Restoreth My Soul (Psalm 23 Mysteries) (8 page)

He kept going until his voice was nearly ready to give out. Something had to give and if he wasn’t careful it was going to be him. He sighed and got some more water. He’d have to get some honey and lemon for his throat.

He grabbed his phone and after only a moment’s hesitation he texted Cindy.
Any chance I can get you to bring pizza again tonight?

A minute later she replied.

Absolutely. Anything else?

Something for tired, sore throat. Honey, lemon, and hot tea would be great.

Will do.

Thx.

I can come early.

What about work?
he texted.

Left early. Explain later.

R U OK?

Yes.

See you at 4?

Yes.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket. He could hold out until then, but he needed to rest his voice for a couple of more minutes now.

He found himself once again in the dining room staring at the carpet. It was only a matter of time before he pulled an edge up to see what was underneath. He shook his head. He had nothing else to do while giving his voice a break. He crouched down in the far corner and tugged.

The carpet seemed to be anchored down well. He moved slowly down the wall, feeling every few inches. Then he moved to the next wall. At last he had made his way all around the room. The carpet was tacked down really well. The only way he’d be able to see what was under it was to cut it. His hand slipped to his one pocket where he kept a Swiss army knife. In two seconds he could answer his question for good.

Then it would be a simple matter to test the floors in every other room of the house. If there were more pieces of the Amber Room present he could find out in about two minutes.

He moved his hand away from the knife. He wasn’t ready to go that far without the detective’s permission. At least, not just yet at any rate. He got up and headed back into the writing room and tried to estimate just how long it was going to take him to finish. He didn’t like his odds of completing it.

It was time to get some more help.

It had been good to sit and talk things over with another cop. They had ended up having several cups of coffee while they talked. Mark had sorely missed Paul in that regard as well. It seemed wrong to be working cases alone and it helped to have someone to bounce ideas off of. Liam seemed to be a good guy and a good cop. He could go far in his chosen profession so long as nobody shot him first.

Liam’s phone rang and he answered it. He talked for less than a minute and when he hung up he looked disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” Mark asked.

“After the trap door was found yesterday I asked a friend of mine to find me any information on the house that he could, when it was built, by who. I wanted to see if maybe there was anything else like that we should be looking for.”

Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise. “That was some real initiative,” he said. He left out that it was also overstepping. “So, what did they find out?”

“It was built 15 years ago. The contractor and three of his crew died in a car crash just a couple of days before it was finished.”

“Tough luck.”

Liam laughed. “Maybe it really is part of the Amber Room that was found. Some say there’s a curse on it.”

“Get something flashy enough or famous enough and everyone’s bound to start finding curses connected to it. I wouldn’t put too much stock in that,” Mark said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time to get back to it,” Mark said, standing and getting ready to leave the coffee shop.

“If there’s anything I can do to assist you, let me know,” Liam said.

“I appreciate it, but do yourself a favor and make sure your days off stay your days off. This job... it’s too easy to let it suck you in and consume you. You need to take the time off for your own sanity and that of those around you. You understand?”

“Yes, and thank you for the advice.”

Mark’s phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “The rabbi’s calling,” he said.

Liam nodded as Mark answered.

“Hello, tell me you have some good news.”

“I’m not calling with news, I’m calling because I need some help here,” the rabbi said.

“I’ll send the secretary over. I’m sure she’ll bring food, extra batteries for the recorder, whatever you need.”

“No, I need help translating. You have to find someone else to help me with this.”

“Sorry, I’ve checked, there’s no one but you.”

Another call was coming in. He’d have to call whoever it was back.

“I have a hard time believing that,” Jeremiah said. “There must be someone you can get.

“It’s the truth.”

It was a lie. Mark hadn’t checked. The rabbi was doing a great job and he wanted to make sure they maintained quality control and consistency of translation throughout. Plus he just didn’t have time to find someone qualified and meet with them in order to determine whether or not he could work with them.

“So, have you found something interesting for me?” Mark asked.

