Later that evening, sitting on the couch wide awake, I wasn’t much good for anything. The trembling had subsided, but I was still pretty nervy. In spite of what’s found in novels and on television programs, cops don’t engage in shoot-outs very often. PIs almost never. I couldn’t remember the last time I shot at something other than a target at the range. The scotch in my drink helped. So did the calming understanding presence of my good friend, Catherine McKerney. She returned to my side on the living room couch after changing the CD in the stereo. The music filled the room and my head. Symphonic. Something by Schumann, I thought.
“Do you want to talk about it,” she said softly. “No,” I said, but then I did talk about it. “Killing is so irrevocable. It’s so final. You can’t step back from that edge, find another route. Once you’ve killed someone that door is closed.”
“You sometimes tell me that even with a death, we are so good at finding information or clues, that no door is really closed.” “That’s true, of course,” I said. I laid my open hand on her thigh as if to reassure myself of her nearness. “But this guy leaves so many questions unanswered. We’ll learn who he is and who he worked for. But why did he try to run me down last week, if it was even the same guy? And who was he working for then? How much did he get paid to take me out? Does he leave a family behind?”
“So many questions,” Catherine murmured. “Did I tell you how very glad I am that we’re here together right now and I’m not visiting you in a hospital. Or the morgue?” We looked at each other.
Then Catherine picked up the thread of our examination. “Will the answers to those questions help solve your cases?”
“Some of them might. One of the questions with possibly an important answer is how he knew where I was this afternoon. Did he follow me from the office? Or was he lying in wait? Did somebody at Murchison call him in to try to rub me out?” I stopped and stared at the living room wall opposite. Then I stuck out my right hand and looked at the back. No tremors but my gut was still signaling me I was upset. A faint ache. “Do you want another drink?” “No, thanks. I’m as certain as I can be the truck was the same one that almost ran me down the other night downtown. That means I’ve been targeted for a while. I wish I could be sure it’s related to the murder of Gottlieb.”
“You seem pretty sure,” Catherine said. I looked up at her. She’d stepped into the kitchen to refresh her glass of wine. “I’m not sure I get you.” “Ever since we got home and you’ve started talking about these cases, you’ve used the singular. You haven’t referred to the cases, plural, as I just did. I think, unconsciously, your analytical brain has decided the murdered Gottlieb, the mysterious Ann/Anne, and the missing Market woman are all connected.”
The front cover of The Case of the Purloined Painting spotlights a murder which occurs as two men attack another, obviously looking for something, which the victim does not have. When the man is pushed over a railing and plummeted to his death, the two looked over and then, turned, and left, as if nothing had happened... But somebody had seen what had happened, hurried to the body, picked up an object and also turned away, also leaving the man with little concern!
And while this is happening, Sean is meeting with a new client who wants him to deal with a missing person, a woman the man had only recently began to date...
So, how does murder, a missing person, plus a painting come together into an intensive mystery? Simple... Sean Sean, PI, is on the job!
“Works for me. But first why don’t you tell me what you know and what you think.” McKinley looked mildly surprised and then the planes of his face relaxed and I got a definite feeling that he was softening, starting to think of us as closer to a collaboration. And that was a good thing. I wanted his perspective on the old case. “It was in July that year. The department knew the railroad was bringing a car stuffed with old money through town and we expected a shipment of old paper from the Federal Reserve in Minneapolis to come here by truck. But the truck was delayed so it wasn’t part of this.” McKinley shuffled a copy of a newspaper over to me. It had big headlines and a photo that showed a street scene with a couple of people and a single car parked at the curb. “I’ve got a map in here but this is the street where the thugs rolled up and just started shooting. In the service I would have called it suppressing fire. Made everybody keep their heads down.
