“No red flags?” Fiona asked.
“Nope.” The first of the three artists with a key card was a different story. “Here we go.” I sat up straighter. “One arrest for drunk and disorderly behavior, another for assault during a bar fight, and a D.U.I.” I checked the photograph. The guy was in his late forties or early fifties with gray facial hair and deep-set eyes. “Andrew Garnet. Heard of him?”
“He paints abstracts,” she said. “Mostly in shades of red and black. He’s talented, but there’s something disturbing about his work. I wouldn’t like to be inside his mind.”
I noted his name on a piece of paper. He might be worth questioning, although being a violent drunk was a far cry from stealing a priceless painting. I opened the next artist’s background check.
“Huh. This guy was charged with possession of a controlled substance and intent to distribute.” I found his name. “Sam Robbins. Ring any bells?”
She shook her head. “No, sorry.”
I looked at Sam’s headshot. He was younger, perhaps in his late twenties, and his cheekbones were hollow, his face gaunt.
“I thought artists were goody-two-shoes,” I said. “You know, all classy and highbrow. Isn’t that how art is portrayed?”
Fiona laughed, and my heart lifted at the sound. She’d been too withdrawn today. “Most of them aren’t squeaky clean. I’m sure some are, but for many, their angst fuels their work. They draw inspiration from everything they’ve been through.”
I frowned, noticing that she’d referred to artists as “them” and “they.” I’d been under the impression she was something of an artist herself, but the way she was speaking didn’t support that theory.
“Aren’t you an artist?” I asked.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Not like these guys. So, who’s the last one?”
I glanced at the final name. “Sandra Michaels.” I raised an eyebrow. “She’s clean as a whistle.”
Sandra Michaels appeared to be an older woman who’d behaved herself for her whole life.
“So, what next?” Fiona asked.
I drummed my fingers on the desk. “We talk to the staff in person. Unless you have a better idea?”
“Unfortunately not.”
I nodded. “We’ll start with Sam and Andrew since they might have substance abuse problems, which can cause people to make poor decisions, then move on to the others. We can’t do that tonight though.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“It’s too late for us to reach out. We’re not the police. People aren’t obligated to talk to us, so if we barge in there at this time of night, they’re unlikely to tell us anything.”
She grimaced. “I guess that’s a fair point.”
I grinned. “Can I get that in writing? ‘Zeke was right.’”
“No.” Her lips pressed together. “You’ll never hear it again.”
“Ah well, worth a shot.”
She rolled her eyes. “What about Bergen? Shouldn’t we be looking into him?”
I crossed my arms. “Do you know where he lives?”
“No,” she admitted.
“I’ll see if I can find him in the DMV register and we can go from there. Again, even if we get his address, turning up now won’t do us any favors. We need to be more strategic.”
I could see that she wanted to argue, but she kept her mouth shut. Technically, I shouldn’t have access to the DMV records, but I didn’t let that stop me. I ran a search and found our guy. Fiona leaned forward and I quickly minimized out of the tab, afraid that if she saw his address, she’d take it upon herself to pay him a visit. I searched for, and wrote down, addresses for the other people we wanted to check out, and by the time Fiona and I had made our action list for tomorrow, the office outside was dim and everyone had left.
“Let me take you home,” I said. She’d already missed the train she usually took. Not that I was a stalker who knew her schedule.