“Lots interesting, but I’m not sure if any of it is helpful at this point.”

“Well, keep going, I know you can do it.”

“Thanks,” Jeremiah said sarcastically.

“You’re welcome,” Mark said brightly before hanging up.

He checked his voicemail. A creepy, oily sounding voice began to speak and he felt his lips curling even as he forced himself to listen.

“Detective, I think you’ll find your blood results from the wrapping around the painting to be very interesting. Let’s just say they belong to an old friend.”

He deleted the message and glanced at Liam.

“It’s Gordon,” he said making a face.

“Who?” Liam asked.

“One of the lab guys, specializes in blood typing, DNA analysis, that sort of thing.

“Gordon...is that his last name or first name?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“I don’t think I’ve met him,” Liam said.

“Probably not. They don’t let him out of his cage that often to interact with people.”

Liam looked surprised and almost offended by the remark.

“He’s a bit of a ghoul,” Mark explained.

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, among other things, he collects celebrity blood samples.”

“That’s... disturbing,” Liam said, making a face.

“I told you.”

“Where does he even get his items?”

“I don’t ask and thank heavens he doesn’t tell.”

Mark took a deep breath and called back. When he was alive Paul had always been the one to interface with Gordon.

Gordon answered with a cackling laugh. “Can’t wait to hear what I have to say, can you?”

“No, Gordon, I really can’t,” Mark said, gritting his teeth.
If I could, I would
, he added to himself.

“I finished my analysis and I think you’ll find the results very intriguing.”

Mark didn’t want to be on the phone with him any longer than he had to be.

“Skip to the punch line. Whose blood is it?”

“Mike Haverston, that art dealer who got killed last year.”

Mark froze. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not,” Gordon practically purred into the phone.

Mark ended the call.

“What is it?” Liam asked.

“The first new evidence in the Haverston case since November.”

“Which is?”

“It was his blood on the wrapping for the dog painting.”

Mark called Jeremiah’s cell.

“What is it?” the rabbi asked on picking up.

“You sound terrible.”

“I noticed.”

“Have you come across any references to a Mike Haverston or to art dealers?”

“No.”

“Well, keep looking and tell me if something comes up.”

Mark hung up and headed for his car.

“Where are you going?” Liam asked.

“To ask Mike’s kids what their dad had to do with an old Nazi.”

From the expression on Liam’s face he could tell the other officer wanted to go with him. More surprising, Mark actually wanted him to come along. That didn’t make it a good idea, though. When he reached the car he turned.

“I meant what I said earlier. Enjoy your days off. We don’t get nearly enough of them. And someday if you go for detective and make it you’ll find that you would give anything to have those days back.”

Liam nodded solemnly, but he could still see the disappointment in his eyes. Mark felt bad, but he was doing right by the other guy. In the end that was what really mattered.

Mark left and his thoughts were quickly consumed by the task at hand. By the time he pulled up outside the Haverston & Sons art gallery he was prepared to ask some tough questions.

There was a sign in the window advertising the upcoming auction. Haverston & Sons had been around for a very long time. The previous owner, Mike, had been one of the titular sons, sole proprietor once his father and older brother passed away. Now his son and two daughters were each joint owners. Mark wasn’t at all surprised that all of them were eager to sell everything, get their money, and get out. None of them had struck him as the type who wanted to lower themselves to the status of business owner and pillar of the community.

Of the three of them the son, Trevor, was at least the more reasonable and Mark was glad to find that he was the one who was in and talking with a representative for the auction house that would be handling the whole affair.

Trevor looked surprised to see him, but he managed not to make any sarcastic comment in front of the very attractive blonde lady who was holding a briefcase and clipboard. It was pretty clear from their body language that Trevor had been flirting with her and that she could care less.

Nice to see he didn’t get everything he wanted.

“Would you excuse me for just a minute?” he asked the woman who nodded while she continued to study her clipboard.

