CHAPTER TWENTY
Numbers didn't lie, but the internet sure as hell could. Ella stared at her laptop screen and fought the urge to put her fist through it. The Curated Value Group existed in that shadowy space between legitimate business and digital ghost - no website, no social media presence, not a single human name or photo to prove real people ran this show. Just a P.O. box address and a phone number that kept going straight to voicemail.
Ella dug deeper; scraped trade publications, collector forums, digital back alleys where deals got made. The CVG left traces there, faint as they were - a booth at an antiques show in Baltimore three years back, a classified ad in some niche magazine for wealthy hoarders. One article mentioned the firm's involvement with the now-defunct St. Andrews Museum of Medical History. Apparently, the museum's entire macabre collection was slated to be cataloged and auctioned by Blackburn's company, but the deal crumbled years ago due to thorny legal battles over provenance and ownership rights.
‘Got anything?’ Luca asked from across the desk.
Ella rubbed her temples. ‘Not much. State registration shows they're legit - incorporated five years ago under Vanessa Blackburn's name. Former antiques dealer turned professional appraiser. There's a brief mention of her involvement with the St. Andrews debacle, but no details on what went wrong. Beyond that? Radio silence. Even the business address is registered in Maryland.’
‘How does a company handling millions in rare collectibles stay this far under the radar?’
‘Same way high-end art dealers do. When your clients are dropping serious cash on obsessions they'd rather keep quiet, discretion becomes your brand.’
Ella's mind snagged on the museum article again. What kind of 'legal issues' could derail the auction of a medical history collection? And why would a company like CVG get involved in the first place?
She grabbed her phone and tried the number again. She switched it to loudspeaker.
One ring. Two rings.
‘Come on. Someone answer.’
‘Maybe they’re finished for the holidays,’ said Luca.
‘It’s only the first week of December.’
‘Not everyone has our work ethic.’
Then, the dial tone stopped for a second before resuming with a different cadence.
More ringing. Luca raised an eyebrow. She flashed him a wait-for-it hand.
Click. A live human. Female. ‘Curated Value Group, how may I direct your call?’
Finally. Ella flipped her badge at the phone like the woman could see it. ‘Special Agent Dark, FBI. I need to speak with Vanessa Blackburn.’
Crisp rustling of paper. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Not yet.’ She kept her tone just south of friendly. Miss Blackburn and I need to talk immediately.’
‘I'm sorry, but Miss Blackburn is tied up.’ The receptionist had a tone like sour ice cream. Ella would bet her pension this woman filed her nails to points. ‘If you'd like to schedule-’
‘Well, untie her. Tell her to cancel the rest of her day while you're at it.’
Pointed silence crackled over the line. Ella let it stretch; gave the receptionist time to picture the cavalry about to trample her appointment book. Sometimes imagination did the heavy lifting.
Finally, a tight sigh - the verbal equivalent of clutching pearls. ‘One moment please.’
Muzak oozed through the speaker. Somewhere in that office sat files on Eleanor Calloway and Alfred Finch. Somewhere in those records, their killer had found his victims.
Luca perched on the desk edge, watching her with that half-smirk that said he knew exactly which buttons she was pushing. She covered the mouthpiece.
Luca said, ‘At least we know Vanessa is in the office.’
‘Catch more flies with battery acid than honey.’
‘Amen.’ He held up his fist for a bump just as the line clicked.
The line clicked. ‘Miss Blackburn can see you at eleven.’
‘Wonderful.’ Ella checked her watch - 10:15. ‘What’s your address?’
‘1542 Newbridge Avenue. We’re on the second floor.’
‘We'll be there in fifteen.’ She clicked off before the receptionist could muster a snippy goodbye. Luca was already grabbing his coat, reading her momentum like always.
‘Nicely done,’ he said.
‘Come on, Hawkins. Time to see how the other half lives.’
‘The collecting half or the appraising half?’
‘Either is fine with me.’ She scooped up keys and badges with one hand and her cell with the other. A few swipes pulled up a map - the CVG's bolthole was nestled in a corner of the historic district, where money got old and built mansions to match. ‘Let's see what an antiques appraiser with an elusive web presence has to say for herself.’
They headed for the car under a sky that promised yet more rain. Ella's gut churned with that familiar tension - the moment before pieces started falling into place or everything went sideways. Sometimes both.
Either way, someone was going to start talking. And Ella had a feeling Vanessa Blackburn knew something about why collectors in Chesapeake were suddenly joining their own collections.