Blake sat at his desk searching for and pulling every scrap of information he could find on Alessandro Russo, Van Stillman, and Ethan Wright. Probably a futile endeavor, but he was convinced he must have missed something that could help him. His phone buzzed and he read Chloe’s text. “Party yacht, huh?” he muttered. Then typed back a text to Chloe.
I’ll ask him about that when he gets here to identify the body.
Here’s another picture. That nice Mercedes from the hospital parking garage is here. I think. Check the plates and see if it’s the same, will you?
Will do.
He entered the information and had an answer within seconds.
It’s the same.
Could be coincidence.
Could be. Want to get some lunch later?
Sure. Text me when you’re ready.
As his thoughts centered on Chloe, his attention moved from the case for just a brief moment to the huge influence the St. John family had had on him. With his abusive father and strung-out mother, he’d had a pretty dim view of marriage and family. Then Linc had wound up his best friend in seventh grade and taken him under his wing—and into his home.
A knock on the door brought his head up and his thoughts back to the case. He raised a brow when he saw Rachel’s swim coach standing there. “Hi, Roger, what’s up?” He kept his tone light, but dread filled him even as he scrambled for what to say to the man that wouldn’t be a complete lie and wouldn’t put Rachel at risk.
“All right if I sit down?”
“Of course.”
Roger made himself comfortable in the older arm chair that faced Blake’s desk. “I’m concerned about Rachel.”
“I know. She’s missed a few practices.”
“Yes.” He rubbed a hand down his cheek. “Blake, she’s my best swimmer. Actually, she’s the best I’ve ever coached in my twenty-two years. I never would have expected this from her, but if she doesn’t have a good explanation for skipping practice, then I’m going to have to cut her from the team. And I really don’t want to do that.”
Blake sat for a moment trying to decide what to say. He finally nodded. “Look, Rachel is having some personal issues right now. I can’t divulge any more than that. All I can say is that she loves being on your team just about more than anything, but is physically unable to participate right now.”
Roger’s brows dipped. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me and let me know?”
“I was hoping the situation would be resolved by now. But it’s not and to be honest, I’m not sure how much longer it’s going to take.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Blake met the man’s gaze. “Don’t kick her off the team.”
With a sigh, Roger leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “I won’t for as long as administration will let me get away with it.” He paused. “You can’t give me any more information that I can use to fight back with should they tell me I have no choice but to kick her off?”
“Let’s just say that her safety hinges on me keeping her location quiet.”
Sharp blue eyes studied him. “This have something to do with your job?”
“I can’t say,” Blake said. He kept his gaze steady on the coach’s.
The man paled a shade and he swallowed. “Someone’s threatened you. Or her,” he said softly. “You’ve got her in hiding?”
It was a good guess. One that he’d let the man go with since Blake had deliberately steered him in that direction. “Like I said, I can’t say anything else. Just that this is out of Rachel’s hands, and if she could be at practice, she would.”
“I can’t believe this. First Lindsey and now Rachel. What’s happening in this world?” It was a hypothetical question and Blake didn’t bother to try and answer. Clearing his throat, Roger stood. “I’ll be praying for her.”
“Thank you. We’ll take the prayers. And I would appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself. If you absolutely have to share it with the principal, then you have my blessing. I’ve been fielding their calls about her absences but am going to have to offer an explanation before long. I’ve known you a while and I know you can keep your mouth shut. The principal at the high school is new this year. Can he keep it quiet?”
“Yes. Absolutely. We all think the world of him.”
“Then I’ll leave that in your hands.”
The coach shook his head. “All right. Let me know something when you can.”
“I will.”
He paused. “Wow.” Then left the office.
Blake shut his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered aloud. “Wow.”
Chloe wandered through the multitude of rooms, noting that Ethan Wright had at least one painting on every wall. When she came to a closed door, she tried the handle and was surprised when it opened. She stepped through and let the door click shut behind her.
No heat blew through the vents in the floor, leaving the room chilled. A shiver wracked her even as her eyes traveled the room. They stopped on the wall opposite her. Smaller paintings, all the same size, covered the space.
Upon closer inspection, she made out that there were twenty-six total, each with a number in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame. “Huh.” Maybe this was just a new way of doing things in art museums. It wasn’t like she was an expert or anything. But it was strange that they were back in this room, shut off from everything else. What did it mean?
She downloaded the app and stood there a few moments, figuring out how it worked. Thankfully, it was simple and well organized. Each artist had his or her own page with a picture of their works. One simply had to tap on the picture to get information and place a bid. Chloe went to Ethan Wright’s page and scrolled through his work.
But the paintings in front of her never showed up.
Maybe she could just ask.
Then again—
“What are you doing in here?”
She spun to see Bruce—Bryce—standing in the doorway. “Oh, hi. I thought this was a part of the show. The door was open.”
“Well, it’s not. This is a restricted area.”
Tension threaded through his words and Chloe raised a brow. “I see. I’m sorry. Could I ask you a couple of questions, though?”
“Ma’am, I have a show and an auction to conduct. Can’t your questions wait?”
Chloe lasered him with her best official look. “And I have a murder to solve. I’d really appreciate your cooperation.”
“Very well. Ask away.”
“Why are these paintings back here and what do the numbers represent?”
“They’re back here because they’re not for sale.” He cleared his throat. “And the numbers . . . uh . . . represent the order each was painted in, I believe.” He flushed. “I hate to admit that I’m not sure.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t believe the mess I inherited.”
“So, is that why they don’t come up on your handy little app here?” She waved the phone at him.
“Exactly. Well, because they’re not for sale. I’ve never been told why and I’ve been so busy trying to get everything organized that this room has been low on my priority list.”
“Interesting.” She walked toward him. “So, Ethan spent a lot of time in Charleston. Do you know what he was doing there?”
“Spending time with family is what he told me. And painting.” He swept a hand to the wall. “Doing a lot of painting as you can see. Now, please—” He motioned her to the door.
Chloe nodded. “Are you aware that we’ve connected Ethan to a human trafficking ring?”
He blanched. “A what? No. Absolutely not. He would never involve himself in something so awful.”
“Well, unfortunately, the evidence shows that he did. Do you have the names of any of his contacts? Friends? Fellow artists?”
“I do not. Ethan and I weren’t exactly close. He was a very talented artist—and the only portion of the deal that I was actually glad to have inherited. And now that he’s gone, I’m going to have to find someone to replace him. If you find who killed him, I hope you put him away for a very long time.”