“Yes. I think the dogs are going to make a huge difference.” He took another gulp of the coffee and then blew out a breath. “They tracked down the driver of the Mercedes. Linc called to tell me that too.”
“No kidding? Did they talk to him?”
“Yes. His name is Gerald Atkinson. Said he was just asking our guy in the garage for directions. He’d never seen him before.”
“Linc believed him?”
“No reason not to.”
“What did his background check say?”
He smiled. “Don’t miss a trick, do you?” She raised a brow and Blake said, “He checked out clean. Worked an IT gig for ten years before he jumped ship and started his own software company. His net worth is staggering, but there’s nothing about him that sets off any need-to-investigate alarms.”
She frowned. “Great.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately. So . . . are you ready to do this?”
“Ready when you are.”
Together, they walked into the shop that had just opened ten minutes earlier and Blake pulled his picture out of his pocket. Five minutes later, they walked back out with a negative on anyone recognizing the man in the picture. “How’s Jo?” she asked.
“Doing okay. I talked to her this morning. She’s got a cracked rib and some real sore muscles, but she’s going to be okay. Better than taking a bullet in the flesh.”
“Absolutely.”
A long hour later, Blake pulled the picture of their “art man” out of his pocket. “How many times have we shown this picture to someone? Five hundred?”
“Probably only ten or twelve times.”
“Right.” But with each negative reaction to the photo, his hopes dropped lower and lower. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is good old-fashioned police work, my friend.”
He grimaced. “I know. I spent my time walking a beat for a couple of years before transferring to the marshals.”
“You did? I didn’t know that.”
“Yep. Why? You respect me more now?”
Chloe stopped, looked him in the eye. “I have tons of respect for you, Blake. For a lot of reasons.”
He lifted a hand and brushed a few stray hairs from her eyes. What did that mean? He almost asked, but needed to focus. Clearing his throat, he nodded. “Thanks.”
“So, what’s next?”
“Anyone who’ll say yes, that they recognize this guy. I’m tired of nos.”
“I understand.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. He couldn’t tell her how much her support meant to him.
“Well, I don’t. He had to get his supplies from somewhere.”
“Could have ordered them online and had them shipped.”
He grunted. “True.”
Chloe had decided they needed to question not only high-end art shops, but any place that looked like it might carry a painting, oils, or a drawing pencil.
He glanced at the list. “A museum? Really?”
“You don’t like museums?”
“I mean, sure, they’re fine. I’m just not into it like some people, I guess.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, if someone is into art, they’re into museums. And besides, there’s an art gallery in the back.”
True. “Fine, let’s check it out.”
“10:15. It just opened.”
“Awesome. We’ll beat the rush.”
He pulled open the door and let her precede him. Blake didn’t like doing it, but he’d asked for a personal day. Chloe already had the day off and had agreed to spend it with him pounding the streets to see if they could ferret out at least one lead that would help them find Rachel.
Or a human trafficker or two.
Chloe plucked the picture from his fingers and walked up to the information desk with Hank padding along next to her. “Hi, I’m Officer Chloe St. John. We’re looking for a guy who may have some information on a case we’re investigating. Do you know him?” She slid the photo in front of the well-dressed young man who was probably in his midthirties. He wore black pants with a white shirt and had the cuffs rolled to just above his wrists.
He glanced at the picture and lifted a brow. “It’s not a very good likeness, but it could be Ethan.”
Blake actually jerked, he was so surprised to hear the man say something besides “I’ve never seen him before.” He cleared his throat. “Ethan? Does he have a last name?”
“Of course. Ethan Wright. If it’s him,” he squinted, “and I think it is. We have a rather large gallery in the back and he’s one of our bestselling artists.”
“Great,” Chloe said. “Do you know where we can find him? Do you have his contact information?”
“I can’t give that out. You’ll have to talk to the gallery director. He’s often in touch with Ethan, though.”
“That’ll be fine. Where can I find him?”
“Let me call him for you.”
He picked up the phone and relayed the message. While they waited, Chloe wandered over to the display showing Ethan Wright’s work. Boats on the water. The beach at sunset. A couple watching the sunrise while the waves washed over their feet. She had to admit, his paintings were gorgeous. “They’re so lifelike. Almost like if I reach out and touch the water, my hand will get wet.”
“That’s why his work is selling so well.”
She turned to see a man in his midsixties walking toward them, hand outstretched. When he smiled, he reminded Chloe of Bruce, the shark in the Disney movie, with his pearly whites and gleaming eyes. A predator all the way. “Neal,” he said, “could you please help the delivery guys unload in the back? They’re waiting.”
Neal rolled his eyes. “Mr. Barlow would never have me do such a mundane task.”
“Well, Mr. Barlow isn’t here, is he?”
“No, he isn’t. More’s the pity,” he muttered. But he rose and opened a drawer. Keys in hand, he disappeared down the hall, his steps quick and sure, yet silent on the tile floor.
“Sorry about that,” the older man said. “I’ve been here for eight months, you would think I would have won over the staff by now. Unfortunately, Neal is pretty much my staff and I suppose he’s still grieving poor Mr. Barlow’s death.”
“His death?”
“Car accident. Now, I’m Bryce Fleming, how can I help you?” He turned on a wide, toothy smile.
Chloe choked, then went into a coughing spasm. Blake slapped her on the back. “Chloe? You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I just swallowed wrong.” She couldn’t help the strangled sound to her words, but Bryce? One letter away from Bruce? She swallowed another giggle. She was either losing it or punchy from lack of sleep. Probably both. She needed to get it together.
Blake raised a brow at her before turning back to the director. “We need to find Ethan Wright. Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”
“Oh yes, Ethan. An amazing young man. From teacher to one of our bestselling local artists. While he’s not yet well-known outside of our gallery or on a national level, I guarantee he soon will be.”
“His work is going to be featured in this auction?” Blake asked. He pointed to the flyer taped to the welcome desk.
“Yes indeed.”
“Good for him. Could you tell us how to find him?”
The man sighed and clasped his hands in front of his chest. “Alas, I wish I could help you, but unless I have permission to give out the contact information of our artists, I simply can’t do it. I would never violate the trust that’s been placed in me. I do hope you understand.”
“And you do understand that we’re cops, right?” Blake said. “We’re not the general public or a fan who wishes to meet his favorite artist.”
“Of course, of course.” He frowned and his forehead creased in distress. “But it’s just our policy. No matter who’s asking.”
“I guess I can always ask with a warrant.” Blake’s scowl would probably give most people nightmares. Mr. Fleming didn’t even blink.
“By all means,” he said, “please get the warrant if you feel it’s necessary.”
Chloe placed a hand on Blake’s arm to hold him back. “That’s fine. We certainly wouldn’t want you to betray anyone’s trust and we won’t need the warrant. We have his name and probably won’t have any trouble finding him. It’s kind of what we do. Thank you for coming out to speak with us.”
“Absolutely.” His smile actually warmed a little.
Chloe dug a card out of her pocket. “But since you know how to contact him, do you mind passing a message on to him?”