“Meanwhile, across the street and half a block down another vehicle rolls up to the train siding where the Railway Express and their guards are waiting. More shooting and the two guards are killed. They never had a chance. One guy jumps out of the truck into the railroad car and starts tossing out those canvas bags they used to use, you’ve seen ‘em?” I nodded. Only in pictures, but I knew what he meant. McKinley took a swig of coffee—he’d forgotten my water—and went on. “Four, maybe five bags of the cash. Then the first car with the rest of the gang rolls up. The truck made a U-turn and they took off down the street heading south on Concord. About that time, a rookie cop named Ed Washington runs into the street from around the corner. He has his gun out and probably shouted for them to stop. They gunned him down.”
“So I count seven guys in the gang—four in the car and three in the truck. What happened to them?”
Old Money had surfaced--a couple had begun a renovation at their home garage and had found the buried stash... Soon as the work started, people started to ask questions, some just friendly neighbors but others who claimed to be inspectors or for other reasons had the right to check out what was happening in the back yard... Actually, it was found by their dog who, upon seeing ground being dug up, found a very old gun and their child picked it up, carrying it into the family's home... Was the gun buried because it was used to murder during a heist? The Kava family came to Sean to guide them on what to do--only thing is, Sean later learned that Kava's wife had a secret that may affect how to move forward. Was it that secret that resulted in both parents being killed, leaving their son an orphan?
Upon investigating it was discovered that the money was indeed old and the timing seemed to possibly be money taken during a train robbery... I enjoyed seeing the name of a distant relative, through marriage, of John Dillinger, a notorious gangster who was part of the family into which my mother's sister married! (And, no, none of that supposed money acquired by Dillinger ever made it all the way down to the John Dillinger who became my uncle...LOL
Well, as you can see, Sean had to do some serious study of train robberies that may have happened in the St. Paul area, figuring it would be an easy grab and run... A great historical story was the outcome of Sean's research and an exciting, complex story that leads to a dangerous vehicle and foot chase with Sean following and hoping some of the calvary got there quickly!
The guy sprawled on my office floor was dead. I didn’t need my years of experience as a private snoop to know that. The big bloody hole in his bare chest clued me in. The recently deceased was about seventy, I judged, and portly, overweight, even. He was a white man wearing expensive sandals and what was probably an upscale pair of boxer-style swimming trunks. They looked dry, but I didn’t touch them to verify that. I sniffed. The blood smell was strong and the dark pool under his right shoulder was just starting to congeal. I didn’t smell any gunpowder. I recognized him, of course. I stepped carefully around the body to avoid getting blood on my favorite tennis shoes and picked up my recently acquired cell phone to dial 911. After that I called my friend Ricardo Simon, an experienced investigator with the Minneapolis PD. I sometimes talked with him about puzzling aspects of my cases. I wasn’t your typical taciturn PI who viewed every cop as a potential enemy. I was atypical in a lot of ways. I often wore red Converse, for example. The ones with white soles. “Detective Simon,” he answered. “Sean,” I said. “You remember my case involving diamond smuggling?” “Of course.” “My principal suspect’s dead. In my office. Large-caliber gunshot to the upper chest.” “Preston Pederson? Wow. Did you kill him?” “No, I just found him.” “Call 911?” “Of course.” Ricardo hummed for a few seconds, then said, “Appears you’ll have to revisit your case while reordering your thinking. Hmm. Stay in touch.” “Thanks,” I said and clicked off. This case was getting more and more complicated. The case to which I referred started a few weeks ago in a suburb of Saint Paul. Actually, the case started years ago, in a previous century and about six thousand miles to the west. But I’m getting ahead of myself...
Sorry, I've not presented these books in order... I started with one, read it, got another, then...you get the idea. Anyway, by the time covered in this book, Sean is practically living with Catherine, his love interest...
My pardner is the tall, willowy and wealthy massage therapist Catherine Mckerney, holder of profitable massage contracts and owner of a massage therapy school and a bunch of stocks. Her dad had left Catherine well-enough fixed, but being a smart cookie and not one to rest on her well-formed backside, she bought a massage school and turned a documented need into a lucrative operation that gave her a very comfortable living, something I was willing and able to share.
