The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(77)

“Okash sells two paintings and one goes to her landlord?”

“Maybe some kind of swap for rent. The building isn’t exactly booming.”

“Okay, forget downtown, go west, young man.”



* * *



—

No cars in the driveway of the blue house on Clearwater Lane. Mail overflowed a tarnished brass box to the left of the front door. Bulk junk addressed to Occupant. Milo put it back, rang the bell, got the expected silence.

“Not exactly Xanadu. They have a Rolls, huh?”

“And a Volvo.”

“Automotive yin-yang…the place is obviously not a mail-drop.”

I said, “Maybe it’s a layover for Macao execs when they’re here on business. Or some sort of tax dodge—keeping the ownership overseas where the rates are lower and depreciating the real estate here.”

“How does that work?”

“Above my pay grade,” I said. “I did have a custody case last year, couple was worth six hundred million, most of it in property. They bought, sold, traded up, kept depreciating, and paid no income tax. The wife threatened to expose it but it turned out to be legit.”

“She owned half and wanted to blow everything up?”

“You bet,” I said. “She hated her husband that much.”

“Nose, spite, face—doesn’t that level of ugly get to you?”

“This from you?”

“I live in one nasty world, you occupy two.”

“I’ve got a fulfilling outside life.”

“Feeding the fish?”

I smiled. “That’s part of it.”

He tried a gate on the east side of the house. Bolted. “When Okash brought the painting someone was here to let her in.”

“Definitely. She stayed inside for sixteen minutes.”

“You timed it?”

“Nothing else to do while I watched.”

“So if we keep popping by there’s a chance of catching someone. Let’s get out of here.”

He slouched toward the Seville.

I got behind the wheel. “Back to the gallery again?”

“You’ve got energy for that?”

“Sure.”

“Titanium man. Nah, I’m bushed. Drop me at the station then go feed your finny friends.”





CHAPTER


    36


He dozed as I drove, rasping through his nose. A mile from the station he was roused by a text beep, sat up sharp and speed-dialed.

Marcus Coolidge said, “Hey. A couple of us have been reviewing any closed-circuit footage we can find within a mile of my crime scene. Mostly phony cameras, malfunctions, lousy quality when we get anything. But an hour ago, Albert—my guy, a loaner from Auto-Theft—spotted something a little less than half a mile away. The same car drives toward the dump site at the right time and is spotted going the other way sixteen minutes later. It’s the only vehicle we’ve seen doing that. It’s an industrial area, that hour no traffic to speak of. Disk is too blurry to make out the tags but the make’s clear. Volvo sedan, you know how boxy they are. Leon’s a motorhead, says mid-to late nineties 850.”

I said, “White.”

Coolidge said, “Who’s that?”

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware. Is it white?”

A beat. “You already know this?”

“We didn’t until you called, Marc.” He told Coolidge about the cars at the Clearwater house.

Coolidge said, “That and a Rolls, one for show, one for the dirty work? So who are these people?”

“That, my friend, is unclear. All we’ve got so far is a business,” Milo summed up.

Coolidge said, “Macao. Where’s that, the Caribbean?”

“China. Low taxes and casinos.”

“So we could be dealing with Asian mafia types?”

“Who knows, Marc? The company seems to do art and real estate and Okash does business with them. She was seen coming and going with what looked like a painting.”

“Business and nasty,” said Coolidge, “if that Volvo is theirs.”

“We just stopped by, neither car was there and at least a couple days’ mail was in the box—all junk, no addressee names. Given what you found, you up for a meeting tomorrow morning, my shop? Bring Albert, you’ll meet my team.”

“Team? How many you got?”

“Three D’s, all on loan.”

“Same as here. My boss calls the Auto boss, cashes in a favor, and gets me Albert. Guy knows cars like I know my right hand. Not sure he can make it but I’ll be there. When were you thinking?”

“Ten work for you?”

“No prob.” Coolidge yawned. “?’Scuse, looking at that video is like a slow drip of vodka, I need to crash.”





CHAPTER


    37


Next morning, same room. I was starting to feel at home.

Clean whiteboard, six chairs assembled in two rows like a classroom. Milo had amped up the catering: two boxes of pastries, another of assorted bagels, lox, cream cheese, paper napkins, a coffee urn, hot water, tea bags, Styrofoam cups. All on his dime.