The Facepainter Murders Read online

  Adam filled the cups from the pot and put milk into Erin's.

  "What's going on?"

  "I don't know yet. There may be two separate crimes, the shooting and the theft, or they may be linked. I'm assuming the attack on Trevelyan relates to the theft at the library, but whether that is connected to the murder, I don't know. The attacker at the hospital was careless and let a patient see his face. We're not releasing the fact that Trevelyan survived. What have you got on for today?"

  "The usual. I'm going to the travel agent's later. Could you meet me there, about one?"

  "I'll try. Gotta go."

  When he turned into the parking lot late, he recognized the old pickup Ted Atkins drove. He and Ted had an uneasy relationship, half friendly, half professional. The professional side had frequent problems as Ted pushed for information Adam wasn't prepared to give him.

  The reporter was gossiping with the receptionist when Adam walked through the heavy door that separated the police station from the courthouse proper.

  "Hey, Adam. What's this about an attack at the hospital?"

  "Come into my office. What have you heard?"

  "Police action there this morning, including you called out from your beauty sleep. What gives?"

  He hasn't got it, Adam thought.

  "Nothing I can talk about now. Publishing anything would put at least two people in harm's way."

  "Come on. Give me something."

  "Sorry, but that's how it is. I'll give it to you when I think it's safe."

  "To me, not to Burlington."

  As always, Ted's instinct was to go for the scoop.

  "Sure."

  After the reporter ambled out, Adam turned to the reports on his desk. A few hours later he sat in his office, mulling the evidence so far. The search of the hospital turned up a pile of abandoned clothes and the bypassed security panel in the boiler room. The clothes were no help—unisex, gray sweats. If they found a suspect, the lab could match DNA.

  The security guard, who, to be fair, had been half-asleep when the orderly walked by, saw the man's face but all he remembered was a thin, not very tall man. All over thin, face included, he said. The guard spent a long morning looking at mug books but found nothing.

  The suspect wore surgical gloves, according to the nurse he pushed, so fingerprints were unlikely. The syringe left at the scene contained heroin. The doctor reversed its effects, so Trevelyan was still alive, at least for now.

  The DMV search turned up a car stolen the day before in Burlington as well as six others at home with their owners. If he had any suspects, he could check their whereabouts for the time of the theft, but he didn't even have a long list of possibles, never mind a short one.

  He crashed his boots to the floor and sat up when the phone rang.

  "Good morning, Adam."

  Anne's voice was strong and cheerful.

  "Anne. You're feeling better?"

  "Much. I'm at Catherine's now. I'm staying in town for a few days though. Mr. Trevelyan? Do you know why he was shot? And how is he now?"

  "No, not yet."

  Adam went on to tell her about the attack on Trevelyan and got a promise she and Catherine would keep it to themselves.

  "Do you have a new assignment for me? I warn you I am going to ask for danger pay," she said.

  "I can come over and show you a description of the stolen items if you feel up to it?"

  "Sure."

  Catherine's home needed a paint job, Adam thought as he parked in the driveway but both boys would be going to college this year. College would win over paint with Catherine every time. Otherwise, the gray white-trimmed house, set in Catherine's rambling garden, looked fine. Anne and Catherine waved from the porch.

  Catherine had replaced her Adirondack chairs with white wicker, cheerful with floral patterned cushions. Adam sprawled in one of them. Catherine handed him a mug of tea.

  "Do you need privacy?" Catherine asked.

  "No. In fact, you may be able to help as well. None of the stolen items are that valuable. Maybe there's no connection between the body and the art gallery."

  "I think there is. Remember the bit of pasteboard you showed to me?" Anne said.

  "Sure."

  "I knew I had seen that somewhere and yesterday, I remembered. Apparently, it took a blow to the head. It was a ticket to the show at the library."

  "There were tickets?"

  "Yes, to provide a head count."

  "Strange thing for him to hold onto unless he saw it coming and wanted to tell us something."

  "Did you connect him with any local people?"