He gestured for Mark to follow him to the back of the store where the office was. Apparently he had no desire to discuss his father’s murder in front of the lady. That was fine with Mark.

They walked into the office but Trevor didn’t close the door. He leaned against the desk, arms folded across his chest in classic defensive posturing.

“Are you here because you finally figured out who killed my father?”

“We have a possible new lead,” Mark said.

Trevor’s eyes actually widened in surprise though the rest of his face remained carefully neutral. “What is it?”

“I’d rather not say at the moment, it’s probably nothing, another dead end, but it brought up a few questions I think I forgot to ask originally.”

“Go ahead.”

“I was going over my notes and I just needed to confirm a few things first. There wasn’t anything stolen from the store, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“So we have to assume it wasn’t an attempted burglary or art heist or anything like that.”

“It would stand to reason,” Trevor said.

“I believe that most sales happened just from people walking in the store, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Now, the paintings that were here when he died are the ones going up for auction, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I got the auction catalogue, by the way, thanks for sending it.”

“I didn’t. It was probably one of my sisters.”

“Well, in that case, thank them for me.”

“I know very little about art, so you can just sum up for me what kind of works he had here in the store?”

“My father kept a variety on hand. He always said art was for all the people, not just the ones who could afford it. He sold some originals, a few by well-known artists and others by up-and-comers. Most of the art was lithographs and giclées, high-end reproductions, many with personal accents and touch-ups by the artists.

“What was the most expensive piece he had in the store?”

“I was just discussing it with the lady from the auction house. There’s an original Coleman valued at about sixty thousand.”

“Impressive.”

“It would have been more impressive if he had been actively trying to sell it. It was the one piece of art he kept for himself. It hung in this office until last week,” Trevor said.

“He must have loved being able to share art with the world through this store.”

Trevor shrugged. “He did his duty, selling art, carrying on the family business. But his passion was always in art restoration.”

“Restoration?” Mark asked, more sharply than he had intended to.

“Yes.”

“As in fixing damaged pieces?”

“Occasionally. Most of the time it amounts to little more than cleaning them to remove years of dirt or smoke.”

“How much does something like that cost?”

Trevor shrugged. “It really depends on how much damage and what type have been sustained. Why, Detective, do you have a piece that needs some work done on it?”

“Maybe,” Mark said. “My wife inherited a painting from an uncle and he was a heavy smoker.”

It was a lie, but he wasn’t about to tip his hand.

“I can give you the name of someone if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Mark said, forcing himself to smile. “You don’t do that kind of work?”

“No,” Trevor said, rolling his eyes. “You have to truly love art to want to do that.”

“And you don’t?”

“I appreciate art for what it represents, and that’s money.”

“I’m surprised, I figured all you Yale types were into that.”

“Harvard.”

“Excuse me,” Mark said.

“I went to Harvard Business School.”

“Oh.”

Mark had thought that was the case but was pleased to have it confirmed for him without raising Trevor’s suspicions.

“Was your father working on any restoration projects for clients when he was killed?”

“No, there was nothing in his studio,” Trevor said, blinking rapidly.

He’s lying
, Mark realized.

“I respect his creed that art should be for all the people. I get that’s where the bulk of his business came from, but did he have any really high-end clients? Either for private sales or restoration projects?”

“Not since my father took over the store. I believe my grandfather had a more exclusive clientele and dealt in pieces that were a bit more pricey, but my father changed the business model once it was his sole responsibility.”

Just by listening to the emphasis he placed on his words Mark had the distinct impression that Trevor preferred his grandfather’s approach. Maybe in the Haverston family snobbery skipped every other generation.

“And now you’re shutting it down.”

“I don’t care to own a business like this,” Trevor said. “Too much work, not enough reward.”

“Your sisters feel the same way?”

“Of course. Now, what does all this have to do with the new lead you’re following?”

“Probably nothing,” Mark said.

“Well, if there’s nothing else, I really am very busy getting ready for the sale,” Trevor said.

“Of course. If I can just get the name of that art restorer from you.”

