Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories (2 page)

They were huge.

“All these frames wired?”

“Most,” Pierce said. “The thief would have had to know.”

“Yeah, he would” I said. “Dead surveillance space in all the hallways?”

“Every hallway,” he answered and looked toward Walsh. “It’s less expensive.”

I walked back to the room where the Picasso had been.

“You find the coat and hat in the bathroom?” I asked. The information hadn’t been faxed to me with the report.

“Yes,” Pierce answered. “How’d you know?”

I didn’t answer. I checked the second hand on my watch, moved slowly out into the hall and entered the men’s bathroom. I tried to open a broom closet but it was locked. I pretended to open it and then stuffed the imaginary Picasso into an imaginary tube. I came back to the hallway, ignoring everyone’s questions, and walked away from the elevators. Halfway down the hall there was a large door. I turned the handle, and to my surprise, it opened.

A wide stairway led down to the first floor. The large empty hall was poorly lit and dim light seeped in from under the first floor door that entered the museum. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed a couple of doors hidden in the shadows.

“Is this door always open?” I asked without looking at anyone.

“Fire laws require it,” Pierce said.

“Why so poorly lit?”

“It’s not for public access,” Walsh answered. “Staff uses this way when the museum is open and we hold large deliveries here.”

“Lights cost money,” Pierce added sarcastically.

“Where do the doors lead?”

“To the museum, to the basement, and there’s a storage closet too,” Walsh said.

“It’s been checked,” Pierce said quickly.

“Can the lights be turned up?”

“No,” Walsh said. “Why?”

“Has this room been checked?”

“Yes,” Pierce said. “There’s nothing here. No fake ceilings or walls. We know what we’re doing!”

“Where in the basement does that door take you?” I asked, ignoring his reply.

“To my office,” Pierce said flatly. He didn’t like having to answer my questions.

“The other door opens where in the museum?”

“By the elevators and lobby,” Walsh said.

I looked toward Bolter and saw him smirk.

“Okay, the thief dumps his disguise in the men’s room, puts the Picasso into a tube and comes down here,” I explained, more to myself than the others. “He could do it all in less than five minutes. In all the excitement, no one notices him because he isn’t out of place. Where does he go from here?”

“To the museum or the basement,” Bolter answered.

Pierce shook his head and grunted. “We’ve gone through all this earlier.”

“Humor me,” I said.

We walked down the stairway and I saw that the area underneath the steps was open. No hiding places there.

“What was going on out here when the alarm went off?” I asked as I opened the door to the museum.

“Security officers covered the main exits, even though they lock automatically,” Pierce said.

“Where were you when the alarm went off?” I turned to Walsh.

“I was talking to the volunteer at the book counter,” he stammered.

“Then what?”

“I hear the alarm, listen to make sure it’s not a mistake and then go upstairs.”

“Walk, run, elevator?”

“I run, of course.”

“And?”

“I see guards heading toward the center room and follow,” he said nervously and looked at Bolter for an explanation for my questions.

“Who was the first to notice the missing Picasso?”

“After we quieted the children, the guards returned to their posts,” Walsh said. “Bob went downstairs to get the doors unlocked. People were being curious, they knew something was going on.”

“Where were you when the alarm went off?” I turned to Pierce.

“In the basement headed to the lobby. When I heard the alarm I ran up these stairs.” Pierce pointed at the stairs behind us. “My men had the situation in hand and one explained about the kids jarring the frame. I was leaving to give the okay to unlock the doors. I was halfway down the stairs when I got called back and that’s when I was told about the Picasso.”

“The guards called you too?”

“Yes,” Walsh said. “I was still in the hallway talking with the school teacher. She was very apologetic.”

“I bet,” I said.

I walked back into the dim room and opened the door that led down to the basement.

“This is always open?”

“Fire laws,” Pierce smirked. “The only doors locked around here are the fire doors that lead outside from each floor, and they can be opened by pushing the panic bar.”

“When you were running upstairs you didn’t see anyone in this room?”

“No one.”

I walked back up the stairs slowly; I turned a couple of times and looked down, and then continued up to the landing. They all followed me.