  Catherine put a tray down on the glass-topped wicker table in front of them.

  "Not so far."

  Adam went on to describe the missing items, combining the information Ada gave him with that of Madeline Fox.

  "I've seen Belknap paintings valued for as little as ten thousand dollars on the Antique Road Show," Catherine said.

  "Perhaps the paintings and Mr. Trevelyan's information are a guide to something else, something more valuable, and he knew or suspected what it was?"

  "Could be." Adam went on, "I promised you dinner. Would you and Catherine join me at Evan's tomorrow night?"

  "I'd love to," Anne said.

  "Oh, I can't," said Catherine. "I'm involved with something at the women's shelter."

  "We'll do it another time. Would seven suit you, Anne?"

  As it did, they agreed to meet at the restaurant, a pleasant walk from Catherine's.

  An aristocratic Porsche, alien among the GM products parked in front of the courthouse, drew a crowd of three small boys, and one elderly man leaning on a cane. Adam noted the Quebec plates as he strode past it and up the stairs to the courthouse proper. The double oak doors to the Police Station's part of the building opened to give him a whiff of exotic perfume. Porsche and two hundred dollars-an-ounce perfume, he thought. What have we here?

  Alisse Bertrand, tall and slender with the elegant flair many Frenchwomen seem to be born with, waited in his office. Dark eyes, vivid makeup, and lovely gold jewelry gave a stunning first impression. The second impression was of an angry or worried woman. Adam could see tension in the taut lines around her eyes and mouth, and the abrupt movement as she extended her hand.

  "Detective Davidson, I'm Alisse Bertrand. John Andrews was my husband."

  Even her voice, with a subtle accent, was elegant.

  "My condolences, Ms. Bertrand. Would you mind answering a few questions?"

  "Not at all, if I might ask some as well?"

  "Of course. Do you know what brought him to Culver's Mills?"

  "I...I think he was having an affair with a woman here."

  "An affair. Why do you think so?"

  An affair had not been on his list of possible motives for the murder, although in retrospect he supposed it should have been.

  Her fingers tapped on the arm of her chair as she listed the reasons for suspecting her husband.

  "Oh, the usual: phone calls with hanging up when I answered; unexplained or poorly excused weekends away. I brought the phone records from his office. Lots of calls to Vermont. Nothing in his e-mail that I could get into."

  "You've been through this before?"

  "Several times. I was leaving this time. I am, was fed up."

  Her voice had some snap, but her eyes remained tired and downcast.

  "Were you involved with his business?"

  "Very little. I'm an artist, and he carried my paintings in his gallery, but I didn't have anything to do with the business side. Oh, I met the other artists at openings and some of the more important clients at our home, but that was all. Now, I suppose I must learn or close the gallery. The accountants, new ones, are going over the books."

  "New ones? You didn't trust the ones who worked for him? Could you give me their names?"

  "Yes." Her voice and face hardened. "I thought they were likely cheating John or cheating with him. The firm is called Charbonneau et Fils,
but I never saw anyone of that name. I found a card," she said as she handed it to him.

  "Thank you."

  "You thought, think he was a criminal?"

  "He's well known to the police in Montreal, but they couldn't prove anything."

  "But he's never been arrested. There have been no police at the gallery."

  She laced her shaking fingers together and held her hands in her lap.

  "I know. The Montreal police reported they believe he's a fence and does some art thefts himself. Perhaps the weekends away weren't other women?"

  Adam watched shock, and doubt play over her face.

  She shook her head and said, "I think a woman as well."

  "Did you bring the phone records with you?"

  He hadn't noticed a briefcase, and her slim purse wouldn't hold much.

  "I gave them to one of your officers. Do you have any more questions? I would like to go."

  Sudden fatigue made her voice drag.

  "Of course. Are you returning to Quebec?"

  "Perhaps tomorrow. I need to make arrangements."

  Her movements were fluid, like a model, he thought, as she stood, threw an incredibly thin shawl over her shoulders, and extended a hand.

