Cursed

Zack’s fingers fly across the keyboard, and his computer comes alive. “I’m all hooked up.”

I leave Zack fiddling with his computer and settle in to review the printout of Amy’s appointment calendar. From the way it’s laid out, Amy spent most days doing what she loved, painting. From time to time she’d have a personal appointment in the afternoon. On occasion she’d spend an hour or two meeting with someone at the gallery. Thanks to Haskell’s meticulous notes, we have not only a record of who Amy met with, but a summary of the meeting and what, if any, follow-up was needed. Haskell also added an addendum if a commission was accepted that specified details of the contract such as price to be paid, deadlines, and when that contract was filed.

I whistle softly.

Zack looks up. “What?”

“You should see what Amy gets paid for some of her paintings. Twenty, twenty-five thousand. Apiece.”

“Told you she was good,” Zack says. “And she’s just getting started.”

I meet Zack’s eyes. “I just remembered something. A case I read about a few years back. An up-and- coming artist was murdered. The killer did it to increase the value of his own collection.”

“Can’t rule anything out. I’m thinking if that was the motive, though, we’d have found a body.” He turns back to his computer. “The PD stored copies of Patterson’s hard drives. I’ve got her emails, browsing history, years’ worth of documents.” He strikes a few more keys. “And here are the financials on Amy, Haskell, and the gallery.”

“That was fast.”

He talks as he scrolls. “The gallery looks to be turning a nice profit. No red flags. Taxes collected and paid. Amy paid cash for her condo and a bundle to have the second unit converted for the studio. Otherwise, she lives pretty simply. There are some statements for a few personal investments, an IRA with a very nice balance, a smaller rainy-day savings account. Nothing unusual or out of proportion to what she’s bringing in from her artwork. Haskell’s accounts are healthy, but again, not out of proportion to what she earns. “

“What about email? Browsing history?”

“There’s been a series of recent email discussions with Haskell about the New York exhibit. There’s a lot here to go through.”

“Send me the link. You take the documents. I’ll take the emails and browsing history.”

He nods. Fueled with caffeine, I go to work. The job is tedious. I spend two hours scanning emails, then another reviewing a long list of Web sites. I finally land on hers. There’s a link to her official Facebook page. There are hundreds of posts from worried “friends.”

By the time I look up, most of the other agents have left for the day. “I’ve gone back a full month. There’s nothing remarkable in her emails or her browsing history.”

“I have no idea why I wanted to work with you,” Zack says, stretching his arms over his head. “Clearly, you suck.”

I wad up a scrap of paper that’s on my desk and chuck it at him. He doesn’t bother ducking. He just casually reaches up and plucks it out of the air. With Were reflexes, he probably could have done it with his eyes closed.

“So, what have you got, hotshot?”

“Nothing concrete so far. I’m going to put in a request for her cell records.”

I nod. “Good idea. I’ll dig deeper into her calendar, put together a more comprehensive background check tonight.”

“So, how often do cases like this end up on your desk? People disappearing with no overt signs of foul play, no enemies, no ransom request, no apparent motive . . . ?”

“You know the drill. It’s not a crime to go missing. There are fewer than two hundred reports filed in San Diego County each month. Seventy percent of those resolve with little to no effort within seventy-two hours. Run- of-the-mill cases barely get investigated by SDPD, never mind our unit.”

“So practically never?”

“Practically never.”

Zack climbs to his feet. “Well, I have to start someplace. Let’s hope this Amy Patterson doesn’t show up in two days with a hangover and a new husband.”

“And the blood in her apartment?”

He pauses. “Might not be a waste of time. . . .” He grabs up his mug. “Time for another cup of coffee. Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

Zack heads for the break room. I go back to perusing Amy’s Facebook page. It’s after six. I pull up the photo tab and stare at an image of Patterson’s smiling face. “Where are you?” I ask, wishing I could compel the all- knowing Internet to reveal the answer.

•   •   •

I live in a converted carriage house in one of the oldest sections of town. I use the term house loosely. At less than four hundred and fifty square feet, the tiny structure is smaller than the hotel room Liz and I stayed in when we went to Dana Point on her last birthday for a spa weekend. Over the years I’ve lived in many apartments this size in buildings that came with noisy and nosy neighbors.

The carriage house is in back of a larger estate in Mission Hills. The owners alternate between their homes in San Diego, Santa Fe, and Honolulu. When they’re absent, which is most of the time, I pick up their mail and water their plants. They love the idea that I’m a federal agent. It makes them feel as though they have personal security on the grounds. I put on a show of walking the perimeter once a day, checking the inside when they’re absent. They let me occupy the carriage house for free.

No neighbors, noisy or nosy.

It’s a sweet deal.

The first thing I do when I get home is fire up my laptop, which is currently on the dining room table. I have no designated workspace. I work anywhere and everywhere. The dining room, which is approximately ten by ten, is a stone’s throw to the kitchen, which is smaller. I make a beeline for the fridge, where there’s a cold bottle of chardonnay waiting. After pouring myself a glass, I call Expressly Gourmet. They’re a local delivery service that will pick up from more than a dozen restaurants. I have them on speed dial. Tonight Hector is taking orders. He recognizes my voice.

“Emma! What’s up?”

“Not much. What’s the wait time for China Express?”

“We can pick up in twenty, have it to you ten minutes after that. Things are slow tonight. Hey, did you hear about that artist who’s missing? Are you working the case?”

Hector started as a delivery boy a couple of years ago, fresh out of high school. His first day on the job, I answered the door with my gun still clipped to my belt and made the mistake of explaining what I did for a living. I don’t have to watch or read the news to keep up with the local crime scene. I just have to check in with Hector.

“Yes.”

“Really?” His voice goes up a notch. It occurs to me he always asks me if I’m involved in the story of the day and it’s the first time I’ve said yes. “That pendejo on Fox is saying it’s all probably some scam to make money. I guess artists fake their own death all the time so that the demand for their stuff skyrockets. What do you think?”

All the time? Quality journalism at its finest.

“I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, but I agree wholeheartedly the guy on Fox is a pendejo. I’ll take an order of spring rolls, pork fried rice, and the black pepper chicken.”

“Got it. Wait till I tell my mama you’re working on the case. She’s gonna flip. Talk to you later.”

“Talk to you later.” I always wonder if Hector ends every conversation that way, or if he reserves that close for customers who order practically every night, like me.

Like Amy.

A long shot but—“Hector?”