Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Gary tasted the marinara sauce, added a little salt, and stirred it in. “You’re very quiet in there. What are you up to?” He put the lid on the saucepan and went into the living room.
Dan was seated at the dining table, on which Gary had placed the boxes they’d brought from Lori Dettweiler’s studio loft. Dan had already opened a couple of them. He glanced up as Gary approached.
“Are we allowed to have all this here? Aren’t there rules about chain of custody? Because this is all evidence, right?”
Gary hadn’t even considered that. “I’m not sure, with it being a cold case.” He’d check with Travers in the morning.
“There has to be something here that will help us.” Dan held up four floppy disks secured with an elastic band. “Like on these, maybe? Except where are we supposed to find a machine that can read them? In a museum?”
Gary laughed. “In the basement. I’ve got an old laptop with a floppy disk drive.”
“What powers it—steam?”
He snorted. “It’s only ten years old. I’ll bring it up, and you can check them out—after we’ve eaten.”
“Couldn’t you go get it now? That way I could make a start.”
It was the first time Dan had attempted puppy-dog eyes, and that was all it took for Gary to realize there was no way he’d ever win an argument again if Dan continued to employ such a powerful weapon.
Gary narrowed his gaze. “Okay, but I’m putting you in charge of the sauce.”
Dan smirked. “What’s it going to do—try and escape?”
Gary headed down to the communal basement. The landlord had constructed a series of lockable closets, one for each apartment, to be used for storage. It didn’t take Gary long to locate the laptop.
You’d better still work, he thought as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Dan was in the kitchen. He grinned. “You were right. By the time I came in here, the sauce had already pushed the lid off and was slurping its way across the countertop, heading for the window. I had to beat it into submission with a spoon.” His gaze alighted on Gary’s empty hands. “Couldn’t you find it?”
“Relax. It’s firing itself up as we speak. Except that might take a little time.”
“I’ll leave you to the sauce.” Dan dashed past him into the living room.
Gary shook his head and went back to following Nina’s recipe for meatballs in marinara.
He’d never made them before, and the addition of parmesan to the mixture of ground beef, herbs, and crushed garlic had been a surprise.
They’d tasted delicious when she cooked them, however, which was why he’d asked for the recipe.
They’d better taste as good as hers. He’d made sixty-four meatballs.
“Hey, it works,” Dan hollered from the dining table.
“Good.” Gary poured a little olive oil into the frying pan, then added ten meatballs, shaking the pan to coat them in the hot fat.
“Cheryl must have been a very organized person,” Dan called out after five minutes of silence.
“What makes you say that?” Gary inquired, pushing the meatballs around the pan to seal them before he dropped them into the saucepan.
“Each disk is for one work. It contains notes, photos of the original, close-up photos…. Plus there’s a folder with a photo of the finished piece, and a document containing the title of the original, the artist, date of completion of the copy, name of the purchaser, and the price charged.
” He whistled. “Wow. The senator wasn’t kidding when he said it was a more lucrative sideline than portraits. ”
When he fell silent, the hairs stood up on the back of Gary’s neck. “What have you found?”
“One of the buyers. It’s a name I’m starting to recognize.”
Gary put the lid back on and turned the heat down, then joined Dan at the table. “DiFanetti?” Dan nodded. “Which one? Gianni? Bruno?”
“Neither. This is a Paul DiFanetti.” Dan stared at him. “Just how big is this family?”
“We’ll look him up.” Dan grabbed his phone, and Gary gave him a hard stare. “I didn’t mean now. Dinnertime, remember?”
Dan peered at the phone. “I’m not looking for him. Just a hunch.” His thumbs slid over the screen. After a minute he looked up with a triumphant smile. “A painting of the same title sold in 1992 for thirty-six thousand dollars.”
“So?”
Dan bit his lip. “Look, it’s only a theory, but… what if he kept the original and sold the copy, claiming it was the real thing?”
“Didn’t Senator Cain say all her copies were unsigned?”
Dan nodded. “So let’s say he gets someone to forge the artist’s signature, then passes off the copy as the real thing.”
“Surely the buyer would have had the painting checked by experts before he bought it.”
Dan’s eyes glittered. “And of course no art expert would ever accept a bribe to declare something to be the genuine article. There’s another theory. What if the expert got to see the original, and once the sale had gone through, it was swapped for the copy?”
He had a point. “Okay, fine, it’s a theory, but where does it take us?”
“What if Cheryl discovered what Paul DiFanetti had done? What if she confronted him about it? I checked the date of the sale. It wasn’t long after that Cheryl went missing.
