Terri Reed - Double Threat Christmas

Paul moved to the exit leading to the back alley of the building. Putting his overcoat back on before stepping outside, he blinked to clear his vision as a sheet of cold snow hit him in the face. A streetlamp provided a small measure of light over the Dumpsters, while lamps had been set up to illuminate the work area for the CSI team as they continued their part of the investigation.

Paul found the team leader and asked her to extend the search in the upper part of gallery.

“Already on it,” Barbara Sims stated in her no-nonsense way. “We’ve dusted the door and lifted at least a dozen prints on the outside, but inside, everything…” She paused to emphasize her words. “And I mean nearly every square inch of that workroom has been wiped clean.”

Megan rubbing down her pumps before using the cloth to set them on the floor of the closet flashed in Paul’s mind.

Had her routine with the shoes been for real or for show?

He reentered the workroom, his gaze taking in the orderly way the room was arranged. Packing materials lined up neatly in one corner, brushes hung upside down from a rack, shortest to longest. The worktable where Megan claimed to have been working hardly looked messy at all.

A ball of string sat on one corner of the table, a tape dispenser beside it, a ruler next and a roll of brown packing paper, all lined up with the beveled edge. Everything one would need to secure a package, except the scissors.

“Lemon,” Paul said as he breathed in the scent.

Andy held up a can of lemon-scented air freshener. One of five that were lined along the bottom shelf of the workbench. “This.”

The same spray Megan had used earlier. Paul also noted the dozen boxes of antibacterial wipes stacked next to the air-freshener cans.

A commotion back in the gallery drew Paul’s attention. He and Andy moved together out of the workroom and found a uniformed officer trying to prevent a short, thin, elderly gentlemen, wearing a long trench coat, from entering the crime scene.

“What’s going on here?” the man asked, his nasally voice echoing off the walls. “I’m Lester Sinclair. I own this gallery.” Mr. Sinclair spotted Paul and directed his words to him. “I demand you tell me what’s going on this instant.”

Paul nodded for the officer to let Mr. Sinclair pass. “Sir, I’m Detective Wallace and this is my partner, Detective Howell. There has been a double homicide on the premises.”

Mr. Sinclair’s face turned ashen. “Oh, mercy no. Is Megan…?”

“Ms. McClain is fine. She’s been taken to the station for further questioning.” Paul pulled out his notepad. Keeping meticulous records of all interviews had served him well over the years, especially when some ambitious defense attorney tried to reinvent testimony.

“Who’s been killed?” Sinclair rose on the toes of his brown loafers, trying to look past Paul’s shoulder.

“A Thomas Drake and a Henry Vanderpool. Do you know them?”

Recognition registered in Sinclair’s green eyes. “What was Mr. Vanderpool doing here? He lost the bid on the painting last night.”

“That’s a good question.” So that confirmed what Megan had said about Vanderpool not being expected, only Drake. “Where have you been for the past three hours?”

Sinclair’s eyes widened. “I was here, until 6:00 p.m. Then I went out to get a bite to eat since I skipped lunch.”

“And where did you dine tonight?” Andy asked.

Sinclair cast him an irritated glance. “What does it matter?”

Andy leaned in intimidatingly closer. “Establishes an alibi.”

Sinclair blanched. “Oh. Oh, well, I was at Figaro’s.”

Paul arched an eyebrow at the name of the well-known restaurant where reservations were required to be made at least a month in advance. And Sinclair just decided to pop in for dinner? “Did you inform your curator that you were leaving?”

Sinclair frowned. “I don’t answer to my staff.”

Almost the same statement that Megan had made. “What about a night-shift security guard?” Paul questioned.

“Mack called in sick. It’s the third time this week. I think I’m going to have to fire him. The security company we use was supposed to send someone over at five. I assumed since Megan hadn’t said anything to the contrary that the guard had arrived as scheduled.”

Interesting. Megan claimed she didn’t know what was happening with the security guards. “So you informed Ms. McClain that a replacement guard would be arriving at five.”

“Yes.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing his thin face. “Or maybe I just told Lacy.” He shook his head, his gaze befuddled. “I don’t really recall. Oh, what a mess. This will be bad for business.” He grabbed Andy’s arm. “Can you keep this out of the paper?”

“Doubtful, once the pariah of the media get a whiff of murder,” Andy stated with contempt and shook off Sinclair’s hand.

“The assistant who’d left early for an appointment?” Paul asked to keep the focus on the investigation. He wasn’t concerned with Sinclair’s business or reputation.

Sinclair sighed. “Yes. She’s always running off to one appointment or another.”

Convenience or coincidence? Paul would find out. “I’m going to need the names and addresses of all your employees and anyone else who has the security codes for the gallery.”

“Yes, of course. You can have anything you want,” Sinclair said, and pointed up with his long, bony finger. “All that information is in my office.”

“We’ll also need the video feed from the monitors in the yellow room and if there’s one in the workroom,” Paul stated.

Sinclair grimaced. “Actually, the video monitors are deterrents only. Our security is set up to stop theft, not catch a murderer. All the pieces of art are wired so if they are removed or tampered with, the gates go down.”

Frustration beat a steady tattoo at Paul’s temple. Video of the murders would have been so much more efficient in apprehending the villain.

Paul escorted Sinclair upstairs, and after getting a nod to go ahead from the CSI techs, they entered the plush, opulent office. A wall of windows overlooked Lexington Avenue. Paul made a note to check the building across the street and find anyone who might have seen something at the gallery.

Sinclair went to his glass-topped desk and fired up his notebook computer. “Everything is computerized these days,” he said as he hit some keys. The printer on the glass sidebar started to hum and spit out papers.

“How would you describe Megan McClain?” Paul asked.

Sinclair’s chin rose and pride entered his voice. “She is an exemplary employee. Trustworthy, hardworking and…and very organized.”

“And Lacy Knight?”

“Ah, Lacy.” His chin dropped and his voice softened. “Young, a bit flighty but she tries. She’s my great-niece, you know. Some day she’ll make a good curator,” Sinclair replied as he gathered the papers from the printer and handed them to Paul.

Taking the printed sheets with the employee records, Paul met his partner at the front door.

“I’ve sent some uniforms to canvass the neighborhood,” Andy informed Paul.

“Good.” Paul headed toward the entrance. “We need to find the assistant, Lacy. I have some questions for her.”

“Detectives,” called Sims from the doorway of the women’s restroom. “There are traces of blood in the sink and drain.”

Megan’s raw, red hands popped into Paul’s mind. “Get back to me on any DNA you find besides the vics’.”

Sims inclined her head in acknowledgment and went back to work.

Andy shook his head. “I think what happened was McClain hadn’t wanted to give up the painting. She gutted Drake but didn’t expect Vanderpool to show up, so she used the gun on him. Now instead of just one body to deal with she had two. So she calls 911 and makes up the story about going to find her boss.”