“What are you thinking, Murphy?” Bolter asked, when he reached the landing.

“I think the thief came down this stairway, and that leaves only two ways for him to go,” I said. “Has the basement been checked?”

“My men are still checking the second and third basement levels,” Pierce said. “There are a lot of rooms below.”

“Has your security office been searched?”

“No!” he said quickly. “It was manned all through this. No one could come in carrying the painting without being noticed.”

“Unless they were involved.” I said. “Maybe the whole security department was involved.”

“That’s bullshit,” Pierce yelled back. “These men are mostly retired cops, and they’re here twenty-four hours a day, and if they wanted to steal they could get a hell of a lot more than one Picasso.”

“I’m just thinking out loud,” I said, my hands raised in surrender. “Nothing’s impossible.”

I walked down the stairs and opened the door to the lobby again. I could see the bookstore and a sign that read “office” that hung over Walsh’s door by the store.

“You were at the bookstore when the alarm went off, right?” I asked Walsh pointing toward the store.

“Yes and my office and the store have been searched.”

“What are you doing?” Pierce stayed back in the darkness. “Is he taking over the investigation?” he demanded from Bolter.

“No,” Bolter answered calmly. “I’ve found over the years of knowing Mick that his mind works differently than most people’s. His imagination sometimes sees things the rest of us miss.”

“And his imagination is doing what for us?”

Bolter shrugged and looked at me. “You have anything for us, Mick?”

“Nothing Bob hasn’t said,” I grinned. “I agree with him. The painting is still in the museum. He hasn’t said it, but I think he knows it’s still here because someone working here stole it.”

“So far it’s not brain surgery,” Pierce said smugly. “I’ll find the painting and, if it’s an inside job, I will find the thief. But you feel free to wait with Dick and Howard, just in case a ransom call comes. Let me take care of the museum search.”

“Which brings up another question,” I said. “How are the thieves going to know I am here?”

“There’ll be an ad in the
L.A.
Times
tomorrow mentioning you’re here to discuss your experiences with art theft and recovery,” Bolter explained. “If the thieves are looking at a ransom, the point will be clear to them.”

“Or they may already have another plan worked out,” Pierce said, “that doesn’t include us.”

“Fact is, art theft is on the rise around the world,” Bolter said. “Most of it’s for private collectors, but statistically it’s a group crime. Look at what happened in Norway. Broad daylight and thieves walked out with Munch’s “The Scream” and “Madonna,” ninety million dollars’ worth of art stolen in a few minutes. In May, another Picasso had been stolen from a restoration studio in Paris. The thieves are usually paid a fee, and often have no idea of the value of what they are stealing.”

“Not in this case!” Pierce said quickly.

“I agree,” Bolter said. “This is not your ordinary art theft. It could be a disgruntled employee, someone in a lot of debt, maybe to gamblers. Or it could be someone looking to make a killing with one quick heist … like in the movies.” He couldn’t stifle a laugh.

“So why this guy?” Pierce questioned my involvement again. “The museum’s insurance people are all over this, we’re on top of it. So why some guy from Florida?”

“He’s here at my request, the museum’s carrier has okayed it, as has Dick,” Bolter answered. “We’re not trying to step on your toes, and we’re out of here in a little while.”

“Yeah,” Pierce replied, “I’m going to check on the search,” he said and walked through the door that led to the lower levels.

“We’ve been considering replacing Bob,” Walsh said after a few moments of awkward silence. “He wants to bring the museum up to modern security levels and this is his chance. I don’t always disagree with his ideas, but I also have to deal with the board and budgets.”

“So, if he finds the painting …”

“It would give him a little more sway with the board,” Walsh said. “Maybe.

But his ideas are expensive and, until yesterday, no one thought we really needed that kind of technology.”

I walked away, leaving Bolter and Walsh, and worked my way up the dark stairway to the second floor, where it was quiet. A few people still walked around, but the search for the painting had moved to the lower levels.

