Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (20 page)

I cut him off. “I don’t need to know the rest. Sorry, Xiong. I must just be edgy. I was starting to doubt someone was who he said he was. But now I can settle down.”

“You might be correct to have doubts,” he said. “I found more. Not just a birth record, but an obituary.”

For a few seconds, I couldn’t stop coughing. “What do you mean?”

“The same David Nathan Johnson who was born on July 25, 1963, in Austin, Minnesota, appears to have died on December 2 of last year. About two months ago.”

“What?”

“His obit says he was killed near Rapid City, South Dakota, in a motor vehicle accident,” he said. “He had been a college professor at Wartburg College in Waverly, Iowa.

I believed him. Identity thieves often trolled obituaries for names, addresses, birth dates, and sometimes even mother’s maiden names. With that information, it’s easy to illicitly purchase the deceased’s Social Security number.

“I cannot tell you who your friend is, but he is not the David Nathan Johnson born in Mower County,” Xiong said.

“I’m sure the family doesn’t have a clue this is going on,” I said.

Xiong agreed. “It generally takes six months for credit-reporting agencies and the Social Security Administration to update their death certificates.”

By now the professor probably had credit cards, a driver’s license, maybe even a passport issued under the dead David’s name.

I wanted to walk out of the restaurant and put some distance between this man and myself, but I also didn’t want to make him suspicious. I forced myself to head back to our table. My chicken potpie was already there, as was his chicken avocado salad. He hadn’t started eating yet; he was politely waiting for me.

“I’m so sorry, David. You must be starving. There’s a problem back at the station and I have to run. This is the liability of lunching with a TV reporter. Our day belongs to the news. We’ll wrap up our business later.”

He offered to drive me to Channel 3, but I laughed. “Thanks, but by the time you get your car out of the ramp, I’ll already be there through the skyway.”

He also suggested having the waiter box up my meal, but prying that potpie out of its crock would destroy it. I told him to help himself. “Well, Riley, at least let me have one more look at the painting before you go.”

I pulled up the picture on my phone and handed it to him. I tried to make a joke, like nothing was unusual about his fixation—or my wish to leave his presence.

“He wants the precious,” I rasped. “Always he is looking for it.”

If Garnett had been there, he would have responded, Gollum,
Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
, 2002. But David looked momentarily confused, then flicked his thumb and finger across the screen to enlarge the fish painting before returning it to me with a wistful smile.

D
avid—or whoever he was—had first reached out to me via the fish painting. His offer to buy it had always had the ring of something too good to be true. But I’d pushed that notion away rather than trust my instincts because I was feeling insecure about myself and had forgotten that I was a skilled investigative journalist.

The auction had taken place less than a week ago, so the raw video still existed. I replayed it in my office, storing it on my computer so I’d retain a copy after it was erased.

I watched closely as the fish painting was carried onto the stage. Malik had missed my first bid, but his camera panned to capture the bid against me as it came over the phone. “Seventy here.” I froze the video and zoomed in on the bid card. Number eleven. “Do I have eighty?” There I was waving my hand. “How about ninety?” That’s when my competition disappeared. The woman with the phone was shaking her head and seemed to be trying to redial without any luck, then she shrugged, and seconds later, I was the painting’s proud owner.

I called the auction house. The manager who answered the phone remembered me. “We’ve had a lot of people comment on your story. That was good publicity for us. Come back anytime.”

“It was a fun assignment for me, too. And that’s why I’m calling. I’ve had an offer for the art I purchased. Do you remember a
phone bid for that particular painting? Apparently he saw me on TV with it that night.”

“Do I ever,” he said. “Boy, that guy was furious. He called back and wanted us to reopen the bidding, but I told him he was too late. Apparently he lost his cell signal, but that’s not my fault.”

“Well, the same man contacted me,” I said. “But I couldn’t make out his entire message; he must still be having phone problems. I’m wondering if you could look up his name for me. It sounded like David or Damon, but I couldn’t hear the last name. He said his bid number was eleven.”

