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“They visited frequently, according to the police report. The officer noted that the family kept tight control over the old man’s finances, which, according to the family, made the old man angry. They hadn’t let him keep the painting in the retirement home. It was kept in a vault in the family’s bank.” She rolled her eyes. “They apparently had so much art that they stored the ‘lesser pieces’ in the vault.”
Connor’s lips twitched. “Just so you know, my family is nowhere near their level. My father collects pipes and he has one that supposedly belonged to Abe Lincoln, but that fact is in high dispute. I think his most valuable pipe set him back a few thousand dollars. So don’t go thinking that the Robinsons have a family vault with ‘lesser’ paintings shoved inside.”
Kit chuckled. “Understood. One of Pop’s carvings went for two thousand dollars at a charity auction last year, so maybe my carved birds are worth something.”
“Those birds are priceless, Kit.”
Kit’s hand automatically sought the cat-bird figurine in her pocket. It was one of seventeen carvings Harlan had made for her over the years. Sixteen were simple wrens, and those she kept on a shelf in her bedroom where she could see them when she woke up.
“Yes, they are.” She held the cat-bird on her palm, as astonished by its delicate beauty as she’d been the first day Harlan had given it to her. Priceless.
She’d take her father’s handmade treasures over million-dollar paintings any day of the week.
Carefully slipping the cat-bird back into her pocket and giving it a quick pat for luck, she dialed the number for Judge Barrington. The call was answered by an office administrator, who put them through to the judge.
“Detectives McKittrick and Robinson?” the judge said, forgoing a polite greeting.
“Yes, sir,” Kit said. “I don’t know what Dr. Stevens told you when he called, so I’m not sure where to begin.”
“He said my painting was stolen,” the judge said bluntly. “I can assure you that it was not.”
“We didn’t say that it was stolen,” she said. “We said it was reported stolen. We’re tracking items that were reported missing from retirement homes over the past fifteen years.”
“I thought you were homicide detectives.”
“We are,” Connor said. “The murder of a retired SDPD homicide lieutenant started us on this path. We believe his murderer stole items from senior citizens in nursing homes. Your painting was one of those reported missing by surviving family members when the previous owner passed away.”
There was a pause. “I see,” the judge finally said. “You’re talking about Frank Flynn, who retired as Lieutenant Frank Wilson. I just ran a search online.” He sighed. “My father loved that painting. He was well into his eighties when he bought it, but still sharp. He told me that he’d checked the certification carefully. I have all the documentation that was sent with the painting. I found it in his files after he passed. I’ll have my assistant scan and email it to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Connor said. “We appreciate it.”
There was a moment of silence followed by another of the judge’s sighs. “Like I said, my father loved that painting. He’d been an amateur painter himself and had always wanted a Dutch Master. He’d tried to buy several in the past at auctions and was always outbid. He grew more and more determined. And then one day he brought home Woman on a Summer Night.”
There was something the judge was not saying, Kit was certain. “How badly did he want it, sir?”
“He would never allow the painting to be loaned out, not in the ten years he owned it. I told him that a painting like that one should be enjoyed by everyone, but he outright refused to allow anyone else to even see it. No one outside the immediate family.”
Kit shared a glance with Connor and he grimaced. “Do you think he had an idea that it might have been stolen at some point, Judge Barrington?” he asked.
“I’d like to say that my father would never own something that was stolen, but…well, I don’t know. I don’t want to think it, but he was very determined. I was the one who offered it for loan to the museum. I’ve actually broken the terms of my father’s will by loaning it out, but I sold his house after he died and I couldn’t stand to see it collecting dust on the wall of my study. My father is probably spinning in his grave. But he does have documentation.”
The final sentence was said like the judge was trying to convince himself as well as Kit and Connor.
“We’ll investigate it, sir,” Connor promised.
“And if it was stolen at some point?” the judge asked.
Kit and Connor looked at each other. Connor shrugged.
“I think we’d pass that part of the case to Detective Goddard,” Kit said. “He’s our colleague in the robbery division. We’re truly just interested in catching a killer. Three people have been killed here so far.”
In San Diego, she thought grimly.
There was still the matter of Roxanne’s many marriages, through which she’d inherited millions after her husbands had died. Two had been residents of retirement homes just like Shady Oaks. Two had lived independently in their own homes but had visited friends in other retirement homes, which might have been how Roxanne had met them. Whether the husbands had died of natural causes hadn’t been determined and might not ever be, given the amount of time that had passed since their deaths. But that was an investigation that would have to wait until they found Roxanne and charged her for the three homicides they had in San Diego.
“I see,” the judge said quietly. “Well, I won’t delay. You’ll have my documentation within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” Kit said sincerely, and gave him her email address.