Two security officers eyed me, but kept their distance. I retraced my earlier walk from where the painting was stolen, to the bathroom, back to the hallway and the dim stairwell. I stood on the top platform landing until my eyes adjusted. I heard the elevator move. I held on to the old wooden balustrade as I walked down slowly, slapping at the newel posts, while looking over the side. From the second landing, half way down, I looked into the grayness and knew Pierce was right, there were no hiding places in the walls.

I looked at the doors that led from the dim hall, turned and looked back at the door to the second floor hallway, and whistled to myself as I walked downstairs to find Bolter and Walsh. I wanted them with me when I produced the painting.

• • •

I found them in the bookstore and had them call Pierce to meet us.

“Let me make sure I have this right,” I said after I told them I knew where the painting was. “I produce the stolen Picasso and receive a ten-percent fee.”

“That’s the deal,” Bolter said first. “It’s insured for ten million dollars.”

Even I could do the math on that!

“That the deal with your carrier?” I asked Walsh.

“Yes,” he said anxiously. “You have the painting?”

“No,” I said quietly, “but I know where it is.”

“You saying we missed something?” Pierce challenged as he joined us.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I told him. “You missed it, I found it.”

“Where is it?” he taunted.

“Follow me.” I led them to the stairwell. “I don’t know the thief’s identity, but I’m sure he’s an employee.”

We stood around quietly until our eyes adjusted to the dimness.

“It’s important we see in the darkness,” I explained. “The thief was able to get into the room and hide the painting because he had everything prepared.” I walked up the stairwell to the first landing; they followed me. “He was able to walk down the stairs, hide the painting, and continue on.”

“To where?” Pierce asked.

“Don’t know, and I don’t know why you didn’t run into him as you headed up the stairs,” I answered. “I don’t know who did it, or what he did after he hid the painting. But I know where he hid it.”

“Where, for God’s sake?” Bolter moaned.

I walked to the railing and turned to face them. I rested one hand on the railing and the other on the newel post.

“Right here,” I told them and was glad they couldn’t see my smile.

“Right where?” Walsh demanded.

“Right here.” I struggled forcing the wooden cap off the newel. I let it fall over the side for dramatic effect as it hit the floor. I stuck my hand into the hollow post, pulled out the mailing tube, and handed it toward Bolter, but Walsh jumped in the way and took the tube.

He tried opening it as he walked down the stairs, but it was taped closed. Once out in the corridor, Pierce handed Walsh a small pocketknife. He cut the tape away and tossed the cap to the floor. His hand slowly went into the opening and came out quickly.

“We should go to my office,” he said.

We followed.

• • •

Hurricane season was long over and I was working on the Fenian Bastard, my 40-foot sloop, at the city marina. The winds were about ten knots and I wanted to be out sailing. The salt breeze blew from across the Florida Straits and filled the marina with a hint of tropical flora and slapped halyards against masts. I changed oil and filters and tightened the belts on the small Westerbek diesel engine that powered my sailboat. It was sweaty, dirty work, but necessary, so I was getting it out of the way. Thin clouds danced across the sky, teasing me.

The afternoon sun beat down, some of it slipping under the cover that went from the canvas Bimini to the dodger, but most of the center cockpit was in shade as I sipped my first cold beer of the afternoon. The CD changer was playing a mixture of the Blues Travelers and Dave Matthews, and I was ready for a cigar when I saw him walking down the floating dock.

“If that’s a cold beer I hope you have more,” Bob Pierce called as he walked down the finger slip. “Permission to come aboard, Captain,” he saluted and climb aboard.

I tossed him a cold, wet beer from the ice cooler and went below. I brought him a Cuban cigar. I clipped the end for him but lit mine first.

“You rent your regular condo?” I asked.

“No, I’m staying at the Pier House,” he said and puffed on the cigar. “I won’t be here too long, will I?”

I took a small bankbook from my pocket and handed it to him. “I think you can do what you want.”

A chartered boat rode by causing a small wake, and Bob held onto the rail, almost dropping his beer. He was not accustomed to being on the water.

“What happened in L.A.?” I asked as he sat down.

“Just what I thought.” He puffed on the cigar. “I was let go in less than a month, and they brought in a whole new outfit – with all the toys.”