There was a pause on his end of the line. “You know I can’t give out contact information. That’s confidential.”

“I don’t need that. I’d just like to confirm his name so I know who I’m dealing with before returning his call. And if I end up selling the art to him, I might even do a follow-up story and use the video from your auction house again.”

He put me on hold while he went to get the file. When he came back, he told me the man’s name was David Johnson.

A
lot of things weren’t making sense. Why did David want the painting so badly? And since he did, why didn’t he show up to bid in person? My instincts were kicking in, but I needed proof of his true identity.

Malik was just returning from a news assignment when I waved him into my office and shut the door. “Please, help me get the painting off the wall.”

“Are you selling it?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

We counted to three and lifted the back wire over the nails and set the painting on the floor, facedown. “Now help me get the picture out of the frame.”

“I’m supposed to be editing shots of flying trapeze lessons into a music video for the early newscast,” he said.

“This will just take a minute,” I responded.

Malik pulled out a pocketknife and pushed back a few nails. We removed the carved wood frame and propped the glass pane against my desk near the door. I had hoped to find some hidden document, key, or a stash of cash tucked underneath. So far nothing unusual.

“We need to examine the whole thing carefully.” We both sat on the floor and I handed him the cardboard matting, while I
ran my fingertips over the artwork, paying careful attention to the fish images.

“What are we looking for?” Malik asked.

“I’m not sure. Something that doesn’t belong.”

“Will we know it when we see it?”

“I’m not sure about that either.”

Just then someone opened my office door, smashing the picture’s glass pane. Jagged chunks fell against the painting, harpooning one of the fish, and tearing the artwork. I even felt a shard hit my wrist and saw pinpricks of blood on my skin. I jerked back as red spatter dripped on the painting.

“I think you just kissed two grand good-bye,” Malik said.

“I am so sorry.” Xiong stood in the doorway, twisting his hands. “I came to discuss the license plate computer records. I will help clean up the mess.”

“Good, because I have to leave.” Malik scrambled to his feet. “My editing deadline is approaching and I haven’t even selected a song.”

Xiong moved my trash can near the shattered glass and we started to pick up pieces. I’d have to get a vacuum cleaner later to finish up.

“Oh no, this is the picture from the news.” Xiong was dismayed as he recognized the fish painting. “I feel much worse now. I must fix it.”

“Don’t bother. It’s doomed.”

He gestured to southeast Asia on the map. “Here is my family’s journey. My parents were born in Cambodia. I was born in Thailand. We came to the US as refugees with nothing. I am now an American with a good job. So never give up. All will be well.”

I explained that restoring the art was not top priority and about my hunch that the painting concealed some kind of secret message.

“Like a code?”

“Maybe. But I haven’t found anything. This relates to the charlatan whose name you checked. David Johnson.”

I peeled back the torn edge by one of the fish to see if there might be another layer below, but no luck. Now the art was even more damaged.

“Let me look.” Xiong surveyed the canvas methodically, concentrating on Southeast Asia. “What are these letters and numbers?”

He was pointing to an island just south of his homeland in Thailand, where I noticed a line of tiny handwritten letters and digits under the name Singapore. They were difficult to read. “Are they the longitude and latitude?”

“No. That is incorrect.”

“So what do we know about Singapore?” I asked. “Big in tourism, right?”

“I believe so,” he said. “But I also know Singapore is an international financial center.”

“And that means?”

“It is prominent in offshore banking.”

That’s when I realized the number might be disguising money. “Xiong, you’re brilliant.”

I reached in the junk drawer in my desk, looking for a magnifying glass I’d once used as a Sherlock Holmes prop on set. The handwriting was now legible, letters followed by numbers.

Malik stuck his head back in. “The assignment desk decided to hold my piece for the weekend. Any luck?”

I showed him what we’d found. “We only stumbled onto it because Xiong was mapping out his genealogy.”

