On the left, two sets of double doors. The master bedroom. Doug March stood back and said, “Here.”
The space he’d revealed was small, painted flat white, and softly lit by northern exposure. Minimally set up with an easel, a chair, an oak flat file, and a couple of taborets on wheels.
No bite of linseed oil. Acrylics.
A scatter of unframed canvases hung on the walls. Colorful, workman-like renderings of still lifes, seascapes, forests, cozy villages filled with tumbledown cottages.
Well done but lacking surprise.
Something different on the easel.
Doug March said, “Guess she was talented. That was a surprise.”
Milo said, “Why’s that?”
“Because in this city, everyone thinks they’re creative and they’re not.” He laughed harshly. “When Meagin told me she painted and wanted to set up a studio, I thought, ‘Here we go. Sure, indulge her.’ No skin off, it’s not like we lacked space. I offered her any space she wanted.”
He pointed across the landing. “The bedrooms are huge but she wanted this, said it was intimate. It’s dinky because it was originally an auxiliary closet. Mrs. Harrington used it to store her extra clothing. Standing racks crammed with ridiculous stuff that they left behind after she died. I was ready to dump it all. Meagin insisted on donating it to some animal thing.”
Milo said, “I noticed a photo of the two of you—”
“Exactly,” said March. “Raising money for wounded pets or whatever.”
“Haven’t seen any pets.”
“I’m allergic. Okay, seen enough of the museum?”
I approached the easel and took a close look at the outlier.
Sixteen-by-twelve rectangle painted the deep dense gray of freshly watered concrete. Lighter gray blended with white for the subject. The lack of contrast made it struggle to materialize. An image struggling through a fog.
Unlike the other subjects Meagin March had chosen, this one was ambiguous. A small, stalky thing topped by a starburst and bottomed by what looked like pincers. Blurry and indistinct. Probably a work in progress — tentative rendering of an insect or a sea creature. The contrast with the other paintings was strange but when I looked over at Milo and March, neither showed any curiosity.
As they left, I hung back and phone-photo’d some of the paintings, including the exception.
March stopped and glared. “Why’d you do that?”
“What people produce can tell us about them.”
“My God, more psychobabble bullshit? But sure, have it your way. Just don’t put it on the internet.”
Milo said, “Your wife’s privacy will be guarded.”
Steel in his voice.
March flinched. “Sorry, I’m on edge. Got to get some sleep. You really need to paw through her clothes?”
“We’ll do it quickly.”
“Do I have to wait around?”
“No, go rest.”
“Good, the girls can see you out.” Crossing the landing, he entered one of the overstuffed bedrooms and shut the door.
Twin walk-in closets larger than most bedrooms, his dark wood, hers ivory enamel lit by a crystal chandelier. Lots of negative space in both. Doug March favored white shirts, jeans, owned a couple of nondescript suits and the tux in the photo.
Like her husband, Meagin March had filled only a quarter of her allotted space. Dresses, a couple of gowns, jeans, leggings, a dozen pairs of shoes.
Milo checked labels. “Everything high-end. Kinda like Aggiunta. Though that’s probably not what they bonded over.”
A rummage through built-in drawers unearthed plain wrap underwear and socks for him, designer lingerie for her. A pair of medicine cabinets in a massive white tile bathroom revealed that she was healthy and he was taking a single prescription med.
Milo held up the vial. “Norvasc. Prescribed by a doc in B.H.”
“Hypertension.”
“At his age?”
I said, “Could be something familial. And he is pretty reactive.”
He put the vial back. “Wanna see anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Then let’s get seen out by the girls.”
When we left the bedroom, Doug March was back in the landing, wearing a T-shirt and sweats and staring through the glass. Without looking at us, he placed his hands on his hips. “Is this the point where you tell me not to leave town?”
“Why would we do that, Doug?”
“Like I said, the rulebook. Don’t you always look at the husband? Playing the odds, I get it. Obviously I didn’t shoot anyone because I was across the country but what would’ve stopped me from hiring someone.”
He swiveled. Milo stared at him.
March looked away. “This is probably a waste of breath, but I never paid anyone to do anything. I had no reason. Until you marched in here, I thought Meagin was the epitome of faithfulness.”
If she hadn’t been...?
Milo said, “Sorry for having to deliver bad news, Doug.”
“Whatever.”
“Thanks for talking to us during this horrible time, Doug. Here’s my card, if you’ve got any questions, call. I mean that.”
