Patricia Cornwell - From Potter's Field

'There's nothing for you to do,' I said. 'You'd be bored.'

'I can work on the computer,'

Later, I drove Lucy and Janet to work with me and left them at the office with Fielding, my deputy chief. At eleven a.m., roads were slushy in the Slip, and businesses were opening late. Dressed in waterproof boots and a long jacket, I waited on a sidewalk to cross Franklin Street. Road crews were spreading salt, and traffic was sporadic this Friday before New Year's Eve.

James Galleries occupied the upper floor in a former tobacco warehouse near Laura Ashley and a record store. I entered a side door, followed a dim hallway and got on an elevator too small to carry more than three people my size. I pushed the button for the third floor, and soon the elevator opened onto another dimly lit hallway, at the end of which were glass doors with the name of the gallery painted on them in black calligraphy.

James had opened his gallery after moving to Richmond from New York. I had purchased a mono-print and a carved bird from him once, and the art glass in my dining room had come from him as well. Then I quit shopping here about a year ago after a local artist came up with inappropriate silk-screened lab coats in honor of me. They included blood and bones, cartoons and crime scenes, and when I asked James not to carry them, he increased his order.

I could see him behind a showcase, rearranging a tray of what looked like bracelets. He looked up when I rang the bell. He shook his head and mouthed that he was not open. I removed hat and sunglasses and knocked on the glass. He stared blankly until I pulled out my credentials and showed him my shield.

He was startled, then confused when he realized it was me. James, who insisted the world call him James because his first name was Elmer, came to the door. He took another look at my face and bells rattled against glass as he turned a key.

'What in the world?' he said, letting me in.

'You and I must talk,' I said, unzipping my coat.

'I'm all out of lab coats.'

'I'm delighted to hear it.'

'Me too,' he said in his petty way. 'Sold every one of them for Christmas. I sell more of those silly lab coats than anything in the gallery. We're thinking of silk-screened scrubs next, the same style you folks wear when you're doing autopsies.'

'You're not disrespectful of me,' I said. 'You're disrespectful of the dead. You will never be me, but you will someday be dead. Maybe you should think about that.'

'The problem with you is you don't have a sense of humor.'

'I'm not here to talk about what you perceive the problem with me is,' I calmly said.

A tall, fussy man with short gray hair and a mustache, he specialized in minimalist paintings, bronzes and furniture, and unusual jewelry and kaleidoscopes. Of course, he had a penchant for the irreverent and bizarre, and nothing was a bargain. He treated customers as if they were lucky to be spending money in his gallery. I wasn't sure James treated anyone well.

'What are you doing here?' he asked me. 'I know what happened around the corner, at your office.'

'I'm sure you do,' I said. 1 can't imagine how anybody could not know.'

'Is it true that one of the cops was put in…'

I gave him a stony stare.

He returned behind the counter, where I could now see he had been tying tiny price tags on gold and silver bracelets fashioned to look like serpents, soda can flip tops, braided hair, even handcuffs.

'Special, aren't they?' He smiled.

'They are different.'

'This is my favorite.' He held up one. It was a chain wrought of rose-gold hands.

'Several days ago someone came into your gallery and used my charge card,' I said.

'Yes. Your son.' He returned the bracelet to the tray.

'My what?' I said.

He looked up at me. 'Your son. Let's see. I believe his name is Kirk.'

'I do not have a son,' I told him. 'I have no children. And my American Express gold card was stolen several months ago.'

James chided me, 'Well, for crummy sake, why haven't you canceled it?'

'I didn't realize it was stolen until very recently. And I'm not here to talk to you about that,' I said. 'I need you to tell me exactly what happened.'

James pulled out a stool and sat down. He did not offer me a chair. 'He came in the Friday before Christmas,' he said. 'I guess about four o'clock in the afternoon.'

'This was a man?'

James gave me a disgusted look. 'I do know the difference. Yes. He was a man.'

'Please describe him.'

'Five-ten, thin, sharp features. His cheeks were a little sunken. But I actually found him rather striking.'

'What about his hair?'

'He was wearing a baseball cap, so I didn't see much of it. But I got the impression it was a really terrible red. A Raggedy Andy red. I can't imagine who got hold of him, but he ought to sue for malpractice.'

'And his eyes?'

He was wearing dark-tinted glasses. Sort of Armani-ish.' He got amused. 'I was so surprised you had a son like that. I would have figured your boy wore khakis, skinny ties and went to MIT…'

'James, there is nothing lighthearted about this conversation,' I abruptly said.

His face lit up and his eyes got wide as the meaning became clear. 'Oh my God. The man I've been reading about? That's who… My God. He was in my gallery?'

I made no comment.

James was ecstatic. 'Do you realize what this will do?' he said. 'When people find out he shopped here?'

I said nothing.

'It will be fabulous for my business. People from all over will come here. My gallery will be on the tour routes.'

'That's right. Be certain to advertise something like that,' I said. 'And character disorders from everywhere will stand in line. They'll touch your expensive paintings, bronzes, tapestries, and ask you endless questions. And they won't buy a thing.'

He got quiet.

'When he came in,' I said, 'what did he do?'

'He looked around. He said he was looking for a last-minute gift.'

'What was his voice like?'

'Quiet. Kind of high-pitched. I asked who the present was for, and he said his mother. He said she was a doctor. That's when I showed him the pin he ended up buying. It's a caduceus. Two white gold serpents twined around a yellow gold winged staff. The serpents have ruby eyes. It's handmade and absolutely spectacular.'

'That's what he bought for two hundred and fifty dollars?' I asked.

'Yes.' He was appraising me, crooked finger under his chin. 'Actually, it's you. The pin is really you. Would you like for me to have the artist make another one?'

'What happened after he bought the pin?'

'I asked if he wanted it gift wrapped, and he didn't. He pulled out the charge card. And I said, "Well, small, small world. Your mother works right around the corner." He didn't say anything. So I asked if he was home for the holidays, and he smiled.'

'He didn't talk,' I said.

'Not at all. It was like pulling hens' teeth. I wouldn't call him friendly. But he was polite.'

'Do you remember how he was dressed?'

'A long black leather coat. It was belted, so I don't know what he had on under it. But I thought he looked sharp.'

'Shoes?'

'It seems he had on boots.'

'Did you notice anything else about him?'

He thought for a while, looking past me at the door. He said, 'Now that you mention it, he had what looked like burns on his fingers. I thought that was a little scary.'

'What about his hygiene?' I then asked, for the more addicted a crack user got, the less he cared about clothing or cleanliness.

'He seemed clean to me. But I really didn't get close to him.'

'And he bought nothing else while he was here?'

'Unfortunately not.'

Elmer James propped an elbow on the showcase and rested his cheek on his fist. He sighed. 'I wonder how he found me.'