  "Good-bye, Lieutenant."

  "Good-bye."

  The phone records showed all the calls were made to phones in public areas in Burlington: office buildings, airports, bus stations. No chance of anyone remembering one individual. No two calls were ever made to the same phone.

  "They must have prearranged calling times, maybe by e-mail," said Brad.

  "Did we recover his computer?"

  "Yes, she brought it with her. His e-mail's protected so I'll have to try to figure out a password."

  "His widow couldn't get in. Won't be easy."

  "I'll keep trying."

  Adam left to check on Trevelyan at the hospital.

  Chapter Twelve

  With fishing over, Jamie Corrigan's thoughts turned to television and video games. Unfortunately for him, his parents insisted on school too, so he spent the day cooped up and restless with twenty other kids. He had endless patience for those activities he liked and none at all for sitting and writing. He did like to draw, though. The art assignment had been to draw a landscape. His effort included a lake and a fishing boat, with a half-submerged car in the distance. The teacher showed his picture, marked B, to the class. He didn't get too many B's. Something to show his parents.

  He was going out to his grandparents' farm after school today. His route took him past the home of the class bullies, Kyle and Mike Bassett. His dad said they were meaner than junkyard dogs and they lived in a junkyard, too.

  Jamie planned to leave school fast because the Bassett boys always stopped at the corner store. He could bike faster and be past their place before they got home. But the Bassetts were lying in wait as he left the school ground.

  "Give us that drawing, you little jerk."

  Kyle was bigger than Mike, sandy-haired and heavy- set. Mike was shorter and thinner, more like his mother and more of a follower. Dumber, too, thought Jamie.

  "No."

  Jamie didn't wait to hear an answer. He ran faster than the other boys and biked faster, and he had a better bike. He hadn't locked it to the bike stand but hidden it in a park across the road. There he fled, leaving the surprised Bassetts behind. They howled when he emerged at top speed.

  Jamie's route out of town took him past old man Bassett's. Unless they called their dad to stop him, he would out-race them and make his grandpa's.

  As he rounded the curve and came down the hill past the junkyard, a man's burly figure came out of the house, holding a phone and watching the road. He's the guy who pushed the car, Jamie thought. He's coming after me. Now he was scared. Bassett couldn't run, but he might follow him in the truck.

  Past the house, the road made a lazy S curve, and he would be out of Bassett's sight. A path through the bush was wide enough for a bike. The engine revved behind him, but he got off his bike and carried it into the underbrush, trying not to leave a trail. When Bassett roared by, Jamie flew off down the narrow track. He knew every inch. There was a hill to climb before the path spiraled down to the back of his grandpa's barn. The Bassett kids rode this trail, too. If their dad phoned them that he lost him, they might follow him up.

  The trail had never been steeper, and Jamie had never ridden faster than now. When he reached halfway, he looked back at the road. Two figures, one in a red jacket, the other in a blue one, were turning onto the path. It was them, he thought. He could beat them; he knew he could.

  The top of the climb wasn't as easy as the bottom. More rocks and tree roots grabbed his tires and threw him into skids. It was narrower too, easier for Jamie, harder for the bulkier Kyle Bassett.

  They were shouting at each other, or maybe at him. When he reached the crest, Jamie didn't stop but pedaled downhill faster than ever in his life. The track snaked back and around boulders and clumps of trees. Parts were muddy from the recent rain, and Jamie skidded into a half-fall as he rounded the final curve before Grandpa's field.

  Jamie burst from the last copse of trees, startling his Grandpa's placid Holsteins, whose soft dark eyes stared at him as he barreled across the pasture. Now only the farmhouse field to go. He made it. He threw his bike to the ground and hurled himself through the green door into his grandmother's kitchen.

  "Jamie, what on earth?"

  The two other boys appeared from behind the trees, jumped off their bikes and stared at the house.

  "Were those boys chasing you, Jamie?"

  "Yes. I have to talk to Grandpa, Nan. I saw something I need to tell the police."

