Clooney?”

“Sure, she sits a couple desks down from me.”

“Love her stuff. Read it every week. Can you tell her that?”

She was turning friendly and even if I didn't like the game, I had to play ball.

“Sure, I'll tell her. Mary Jane's great.”

“And the horoscope,” Sheila says. “I like that too. Has a little meat to it, not like some.”

“I'll pass that on. But would you mind answering a few questions about Diego?”

“No problem. Any friend of Mary Jane is a friend of mine. You tell her that too.”

“Sure. I was wondering about Diego's apartment. It seemed very empty.”

“Yeah, he's an odd one. Place always like nobody lives there. Suits me fine, though. He pays me to clean the whole place, but apart from dusting and sweeping, I really only had to do the bedroom and bathroom. Occasionally the kitchen was a mess, but not usually.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?” I ask. “Or did you ever notice women's clothing or makeup lying around?”

“Nope, poor man, and I looked. There are too many weirdos out there, so I like to make sure I'm not working for one. Mr. Chino always struck me as …” She struggles for a word. “Too much alone, I guess. I don't think he had a personal life at all.”

I wasn't getting anywhere. I try another route. “The police found a painting hidden between the box spring and mattress of Diego's bed. Did you notice it?”

“Sure, you can't hide stuff from me.”

“Had the painting been there long?”

“Nope. First time I saw it was yesterday.”

So Diego had the painting in his apartment for less than a week. But what that means, I don't know.

I thank Sheila for her time and hang up.

Closing my eyes, I run the conversation over the cobbles of my brain to see if anything sticks, but it flows like muddy water. When I reopen my lids a minute later, a giant, balloon-like face blocks my view of the ceiling.

It's amazing how adept Stoogan is at proving once again that Murphy's Law—
the boss will always appear the second you look like you've stopped working
—still holds true. He is smiling down at me through thick vanilla lips.

“We're heading across the street for a beer. You joining us or you too busy?”

I give him my patented scowl and pick up my notepad. I still have some time before Millie's neighbors are due home from work.

_____

The Princess Lounge is one of those narrow, dimly lit joints with red-velvet booths and an ancient mirrored disco ball hung over a two-foot-square dance floor. Fortunately, one of the copy editors smashed the jukebox at his retirement party last month and it still hasn't been fixed.

I slide into our usual booth near the back and glance at the TV chained to the wall above the bar. There is a baseball game in progress, but it isn't the Giants. Ignoring it, I spin around to meet the perky, pinched face of Mary Jane Clooney.

Mary Jane is crunched into the corner of the booth in anticipation of Stoogan taking up the rest when he finally arrives. It always takes Stoogan five minutes longer than everyone else to walk down the stairs and cross the street.

In the hallway by the washrooms, two copy editors are starting up a game of baseball on the darts board at a dollar per inning. I prefer 301, but sometimes word junkies find the math too stressful, especially if they're being whipped by a girl.

I twist my body to lean against the wall and rest my feet on the velvet bench. Mary Jane produces an electronic cigarette from a tiny eel-skin handbag and attaches it to an ivory holder. By the time she is finished assembling it, the cigarette is about six inches long. She likes to have the glowing tip well away from her over-lacquered hair.

“What did you do to your eyebrows?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she answers too quickly.

“Yeah, you did. They look different.”

“You like them?”

I grin. “I don't like you, so why would I like your eyebrows?”

She scowls and takes a puff from her toy cigarette, drawing the nicotine vapor deep into her lungs.

Mary Jane and I have never been close, but the ice thickened considerably a few months back after she wrote a piece on the intelligence of a visiting supermodel. I convinced the copy editor into going with the headline:
Schiffer Brains
.

The funniest part was Mary Jane agreed it was good until someone read it aloud to her.

“So what did you do to them?” I ask again.

“If you must know, I had them made level.”

“They used to be crooked?”

“Slightly, yes.”

“Does your doctor work on commission?”

She scowls again. “He is a perfectionist.”

“And are you perfect yet?”

“Almost.” She smiles.

“What have you had done?”

She smiles wider.

It makes me nervous.

She wets her lips with her tongue.

“Let's just say that to see me naked is to faint with desire.”

“I'd faint alright,” I answer, “but it wouldn't have anything to do with desire.”

The scowl surfaces again, and I notice that her eyebrows do look even, especially when they are hooking down toward her nose. I hold up three fingers to the bartender who begins filling two tall glasses with draught and an amaretto on the rocks.

I turn back to Mary Jane. “I met some fans of yours today,” I say. “They asked me to pass on how much they like your stuff.”