Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) (37 page)

“The Langholms helped you?”

“Yes. They took an interest because I offered to help them first. I wasn’t stupid, you know. I knew everyone wanted charity from them and that I would have to prove my value to get their help. So I showed them where the best buildings were. I’d been in them, as a kid growing up. I knew which ones were dangerous because their foundations were unstable. I knew which ones had fixtures and tin ceilings and those old-fashioned architectural features the Langholms were looking for.”

“After that, we helped each other every time they were in town. I told them more, too, details about the people who owned them, which ones were involved in drugs, and which ones were just down on their luck. And they paid me money that I used to buy books, or clothes. I used it to further myself, and they took an interest in me.”

“So they sort of adopted you?” Alvarez asked.

“No, not like that. More like, they took an interest. I’ve never lived with them. There’s no charity here. They paid me for my services, and I made my own way in life.”

“How did you come to be neighbors on Star Island?”

“When I graduated from business school, I asked them if they would introduce me into the Miami community. I had my plan already in the works. They encouraged me to create a new identity as a Cuban American, and I did. I launched La Luz. After a number of years of hard work, it really took off. It became bigger and bigger. The Langholms had this place on Star Island, I think it used to be a mother-in-law dwelling, actually, and they sold it to me well below market.”

“They didn’t try to out you or hold that over your head?”

“No! The Langholms have always been decent. Nobody knew about me till these two ladies showed up on Star Island with their
research
.”

Mick noted that Serena said the word “research” as if she were saying “cockroach.”

It was from this revelation that Cat came up with her theory that Langholm bought and sold child porn.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she explained to Strickland, who resisted her idea at first. “Langholm was there when the photos of Serena were first made. He probably bought them. Maybe that’s what he really does all over the country, buys and sells pedophilic material.”

Strickland warmed to the theory. “Sure, sure. He’s the clean one. He doesn’t actually take the pics. He buys them from those who do, and then he redistributes them, making a mint.”

At this point, Mick raised what he thought was the obvious objection. “But why show kindness to Angie Ramirez? Wouldn’t that be risky?”

It was his sister who picked up the thread at that point.
 

“Angie’s right that she had value,” said Pris. “She gave the Langholms information, and she knew to charge for it. Maybe they admired her, saw her potential. But that didn’t mean they’d destroy the images of her they’d paid for. Perhaps the Langholms are only motivated by money.”

“Or maybe even they needed a child of sorts,” said Strickland, staring up at the board. “Someone to love.”

“How could a couple like that be capable of love?” asked Mick. “What we’re saying here is that they killed Donnie.”

“Did they see the painting of Angie Ramirez?” Strickland asked.

Mick thought about Kristoff’s visits to his studio. There were two in the month preceding the fire, and Greta had retrieved the
Three Views, One Girl
triptych out of his seldom-seen back archive of paintings during her visit, and he agreed to send them to her gallery for the show. They were probably sitting out the second time that Kristoff came by.
 

And, come to think of it, when Serena Jones bought Mick’s work after the party, Kristoff had insisted he bring a few pieces to her house on Star Island rather than having Serena visit Mick’s studio. Maybe Kristoff didn’t want to risk that she would see the paintings and recognize herself in them.

“Yes,” said Mick. He told them how it was.

They broke for lunch, and Mick found himself in a conference room alone with Strickland, the two of them eating sandwiches.

“I sure do like what the Cubans have done to luncheon,” said Strickland, who held out his sandwich in front of him, admiring the several layers of meat and pickles pressed between thin slices of toast.

Mick wolfed down his own pork concoction and had to agree. “Of course, it pales in comparison to what they’ve done with coffee,” he said.

“Right-o.” Strickland winked as he picked up a Styrofoam cup holding a café con leche and took a sip. Then, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin, he stared up above Mick’s head at the wall behind, but it seemed as if he stared at something in his mind’s eye. “The aboriginal cultures of Australia believe in something called Dreamtime. It’s hard to describe this in English, as there are no words for it. It’s not the past, exactly, but they do believe that the spirits of their ancestors are passed to them. It’s not the same as dreaming…” He peered at Mick pointedly. “But it does call into question what we think of dreams.”

Mick’s back went up. He wasn’t sure how to take this line of discussion.
 

Strickland continued. “It would be beyond a purely secular man like Langholm to imagine something like Dreamtime, don’t you think?”

Mick nodded, unsure what to say. He sipped his coffee.

“He wouldn’t have been able to account for your dream, for instance.”

“No, he must not have.”

“Curious thing, your dream, Mick. I’ve been considering it in the back of my mind as Cat sold me on her suspicions against Langholm. Dreams in our culture are entirely frivolous, for the most part. But I believe—and I’m in part doing some guesswork here, as I am outside aboriginal culture and can only form a hypothesis in a distant sort of way about them—but I believe they would not separate your dream that night from Dreamtime. They would think of it as part and parcel of the ancestor experience.”

“That’s pretty deep,” Mick said.

Strickland chuckled. “Oh, forgive my academic obtuseness. Your grand-niece is a smart cookie, Mick. I’d love to steal her away to the FBI. But I sense she belongs with you and your sister. Something binds the three of you—I can see that clearly—and I think it has something to do with your dream.”

Mick nearly choked on his cortadita. “Excuse me?”

“That dream you had at Langholm’s, Mick—I don’t doubt that you had it. But Cat, she exhibits an odd conviction about it. And for one so data-driven as she is? It got me thinking about dreams and how little we really know about them. They are the most powerful imaginative experience a human being can have. And everyone dreams.”

With that, Strickland polished off his pressed sandwich, swept the wrappings into a trash bin, and exited.