  "I'll talk to him."

  That was the nice thing about Nan; she never thought you were a silly kid.

  Jamie ran to the front window to watch his Nan walk out to the gate. Grandpa was talking to some guy in a truck. Oh, no, he thought. That's old man Bassett. Now, Nan looked mad, throwing her arms out and pointing behind the house. She's telling him his boys chased me. Now Grandpa was yelling and pointing the way out the gate.

  The truck wheels spun, sending up dirt. For a moment, Jamie couldn't see his grandparents, and then they walked like ghosts out of the dust.

  The screen door bounced off the wall as his grandfather pushed into the kitchen.

  "Jamie, what's going on? Bassett claims you took some picture from his sons."

  "No, I didn't. I drew it myself in art class. Mrs. Marion gave me a B. They want it because I saw their dad shove an old car into the lake yesterday and I drew it."

  Jamie's words tumbled over each other in his hurry to tell his story.

  "Let me see it."

  Jamie's grandfather was short, stocky and muscular and got red in the face when he was angry.

  "Where is this, Jamie?"

  "Grass Lake, at the bridge, where the deep hole is."

  "He pushed a car in?"

  "Yes."

  Jamie flushed too, right to the roots of his red hair.

  "I think we should call Lieutenant Davidson."

  "How do you know Lieutenant Davidson?"

  "He talked at our school."

  "Let's call your dad."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The news at the hospital wasn't good. Adam spoke to Anita Morris, the nurse in charge in the ICU. She described Trevelyan as "hanging on". They had reversed the effects of the heroin, but he still had a severe chest injury on top of his underlying lung disease. It might be weeks before he weaned off the respirator.

  "Can he talk?"

  "Of course not, Adam. He's intubated and sedated."

  "Let me know when he can at least manage yes and no."

  "Alright."

  She hung up, and Adam looked at the phone in surprise. He had known Anita most of their lives, and she wasn't usually that short with him. She must be anxious.

  "Boss?"

  "Yeah?"

  "What about this guy Bassett who had access to the kid's
backpack? Do you like him for the job?"

  "Not on his own. Someone who knows art set it up. But he may have done the library theft. See if you can place him that night."

  "Want me to go visit him?"

  "Not yet."

  The bells in the church opposite the courthouse were ringing one o'clock when Adam walked out of the courthouse and across the square to the travel agent's office. The agent, a woman called Janice Maynard, was new to town. Erin sat across from the woman, her short dark hair a contrast to Janice's flaming orange. Adam wondered what brought the agent o Culver's Mills. She'd fit in better in Oahu or Soho, with her orange hair and purple shirt.

  Big voice too, he thought, as she boomed at him across the room.

  "Adam, you made it. Come in. We have to decide if you want a big resort or a small hotel."

  "Hi.

  Adam shook hands with Janice.

  "Whatever Erin wants."

  "Adam, you have to be happy too," Erin said.

  "That's what I said, whatever you want."

  An hour later and after a quick lunch at Lil's, Adam walked back across the park to the courthouse. They decided on a bed and breakfast near a beach called Horseshoe Bay. One of the ten best beaches in the world, Janice assured them. He didn't care, as long as he had an uninterrupted week with Erin.

  At his grandfather's farm, Jamie tried to convince his grandfather they couldn't wait for his dad.

  "Grandpa, I saw him. I know I did. They know it too. I didn't tell the class who pushed in the car 'cause I didn't remember till I saw him, so they were chasing me cause they knew I saw him."

  Jamie paused for breath. His grandpa was stubborn, and if he decided Jamie was wrong, that was it. But Grandpa wasn't saying anything, just sitting and looking at the picture.

  They sat around the chrome and blue Arborite table waiting for Jamie's dad to come. Every few minutes, Jamie ran to the front window, not, as his grandparents thought, to look for his father, but to look for Bassett. Jamie was afraid he would come back. In his video-fuelled imagination, he saw Kyle (age eleven) with an AK-47 aimed at his grandfather.