March examined the card. “Sturgis. Like the motorcycle thing. I own a project in South Dakota. Have done really well with it — okay, I’m going to give sleep another try.”
“Good luck, Doug.”
Milo held out his hand. This time Doug March took it. But contact made him squirm and he looked relieved when it ended.
Chapter 11
As we passed through the gates, I said, “Dry palms or moist?”
“Bone-dry but he was shaking. Any impressions other than he’s an odd one?”
I said, “Tuxedo Park is gated, exclusive, expensive. Unless his folks were employed there, he comes from money. That would help establishing connections with big oil in Texas. And with bankrolling a real estate business right out of school.”
He looked back at the mansion. “Not a baby-faced whiz kid, he did it the old-fashioned way? Maybe that matters, maybe it doesn’t. What got me, Alex, was his claiming he needed a nap then he’s waiting for us so he can deliver that parting shot. Now are you gonna tell me don’t leave town.”
He slapped his hands on his own hips. “What’d you get from his body language?”
“I dare you.”
“Same here. Guy likes to be in control and he reacts to stress by getting mad.”
I said, “Assuming it wasn’t just a reaction to terrible news, he’s definitely tightly wound.”
“Like you said, not good for the blood pressure. So what if he just lied to us and knew all along that Meagin was screwing Gio? What do rich people do to solve problems? More dough, a higher-quality hit. Problem is, deep pockets also means more layers to hide behind.”
He phoned Alicia.
She said, “Good news, Moe and Sean are back. It wasn’t a case that pulled them off, it was a seminar on sexual etiquette. Not exactly learning to bow and curtsy.”
“Must’ve missed the memo.”
“Lucky you. Two hours of PowerPoint from a consultant the department hired. If there’s another one scheduled, I’ll probably have to go.”
“Probably?”
“Well,” she said, “sometimes the cell towers just don’t catch the waves.”
He laughed. “I need deep digging on the victim’s husband.”
“I can do it, L.T., but I’m still checking out Aggiunta Shoes. Want to hear what I’ve got, so far?”
“Shoot.”
“Most of what’s posted is in Italian and you know internet translations. But from what I can gather, it’s a family enterprise, been around generations. You can go to Florence and they’ll make a pattern and fit you bespoke. That’s called scarpe — let me get this right — scarpe personalizzate. Regular stuff, they export but not in any great quantity. I found high-end retailers in Singapore, Dubai, Monaco, and Paris. In the U.S., only three places: a fancy-shmancy boutique in New York — Soho — similar on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, and here at a place near Sunset Plaza. Veddy expensive. I was about to go over there but if you’d rather, I’ll start deep-diving on Mr. March. Alternatively, I can call one of the boys in on that.”
“The boys,” he said. “I’m hearing sexually loaded language. Maybe you do need that seminar.”
“Ha! So what’s your choice, L.T.? Oops, I almost said, ‘What’s your pleasure.’ ”
“There’s a lot to learn about March so call both of the lads in before another memo pollutes the environment and go look at shoes.”
“Will do,” she said. “Got to be the most pleasant day I’ve had in Homicide.”
When he hung up, I said, “One boutique doesn’t require a full-time rep.”
“Like we said, a make-work job?”
“Or he actually got sent here to drum up business.”
When we reached the unmarked, he said, “Who’re you betting on as the prime target, him or her?”
“No strong feeling either way so I’m staying away from the table.”
“I think it’s her and I think Dougie arranged it. If that leads to a mundane case, sorry for wasting your time.”
His cell tooted abuse of Rossini. He picked up, listened for a few moments, muttered thanks, and clicked off shaking his head.
“The lab just I.D.’d the bullet pulled out of Meagin. No big challenge because it ain’t rare ammo. MKE 9.65 Normal, full metal jacket.”
It’s not like him to fall back on jargon.
I waited.
He said, “Yeah, yeah, standard for the S and W Police and Military. Like I said, millions of ’em out there. They’ll run it against prior shootings, fingers crossed.”
He opened his driver’s door, stood there grinding his jaws. “Pray it’s not gonna be another McKinney and Lynk.”
A couple of years ago, a pair of Sheriff’s deputies fired for ethics violations had sought new careers as hit men in Compton. Taking on jobs for the town’s biggest drug gang, only to be gunned down by an opposing group of thugs.
I said, “Time to go through Meagin’s phone?”
He looked at me. “Changing the subject to relieve my anxiety? Very therapeutic.”
“Always happy to help but it was a real question. Doug claims not to know any of her friends but Verizon might.”