And listening to Lori Dettweiler, I got the impression Cheryl wouldn’t have been happy if she thought something fraudulent was going on. ”
Gary was sold. “We’ll go see Paul DiFanetti ASAP.” He went back to his saucepan and stirred its contents. “Can you move those boxes off the table, please? Dinner’s almost ready.” The pasta was al dente—any more cooking and it would coalesce into a lump.
Then he realized Dan had fallen silent again.
“You’ve found something else, haven’t you?”
“One of these copies was for Senator Cain.”
Gary frowned. “We saw it. The Vermeer, remember?”
“No, not that one.” A moment later Dan appeared in the doorway. “This was a painting of John the Baptist, by Caravaggio.” He held his phone up to show Gary the image. “Which was also sold at auction after completion.”
Gary turned the heat off under both pans. “I think we need to pay the Senator another visit.”
“And Paul DiFanetti?”
Gary knew which visit took priority. “He’s at the top of the list. The Senator can wait. First thing tomorrow, I’ll see if I can find an address.”
“No, look now. I’ll put the dinner out.”
Gary rolled his eyes. “It’s seven thirty. This is not something I can do from home, okay? I’d need to check public records, the county clerk’s office, local assessors, to make sure we have every known address for him. Then we’d have to call and make an appointment to see him—if he’ll see us.”
The prospect of visiting a member of the DiFanetti family filled him with a small amount of trepidation.
What are we walking into?
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
Gary stared at the house on Cliff Road. “I’m starting to get a weird feeling about this.
” Finding out Paul DiFanetti lived in Nantucket was one thing—Gary was getting used to all the coincidences involved with this case—but discovering he lived next door to the Brightmore family was one coincidence too many.
“I can’t really see Mr. Brightmore conversing over the fence with a guy who moves in DiFanetti’s circles, can you?” Dan offered. “My parents have never spoken once to one set of their neighbors, and they’ve lived in that house since before I was born.”
“Even if Roland Brightmore and Paul DiFanetti are a similar age?” Paul was seventy-four years old, and Bruno’s younger brother.
“It still doesn’t mean they’re best buddies.” He peered at Gary. “What are you thinking?”
“That Paul DiFanetti could possibly be the avenging angel Brightmore spoke of. Who better to bump off Cheryl than someone with DiFanetti’s connections?”
“Okay, maybe.” Dan touched his arm. “But we’re not going to learn anything standing out here on the street, are we? And he has agreed to see us.” He stilled. “You’re nervous.”
“You bet I’m nervous. Because if even a quarter of the stuff I’ve heard about this family is true, this is someone I really don’t want to cross swords with.”
“Which is why you made sure Travers knew we were coming here.” Dan inclined his head toward the front door. “So let’s see what he can tell us.”
Gary took a deep breath and opened the white gate, only to be stopped by Dan’s hand on his arm.
“I don’t care who this man is,” Dan murmured. “He isn’t above the law, and you are the law. So stir him up if you have to. We might learn more that way.”
Gary chuckled. “The first time I met you, I thought you were a nondescript kind of guy. I’m only now learning what remarkable camouflage you have.”
Dan smiled. “I’ve lived through two murder suspects trying to kill me. It does tend to make you think ‘Fuck it.’”
Gary liked this new Dan more and more.
They walked along the path to the house.
The housekeeper welcomed them and then led them to the yard where Mr. DiFanetti sat on a couch on a deck, an open book in his lap, a Panama hat perched on his head, its brim providing shade.
He seemed relaxed, an elderly man enjoying the sun, retirement.
Someone’s grandfather or great-grandfather.
Then he raised his head to look in their direction, and all such thoughts fled at the sight of narrowed gray eyes—cold eyes—thin lips pressed together in a firm line, heavy jowls.
It was not a kind face.
“You’re the detective who phoned yesterday?” His voice was husky, as rough as a blunt saw driving its way through wood.
“Yes, sir. Detective Gary Mitchell. This is Mr. Dan Porter.”
Mr. DiFanetti picked up the bookmark that lay on the table beside him, marked his place, closed the book, and set it aside. He waved his hand toward the two patio chairs facing the couch.
Gary figured that was all the invitation they’d get.
He walked over to the chairs and sat, Dan taking the other. Before Gary could get to the purpose of their visit, Mr. DiFanetti cleared his throat.
“I agreed to see you out of sheer curiosity. You said on the phone this was something to do with a cold case. I’m familiar with the term—I do watch television—but I fail to see how such a case could have anything to do with me.”