Several seconds later he released me, and within a minute we were inside the decrepit building. From the moment we entered the place I was overcome by two things: a sensation of sheer exhilaration and the overwhelming smell of a dingy, stuffy old house. I sheathed my nose with my hand and looked around. Papers were scattered across the floor, paintings had been overturned, and the desk in the corner of the room had been deprived of its three pull-out drawers.
The place had been ransacked—and I guessed on more than one occasion. Just the sight of the destruction filled me with sadness, and I thought about what it must have been like back in its heyday when it was filled with the hopes and dreams of aspiring young artists who lined the halls with their work.
Giovanni reached down and scooped up a pile of papers. “The old woman was right,” he said. “There was a Laurel here at one time.”
He handed the stack of papers over to me. The one on top of the pile looked like an enrollment agreement for one of the students, and at the bottom of the page was a box with typed letters that said administrator and above it a signature that read Laurel Reids.
I set the papers on top of a thick layer of dust that had collected on the desk and scavenged around to see what else I could find. In the next room stacked against the wall, I noticed a row of several easels and a few wooden chairs. A few paintings remained, but they were ruined and haphazardly thrown to the floor. One rested with the painted side down. I scooped it up and turned it over, but it was too dirty to make out the picture at first. I brushed it off with the palm of my hand and then wiped my hands on my jeans. It wasn’t the most sanitary thing to do, but it was my only option. The oil painting was of a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time. Her dark bangs felt in a loose manner along her forehead and into her eyes, but not so much that I couldn’t see them. She looked so young and innocent, but her eyes didn’t tell the story of a child filled with happiness, they reflected something else—a sadness of some kind, and I imagined tears welled up in those enormous brown eyes of hers.
I rubbed the bottom of the corner of the picture with my thumb and read the signature of the artist: L. Reids.
From the other end of the room Giovanni shouted that he’d found a cabinet housed with supplies.
“Come take a look at this,” he said.
I made my way over to him and pulled the cabinet door back until it was all the way open. There, on the second shelf in the center of the cabinet, was a wire basket and inside, a ream of white parchment paper. I pulled the basket toward me and lifted up the paper and took a look at it, and then I noticed another type of paper on the bottom of the stack. It was pink.
CHAPTER 42
“What would you like to do now?” Giovanni said.
I shrugged and looked at the pink paper I’d taken from the art house.
“I suppose we need to let your brother know about this.”
He nodded.
“That would be wise.”
“I’d like to have some time first before I make the call—I want to dig around a little bit on the internet and see what I can find. I’m sure your brother wishes I wasn’t involved in this, but I am, and this is the only way I can stay a step ahead of everyone. Otherwise, they would leave me out, I’m sure of it.”
“No need to explain,” he said. “I understand.”
Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t perfect?
We stopped by my place so I could grab my laptop and some clothes and then drove back to Giovanni’s place for dinner.
My internet search proved profitable, and with a few keywords I was able to find some additional information on Laurel Reids. Ms. Reids was the wife of a wealthy oil tycoon by the name of Decklan Reids, until she bailed on their relationship. She left behind not only a thriving art institute, but her husband and son, and just like the old woman said earlier, I found no indication that she ever returned. I wondered why.
From what I could tell, Decklan Reids stayed in the area and still lived in the same house in Park Meadows. I jotted down the address. I wasn’t sure where all of this would lead, but something stirred inside me that had been unmoved since Gabrielle’s death, and I felt my whole body burn in unison at the prospect of one thing: achieving my goal.
After an unforgettable dinner with Giovanni and his sister which included Lord Berkeley eating out of a marble dog bowl that seemed to be purchased just for the occasion, I set out to see whether Decklan Reids still occupied the house on 3873 Pinedale Street. A part of me wanted to go it alone. I did my best PI work in solitary, but I knew even a person like Giovanni couldn’t grant me that, even with all the leniency I’d already been given.
The lights were on when we arrived at Decklan Reids’ house. We approached the front door and knocked. A thin woman with short white curly hair in a crisp sundress with an apron over the top that was tied in a bow opened the door.
“Can I help you?”
“Is this the home of Decklan Reids?” I said.
“It is.”
“I hoped I could speak with him,” I said. “Is he here?”
She wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Just a moment. Let me see if he is available.”
She left us at the doorway and a minute later a man arrived at the door. He was taller than most men I’d met and had the body of a runner. His hair was grey and it blended well with his sleek frame. He glanced at me and then Giovanni but did not speak—he just stood there, like he waited for one of us to say something first. So I did.
“Mr. Reids, I hoped I could speak to you for a moment.”
“About?”
“Can we come in? I’d rather discuss it inside if you don’t mind,” I said.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
I brandished my card and gave it to him.
He held it about four inches away from his face and squashed his eyes together while he gazed at it.
“What are you investigating?”
Giovanni and I exchanged glances. I didn’t want to blurt out that I was investigating the Sinnerman murders, but I had to compel him enough to let me through the front door.
“I’m looking for Laurel Reids. I believe she was your wife,” I said.
“Ex-wife.”
“I’m sorry, yes. That’s what I meant.”
“That was a long time ago. And I can’t see what use I would be. Why?”
“One of her art students is trying to reach her,” I said.
Oh what a tangled web we weave.
“After so long?”
I nodded.
“Any help you can give us would be appreciated.”
He pondered it for a bit and then backed away a few steps.
“Come in.”
We followed him through the parlor and into the living room. It was decorated in rich tones of navy blue and tan with deep brown accents. My first impression was that the guy was still a bachelor. The furniture was rustic and reminded me of something I would see in a log cabin. In the center of the room a knotty log hearth was placed over an unlit fire and above it on the wall was the biggest moose head I’d ever seen in my life.
Decklan beamed and said to Giovanni, “Shot that one myself.” Giovanni didn’t seem the least bit interested, but he nodded and smiled.
“It’s umm…”
For once he couldn’t think of what to say and looked to me for some words of encouragement.
“Do you hunt often?” I said.
“Every chance I get. Been on every continent and hunted everything from elephants to javelinas. Care to see my trophy room?”