Mick sat for a moment, stunned that another person had an inkling about his family’s dreamslipping ability. He was glad that Strickland was on their side.

Mick rejoined the others back in the briefing room. Strickland was standing in front of an evidence board with the players and their connections marked. “We have one mission here, folks. Catch Langholm. But how do we do it?”

“Ernesto’s the key,” said Pris. Mick felt for her, having her companion mixed up in this awful mess.
 

“Let’s bring him in,” said Strickland. “In the meantime”—he looked at his technical team—“keep monitoring the chats like you have.”

“What does he mean by chats?” Mick asked Cat. “Is that like the chatting you do online?”

Cat was happy to explain. “We think Kristoff uses this particular chat alias, and if we can connect it to an upload link for hidden pedophilic services, we’ve got him.”

“Oh,” said Mick, but he didn’t really get it.

When they brought Ernesto in, Mick caught his eye and gave him a hard look. Pris looked upset but determined, her mouth set in a flat line. Mick squeezed her hand.
 

“You don’t have to join in the questioning,” he told her.

“I know,” she said. “But I’ll wonder if I don’t.”

With that, she slipped into the room. Mick followed, and so did Cat. Mick expected Strickland to protest, but he was solicitous.
 

“Come in, come in,” he said to them. “Have a seat. Make sure you’re sitting where you’re most comfortable. I like to sit far from any air conditioning ducts myself.” Mick almost laughed out loud at his quirky manner.
 

“Grace, darling,” Ernesto said. “What is this?”

“I think you know,” said Pris, who’d chosen to sit directly across from Ernesto. “That’s why you’ve been following the case so closely.”

Ernesto looked at her blankly. Mick wanted to punch his lights out.

“You’re involved in this, aren’t you? Through Langholm’s art. Which you do handle, as it turns out.”

Ernesto didn’t miss a beat. “Grace, you must forgive my secrecy. But my clients always…expect the strictest confidence. But involved in this? Mick’s case? I should think you would know me better than that.”

“I thought so, too, Ernie. But you’re in this. I know it.”

Ernesto glanced at Mick. “I am very sorry for the misunderstanding over your brother’s…predilections, as it were. But I do not see how that has anything to do with my business.”

“My predilections? You asshole—” Mick couldn’t control himself. He was seeing red again.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. It is not a matter to easily discuss, you see.”

“You can’t discuss child porn, but you can do business with those who sell it?” Pris challenged him.

Ernesto sputtered. “Eh…how do you mean?”

Grace leaned across the table. “Your client. Kristoff Langholm. Do you look the other way, Ernesto? Is that it? His transactions are fishy, his need for anonymity suspicious. And you look the other way.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How much money do you make off Langholm, annually?”

“Off the top of my head, I am not sure. I would have to look at my records.”

At that, Strickland broke in. “Records! Fantastic. I love good recordkeepers. Why don’t you give us access to those records, Mr. Ruíz? The federal government insists, as a matter of fact. Here, my staff will escort you back to your office for the confiscation. But that’s just what you’ve got in your own possession. We’ve already been in contact with the relevant banks, savings and loans, brokerage houses, credit cards, the IRS, you name it.”

“Wait,” Ernesto said. “I would like a lawyer.”

“Certainly!” said Strickland. “I’m surprised one isn’t already in the room with us, Mr. Ruíz. After all, a person’s rights must be protected. But you probably thought this was going to be a friendlier conversation, didn’t you? I mean, Ms. Grace here has been quite her namesake with you up till now, hasn’t she? Gracious, if you haven’t gathered my meaning.”

Ernesto looked around the room, and to Mick he resembled a mouse, cornered by a cat and trying to find a mouse hole. Mick chuckled to himself, realizing that Ernesto
had
been cornered by a Cat, in a matter of speaking.

“I wish to say something,” Ernesto declared.

“Wonderful,” said Strickland, but with a softer tone. “Speaking is one of the greatest of God’s gifts. It allows the truth to come out, connections to be made.”

“You have to believe me, I don’t know anything about the fire, or whether or not Kristoff was involved. And up until this mess with Mick Travers and the illicit material, I did not know there was any connection to that kind of illegal activity.”

“Do go on,” said Strickland. He picked up his pen and had it poised over a yellow legal pad.

“The Langholms—and I do mean both of them, and not just Kristoff, but Carrie as well—they have been my clients for a number of years.”
Strickland put down his pen. “And I thought you were going to tell us something we didn’t know.”

“If you go looking for the financial trail, you will find…irregularities. Enough to convict me, perhaps. But you won’t find anything against the Langholms.”

“And what makes you so certain of the limitations of our abilities?”

Ernesto laughed, shaking his head. There was a sad, bitter quality to the man that Mick realized had always been there, underneath the facade of elegance.

Ernesto looked directly at Mick. “You think art is some kind of pure thing, with its aesthetics and meaning? I am here to tell you it is not. The money people of the world, the ones who run everything, behind the scenes—they use your pretty pictures to hide their ill-gotten wealth.”

Strickland picked up the meaning. “Langholm uses art to launder his child-porn money.”

Ernesto flinched. “I really didn’t know where his wealth came from. I thought he was committing fraud through his construction projects. And he probably does. Victimless crimes.”

Pris cleared her throat, attracting Ernesto’s gaze. “That’s what you told yourself, anyway.”

“Please, Grace…”

Pris shook her head. “You’re trying to convince yourself, Ernie. But your conscience prevailed. You’ve never interfered, tried to steer us the wrong way… I think some part of you wanted this to come out. You knew when Donnie was killed that there was something darker going on, and then when Mick stumbled into that pedophile nightmare, you wanted out. But you weren’t courageous enough to be conscious about it, to come to us with the truth of your suspicions.”