What? Shocked? I made a reasonable living as an independent PI. I shuffled about and took care of business just fine. But there was no fancy mansion on Lake of the Isles, no Bentley in the garage. No Pontiac GTO, for that matter. I had my little office on Central Avenue, and I had my practice, and as long as Catherine Mckerney would put up with my shortcomings and my demented wit, we had a fine relationship. It’s called love, I think.
I wheeled into the underground garage at Catherine’s abode, then zipped up to the fourth floor and down the well-carpeted hall to our apartment. As I went I admired the fine prints on the walls between doors. The doors were widely spaced because the apartments on the fourth floor were roomy, sporting multiple bed- and other rooms. Catherine liked her space, and as I might have mentioned, whatever Catherine likes...
Inside, I discovered I was alone save for the blinking light on our joint telephone service. I was something of a reluctant techno user. I had a regular “blower” in my office, one of those units that squatted on a desk. With wires hooking it to the wall. It had a letter and number dial, and you picked up the hand piece and talked into one end while listening to the other. There was an extension here in Catherine’s place and another in my Roseville palace, my address of record. Catherine had a cell phone. I owned one but most emphatically did not carry it. Who wanted to talk on the telephone while driving somewhere? Not me. Maybe I was prejudiced because, not that long ago, I helped an EMT after a bad multi-car accident on a freeway at the edge of the city. I had the misfortune to help collect body parts. One of the parts we collected was the hand and wrist of one of the three dead drivers. The fingers still clutched a cell phone.
So, with the telephone arrangement, I knew I could answer the blinking summons because it was our telephone service. I picked up the mobile unit and ambled into the kitchen while I retrieved the call. There was only one. It was my sultry-voiced lover, Catherine herself. “I miss you, sweetie. And I have to postpone tonight’s dinner date. Some things at the school need my immediate attention. I’ll make it up to you. There are leftovers in the fridge. I should be home by eleven or so and then we’ll have some fun.” Her voice dropped almost an octave, and she sort of growled at me when she hung up. It was very stimulating.
Before Catherine and I came together after a chance meeting at a symphony ball affair, I would have gone out for a quick supper or back to my office with a beer and brat takeout. Something like that. Catherine had modified my eating habits so I was healthier. I checked the refrigerator, went and changed and slipped down to the basement pool to do a few laps. After laps, supper consisted of a large plate of cold broiled chicken, a bowl of cole slaw and a very nice crisp Sterling Sauvignon Blanc. The Napa Valley variety. Later, about eleven-forty or so, just as I was dozing off after having watched Charlie Rose interview somebody important, the other side of our big bed sank a bit and a long-legged, naked siren slid under the covers and began making free with my body.
Got to tell you, this was my favorite, the byplay between Sean and Catherine is fun and extraordinary. Ok, I may be prejudiced, but in my "reading" experience, I don't recall that a rich woman willingly enjoyed a relationship with a guy making less money. You're right, it's normally the other way around. But, the key thing for both of these people was their self-confidence. They enjoyed each other's company and had fallen in love--so they strutted their stuff whenever and wherever they were seen...
And the the only thing that Catherine demanded was that Sean NOT wear his red Keds when they were dressing for a ritzy evening. LOL
There is more than one diamond involved--in fact, there were many gems being secretly stolen and then smuggled to America to sell... That was one concern for Sean...but solving the associated deaths that occurred was his greatest concern.
This wonderful series is character-driven. Sean Sean is funny, a fantastic Private Investigator and shares his love freely and openly. The two of them as a couple have a relationship which is full of quips to each other and, yet, it is clear that they are deeply committed to each other. The mysteries are unique in type and each provides the reader a story into which they can sink and enjoy watching a pro work his magic...
And this all happened due to the pro that has written the series--Carl Brookins. Many kudos for a writer that creates not only great characters but one who keeps you interested to the very end. Enjoy!
GABixlerReviews
See Also The Case of the Deceiving Don
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