Trevor moved around the desk, opened one of the drawers, and a minute later handed him a card with the information. “Good luck with your wife’s painting, Detective.”

“Thanks. You know, cleaning it is probably going to cost more than the thing’s even worth. It’s a picture of a bunch of dogs playing poker.”

He swore he saw the nerve under Trevor’s eye twitch.

“I’m sure if it has sentimental value to your wife it will be well worth the cost.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Mark left, nodding to the lady from the auction house as he passed by her on his way out of the store. She had her cell phone out, looking at it, and she acknowledged his head nod with a tight-lipped smile.

Mark went over the conversation with Trevor in his head. There was something truly fishy, but he needed to put a few more pieces of the puzzle together before he could haul Trevor down to the precinct and accuse him of anything.

He had purposely decided not to mention Heinrich so as to avoid tipping his hand too much. He wondered, though, what would have happened if he had.

Jeremiah was never going to finish the translation work before Rosh Hashanah. He could probably finish reading it to himself by then, but not speaking it into the recorder. He was losing his voice and he couldn’t afford to have it gone completely. Not at this time of the year.

He called Mark again.

“Find something?” the detective asked.

“No, you?” Jeremiah whispered.

“Maybe. You sound worse.”

“Can you get a video recorder?”

“I’m sure I can scrounge one up for you. I can have it over there in about an hour or so, maybe less.”

“Thanks.”

Jeremiah hung up, not wanting to waste more words than he had to. He had to sit and rest his voice for a few more minutes before he could resume. He grabbed a glass of water and had a seat in the writing room, in the corner farthest from where the body had been. As he sipped the water he glanced around the room and let his mind wonder.

Rosh Hashanah was the Jewish New Year and was a two-day event. It was the beginning of the ten-day period referred to as Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, which some also called the Days of Repentance. The ten days ended with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The entire time was one of reflection, a time to set goals for the new year and to seek the forgiveness of G-d and others.

He had planned to spend the last few days in quiet contemplation of his own life and preparation for the liturgy he’d be giving. Much of Rosh Hashanah was actually spent in the synagogue.

This year, as always, he had a lot of repenting to do. What he had yet to figure out was what he planned on doing differently in the coming year. He could always pledge not to kill anyone, but with Cindy’s penchant for finding trouble that might be an unrealistic pledge. He didn’t want to make a vow to G-d knowing there was a real likelihood that he’d have to break it.

Maybe one of the things he needed to rethink was his relationship with Cindy. He had managed to live a low key life for the last few years until she entered into it. She had definitely shaken things up and changed the balance and order of his life. Because of her he’d done things that he’d never thought he’d have to do again. Then he had nearly kissed her.

Yes, his relationship with her, whatever it actually was, should definitely be the top thing on his list to discuss with G-d. He had brought Cindy into Jeremiah’s life and the rabbi did not believe in coincidences. That meant that in all the craziness, all the sheer insanity of the past year-and-a-half there had been a plan, a higher purpose. He just wished he understood what that was.

He thought again of the moment when he’d almost kissed Cindy. It had been so spontaneous, so honest, and it had seemed the most natural thing until he realized what it was he was about to do. It would have changed everything between them and that was something he couldn’t allow to happen.

He had always known that caring for a woman, getting close to her in a romantic way would be a complicated thing because he’d have to share with her his past. The burden of it would drive most away.

Lately though he’d had moments where he almost wished he could tell Cindy the truth. Then he would imagine the way she would look at him afterward, the horror in her eyes, the fear in every line of her body, and he knew he couldn’t do that. Not to either of them.

He couldn’t have a deeper relationship without telling her and there would be no hope of having a deeper relationship once she knew. He was stuck exactly where he was. Somehow that must be in G-d’s plan, too. He just hoped that one day soon he knew what that plan was. Even a tiny glimmer of it would make life so much better.

He finished his water and got back to work. He did a couple of quick tests with the recorder to see just how softly he could whisper before it became an issue. Armed with that knowledge he continued his work.