“Ashford came to me about a year ago wanting to buy Honanie pieces.Specifically, he wanted pieces Raymond had kept for himself—personal collection items that had never been on the market.I told him those don’t come up for sale.He said he didn’t care.He said he’d pay whatever it took.”Torrance’s voice carried a mix of discomfort and something harder to name—not sympathy exactly, but the wariness of a man who’d seen money do strange things to people.“I put him in touch with Raymond directly, which I don’t normally do.But Ashford was insistent, and frankly, the commission on a private sale at those numbers was hard to walk away from.”
“What happened?”
“Raymond met with him once.Afterward, Raymond called me and said he wouldn’t sell.He said Ashford didn’t want the jewelry.He wanted something Raymond couldn’t give him.”
“Did he say what?”
“He said Ashford wanted to know what it felt like to make something that would outlast you.Raymond said it was one of the saddest conversations he’d ever had.”
Kari thanked Torrance and hung up.She looked at Attcity, who was leaning against the doorframe with his notebook closed, holding it against his chest.
“One of the saddest conversations he’d ever had,” Attcity repeated.
“Raymond saw it.A dying man who can feel his mind disappearing, trying to grab onto something permanent.Something that will outlast the disease.”
“And when buying the art wasn’t enough—when owning it didn’t give him what he needed—”
“He decided to become part of it.”
The room was quiet.Down the hall, a phone rang and someone answered it.The ordinary sounds of a federal office continuing its ordinary business while two people in a windowless workroom traced the outline of a grief so great it became murder.
“We have enough for the warrant,” Kari said.“Ashford purchased original works by all three victims.Multiple witnesses describe a man matching his description visiting their studios and galleries, asking questions specifically about their creative processes.Two of the victims rejected his approaches directly.The timeline of his collecting obsession matches the timeline of the disappearances.And his medical diagnosis provides a motive consistent with the psychological profile of the staging.”
“Marshall will want the connection to the physical evidence.The midazolam.”
“Ashford ran a pharmaceutical company for thirty years.Access to sedatives isn’t a stretch.”Kari gathered the printouts and the notes and headed for Marshall’s office.“Let’s go get a warrant.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kari had served warrants on meth labs, on domestic abusers barricaded in trailers with loaded shotguns, on a man in Chinle who’d killed his neighbor over a property line and spent three days sitting on his porch with the body visible through the screen door.None of those had prepared her for Gregory Ashford’s front gate.
The estate sat in the Sangre de Cristo foothills northeast of Santa Fe, behind a wall of coyote fencing and a wrought-iron gate that opened onto a gravel drive lined with piñon trees.Marshall had assembled a team of eight—herself, Kari, Attcity, Soto, two forensic technicians, and two tactical agents who stayed near the vehicles as a precaution.The warrant had taken two days to secure.Marshall’s application ran forty-three pages.
A woman met them at the gate: mid-thirties, dark hair in a bun, wearing scrubs.She identified herself as Maria Sandoval, Ashford's private nurse.No doubt the auction assistant, Bechtel, had mentioned.
Sandoval looked at Marshall’s credentials, then at the warrant, then at the line of vehicles in the drive, and her face went through a sequence of emotions that ended somewhere near resignation.
“He’s having a good morning,” she said.“Please don’t upset him.”
The house was large without being ostentatious—territorial style, thick adobe walls, vigas and latillas overhead, construction designed to keep cool in summer and warm in winter.The entry hall opened into a great room with a wall of windows facing the mountains.The furnishings were expensive and spare.A Steinway grand piano sat in one corner with a layer of dust on its lid.
Ashford was in the great room, seated in a leather armchair, reading a book.He looked up when Marshall entered and his expression moved from confusion to polite interest, the practiced hospitality of a man who’d spent decades receiving visitors in expensive rooms.
“Good morning,” he said.His voice was clear, cultured, East Coast by origin.“Are you here about the roof?Maria called someone about the leak.”
“Mr.Ashford, I’m Special Agent Claire Marshall with the FBI.We have a warrant to search your property.”Marshall kept her voice even and unhurried.“These agents are going to look through your home.You’re welcome to remain here while they work.”
“The FBI.”Ashford set his book down.Kari noticed it was upside down—he’d been holding it open to a random page.“Is this about the foundation?I’ve told Richard the paperwork is in order.”
“It’s not about a foundation, Mr.Ashford.”
“Well, come in.Come in.”He gestured broadly, the host overriding whatever confusion was beneath it.“Maria, could you bring coffee?We have guests.”
Sandoval looked at Marshall, who nodded.The nurse left for the kitchen, and Marshall directed her team.Soto and the forensic technicians took the main house.Attcity would work with Kari on whatever lay beyond the great room.The tactical agents remained outside.
Marshall stayed with Ashford, establishing a rapport while the search proceeded.Kari could hear her voice as she moved through the house—calm, conversational, asking simple questions that Ashford answered with varying degrees of coherence.Some responses were lucid and detailed.Others trailed off mid-sentence or circled back to things he’d already said.He asked on two further occasions if they were there about the roof.
Kari and Attcity found the gallery on the lower level.
