That included tying Pimentel to Eddie’s disappearance, which seemed to Landon to be a strong probability. Along with Eddie himself, his laptop was missing. Both Eddie’s cell phones last pinged by Knotter Marina—around the time his pontoon exploded from the IED. The lack of communication from his previously dependable CHS was disturbing to Landon, to say the least. He considered that Eddie could have been kidnapped and was being held captive somewhere while being forced to reveal what he had shared with the FBI. Raquelle’s brother could also be injured and unable to communicate— assuming he was still alive.
Landon kept all possibilities on the table, in spite of fearing that Eddie was in a place where there was no coming back from—leaving Raquelle to deal with the aftermath.
Arriving at his destination, Landon parked and went inside the art gallery. Impressive in size, it featured various collections and exhibits of artistic expression, both historical and contemporary, for collectors and visitors alike.How many of the works were forgeries or stolen art?he wondered, beyond those that the Art Crime Team had already established, as he walked around.
When Landon approached two men standing near adisplay of fine art, he recognized one as Ivan Pimentel. Tall and trim, he was wearing a tailored gray wool suit and black cap toe Oxford shoes. The other man, one of Pimentel’s cronies—or someone employed to do his dirty work—was Yusef Abercrombie. Known to the Bureau with a criminal record, he was younger than Pimentel and of similar height, in his mid-thirties, and paunchier, with dark hair in a hipster cut and low fade. He had a full beard.
They stopped talking as Landon walked up to them. Pimentel looked at him with blue eyes and asked evenly, “Can I help you?”
Landon met his gaze and said, pretending to be clueless, “I’m looking for the owner of the art gallery.”
“You found him,” he said. “I’m Ivan Pimentel.”
Whipping out identification from a pocket of his wool blend blazer, Landon said measuredly, “FBI Special Agent Briscoe.” He watched as both men reacted to this ill at ease. “I’d like to ask you some questions pertaining to an investigation,” Landon told Pimentel.
He looked at his associate and said commandingly, “Give us a moment.”
Abercrombie seemed reluctant to leave but acquiesced to his directive, glaring at Landon before he left them alone.
Pimentel recovered from his unease. With a thick eyebrow cocked, he peered at Landon and asked, as if oblivious, “What’s this investigation about, Agent Briscoe?”
More than I care to fully elaborate on for obvious reasons, Landon told himself. “We’re looking into a boat explosion at the Knotter Marina. The pontoon belonged to an art dealer named Eddie Jernigan. He’s missing.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Pimentel rubbed his aquiline nose. “What does it have to do with me?”
“Nothing, I’m sure,” Landon lied, but he had to play this the right way for now. “As a routine part of the investigation, we’re talking to anyone who Jernigan was associated with—personally and professionally—and might have information on his whereabouts. Or even the boat explosion. That brings me to you as someone we’ve discovered Jernigan has worked with in buying and selling Native American works of art.”
“I’ve done business with Eddie,” Pimentel conceded. “But I know nothing about his boat exploding—or what may have happened to him.”
“Too bad.” Landon made a face. “As I said, this is standard stuff. If you happen to hear anything about Jernigan’s disappearance, let me know.” To that end, he took out a card with the appropriate professional contact info for an FBI agent and handed it to Pimentel.
“I’ll do that,” he promised, glancing at the card and back.
Landon nodded and walked away.I was afraid Pimentel would go into denial mode, he told himself while leaving the art gallery. Not that he bought it. Far from it. Pimentel had everything to lose by coming clean about his knowledge of both the bombing of Eddie’s pontoon and his mysterious vanishing—including the collapse of Pimentel’s criminal enterprise—and everything to gain by lying. At least he was being put on notice while they waited to see what his next move was as the search continued for Eddie. Along with the plan to put an end to Pimentel’s art criminality.
IVANPIMENTEL WATCHEDand waited for the FBI special agent to leave, while thinking that the feds were likely onto him and his profitable business of selling genuine and counterfeit artwork, both in the US and abroad. If so, this was thanks in large part of their reliance on Eddie Jernigan. He had trusted Eddie as a reputable and reliable art dealer, helping to facilitate deals worldwide.
Instead, it turned out that the man was a stool pigeon for the feds, passing along info to the FBI that Ivan had no doubt they intended to use against him. But he had been smart enough to limit his exposure, knowing that revealing too much to too many was foolish. Not to mention risky for his own self-interest. That included staying out of prison.
He had removed many of the illicit paintings and artifacts from his galleries and exhibitions—before the feds could confiscate them—and laundered more money to hide from the authorities. Beyond that, he had relied more on private buyers with a stake in the game for financial gain. People who wouldn’t be inclined to cooperate with the authorities and spill the beans to their mutual benefit. As well as detriment.
Still, Eddie knew just enough to make him a liability. Ivan was not about to allow the snitch to derail his operation. As far as he was concerned, Eddie was a ticking time bomb, in spite of having apparently survived the boat explosion that was supposed to have him on it as a reward for his betrayal.
Or had he? There was still no sign of Eddie Jernigan. Even the feds and locals had failed to locate the art dealer, though not from lack of trying. This left Ivan to believe that the man hired to kill Jernigan may well have succeeded,but was still holding out. Perhaps to use him as a bargaining chip to extract more money for his services. If so, Ivan would not have it. A deal was a deal. Anything else was pure greed and disloyalty that would need to be dealt with accordingly.
Ivan motioned for Yusef Abercrombie, his right-hand man—who had stayed close by as the FBI special agent asked questions—to return to him, after stepping further away from potentially listening ears of gallery visitors.
Yusef pursed his lips and asked, “What did he want?”
Ivan responded tartly, “To find out if I knew anything about Jernigan’s boat blowing up like it did—or Eddie’s apparent disappearance.”
“And you told the FBI agent?”
“What do you think I told him?” His nostrils flared. “Absolutely nothing.”
Yusef looked relieved. “Good.”
“Doesn’t mean he bought any of it,” Ivan argued. “Aside from that, you need to find out from the bomber what the status is of the FBI’s CI. If Jernigan’s still alive, it had better be just a temporary reprieve. Otherwise, there will be hell to pay—for more people than one,” he warned him in no uncertain terms. Yusef’s facial expression made it clear to Ivan that he got the message, loud and clear.
