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She pulled out her Swiss army knife and went to work on the packing, so thick she imagined a truck could have run over it without damaging the canvas. Finally, she pulled away the last sheet of bubble wrap. Kirra slowly lifted out the large canvas and carried it outside. She set it against the side of the shed and took two steps back.
She looked at a large yacht, maybe eighty feet long, its name in big square letters on its starboard side—Valadia. Three men stood on the top deck in serious conversation, their faces well defined and clear. She easily recognized one of the men even though he was a young man in the painting, not more than in his midtwenties. It was Ryman Grissom. He looked ripped, like a young bodyguard. Next to him stood his father, Elson Grissom, a handsome man in his late forties when her father had painted him fourteen years before. It was obvious he was the undisputed man in charge. Both men wore polo shirts and chinos, and deck shoes on their feet, and neither father nor son wore a hat or sunglasses. The third man looked to be around thirty, dressed in a light blue sweater and jeans, black sneakers on his feet. He was slighter than the two Grissoms, black haired and dark-complexioned, perhaps South American? She studied his face. Who was he?
Kirra lifted the painting to lay it on the bubble wrap and stopped cold. A small envelope was taped to the back. Her heart began to race again when she remembered her father’s longtime habit of taking photos of a scene before he began painting it to remind him of the details and the lighting in case he had to stop. She opened the envelope and pulled out a half-dozen photos, both panoramic and close-up shots of the yacht and the men. She saw in the close-ups her father’s rendering of the men’s features had been excellent.
She studied the third man again more closely. His sweater was pushed up on his forearms. There was something on his arm that had been indistinct in the painting. What was it? She held it up in the sunlight, looked more closely. It was a tattoo—two large letters: M and S. It struck her. MS—was he MS-13? She knew MS stood for Mara Salvatrucha, the international criminal gang known for human and drug trafficking, arms dealing, extortion, and vicious brutality. The gang had been born in Los Angeles, but their roots were in El Salvador. She remembered wondering what the 13 stood for. Her law professor had said the 13 was the position of M in the alphabet.
Obviously her father had seen the man’s tattoo, would have wondered about it. If he’d looked up what it meant, read about MS-13, he’d have realized he’d witnessed a meeting meant to be very private, hidden away on Grissom’s yacht, a meeting Grissom couldn’t allow to be made public. Grissom was already a prominent citizen in Porte Franklyn. She’d heard of him even then, seen him in the local papers. If it became known he was involved with an MS-13 gang member, it would have destroyed his reputation as a businessman and philanthropist. He would have been investigated, and from what Kirra knew, MS-13 would have cut him out entirely if he came under suspicion, even killed him to make sure he kept his silence. She knew the detectives had determined one of the likely causes of her parents’ murder had been an attempt at blackmail. She hadn’t wanted to accept it, but finally, Jeter had convinced her there could be no other reason.
And here was the proof Jeter was right. She was staring at it. Her father must have seen his picture as a stroke of luck, the only way he could get the money he needed to pay for her mother’s heart surgery. Had he sent a copy of the photos to Grissom, demanded money for them? Threatened to take the painting to the police? Of course he had, and Elson Grissom had easily found out who he was and arranged the murder of her dad and her mother both. Nothing else made sense. One thing she was fairly certain of—she didn’t think the MS-13 gang member had murdered her parents. They were known for their cruelty when they killed someone, preferring torture, leaving mangled remains to send a message. Her parents had been shot, no muss, no fuss, and to Kirra, that meant Elson Grissom probably with his son, Ryman, had come to her house that night to eliminate the threat.
Heart pounding, Kirra pulled out her cell to call Jeter. She stopped. She had only photos, no real proof of anything. Slowly, she slipped her cell back into her pocket. She rewrapped the canvas in the bubble wrap and carried it to her car.
She had a lot of thinking to do.