“Let’s check Pakistan,” Malik said. “That’s where my father was born. It’s a country of many mysteries.”

Our eyes shifted west from southeast Asia, but neither of us noticed any handwriting within the Pakistani borders.

“Look to Dubai.” Xiong pointed at a city on the Persian Gulf, and immediately I saw a similar number.

“How did you know to look there?” I asked.

“Dubai is also a world financial center that offers confidential banking services to moneyed clients,” he said. “Considering the provenance of the artwork, it is certainly possible Jack Clemens might maintain international accounts.”

We quickly checked all the cliché countries for hiding money and also found handwritten numbers near Switzerland and the Cayman Islands.

“I don’t suppose any of us has any firsthand knowledge with offshore banking?” I looked from Malik to Xiong, but one shook his head and the other held up empty palms. “I know. We’re all underpaid journalists.”

Fortunately, I knew where to turn. I called Agent Jax and yet again left a message. “This is Riley Spartz from Channel 3. I might have something to trade regarding Operation
Dissimulo
.”

J
ack Clemens was ghosting—living the life of a dead man. With the right connections, rising from the dead no longer required a miracle. If migrant workers could do it, so could he.

He had a limited window to escape the country before his ruse was discovered. He was running low on cash, down to his last ten grand. And credit cards left a paper trail he was trying to avoid.

Federal agents had raided his office and homes before Jack even realized they were building a fraud case against him. They took his files and computers, and while those records damned him for his crimes, they did not lead authorities to his entire fortune. While prosecuting him, one of the government’s top forensic accountants had followed the money backward, finding an offshore account in Panama. They were convinced he had stashed more millions elsewhere—secret accounts or buried cash. But every time they pressed him, he had claimed to be broke.

His cut from his work with the identity-theft ring had been deposited in several other covert accounts. He knew better than to leave details on his computer, hide them in a safe deposit box, or even tattoo them on his body. He had been prepared to wait a long time behind bars before claiming—and spending—that money, until an opportunity presented itself for hiring out his prison sentence.

The fake Jack was supposed to die of cancer, naturally, in the penitentiary, and with his passing so would end any debt to society. Jack’s own invisibility would be assured.

Riley Spartz was becoming a problem. But luckily, he was good at solving those. That was why he was on his way to her house.

I
described David Johnson to Channel 3’s best graphic artist and realized his physical characteristics—shaved head, beard, brown eyes, earring—might all have been altered. The sketch was ready when the FBI guy arrived at the station and was ushered into our conference room.

Agent Jax had great interest in the fish painting numbers and tried claiming the art as evidence.

“You had your chance,” I said. “I bought it. I own it.”

Miles also resisted, on legal grounds. “My client has been extremely cooperative. Unless you have a search warrant, the painting stays here.”

He knew what a big hurdle law-enforcement agencies faced trying to get warrants against news organizations. All sorts of First Amendment issues would come into play. The FBI might eventually win, but not before embarrassing jokes about the feds’ “catch-and-release” property seizure went public. And bottom line: Jack would hear about it.

“I might consider giving you the painting,” I said, “should we arrive at an understanding.”

We talked about the picture’s path from Jack to the government to me. The artwork had come into federal custody when agents were interviewing Jack’s family and friends to track down
hidden assets. An aunt had apparently agreed to hold on to the fish painting while Jack was in prison. Then the feds came by, throwing around scary words like “conspiracy” and “accomplice.” So instead, she’d stepped aside, and the art had been seized for auction.

“We need physical possession of it,” Agent Jax insisted.

So we agreed to let him take custody, provided he keep us in the investigation’s progress. I didn’t exactly trust him, but Malik had already videotaped the fish painting from the inside out, taking special care with close-ups around Singapore, Switzerland, the Cayman Islands, and Dubai. My cell phone held my own pictures of the key numbers. Xiong had reassembled the frame and matting around the artwork as best he could, gluing some of the damaged spots. The result was less mangled, at first glance, than I’d expected.