False Colors Read online

  False Colors

  Marc Jablon

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  1

  I was at a fancy dinner party hosted by a friend of mine, Brian Gorey. He and his partner, Guillermo Valladares, own one of the country’s foremost art galleries, The Artery, with branches in Palm Beach, New York, and fifteen cities around the country. Brian, who never tires of telling me that I need to get married again, suggested that I come and meet some of the high-society single women who usually attend his parties. “They’re accompanied by money, Jeff,” he said, “so dress for success.”

  Usually, I’m among the first to leave such parties. Not that I’m antisocial, but I’ve got a business to run; also, I get up early to exercise. I like to think I’m highly organized. My son, Michael, and my daughter, Lindsay, always assure me that my routines make me boring.

  “But I’m so good at it,” I insist. “You have to work at it, kind of like a great athlete. Tiger Woods made golf look like the most natural thing in the world. I make dull look just as easy.”

  But tonight, contrary to my usual practice, I was among the last of the group left. I was absorbed in the fiery blue eyes and precipitous curves of Nora Bluebird, who was regaling me with stories about the artists who are part of Brian Gorey’s stable of talent.

  “Have you ever heard of Leland Grass?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’ve probably seen his stuff at The Artery. He’s one of Brian’s original discoveries.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, “you mean that stuff that looks like a pile of newspaper with a meatball smashed up in it?”

  “You definitely have an analytical eye. Anyway, about twelve years ago, somebody breaks into Brian’s gallery and slashes a bunch of Grass’s paintings. So the cops ask him if he’s got any enemies. And he says no one likes him because he’s a genius.”

  “That always charms cops,” I said. “Makes them want to put every other case aside and beat the crap out of the witness.”

  She nodded in agreement. “He’s an arrogant asshole. He says the only painting missing is one of his former wife. The cops ask how the divorce went, and this guy says in his pissy way, ‘Very much in my favor.’”

  “And?”

  “They visit the wife, who lives in a dumpy little apartment in Century Village in West Palm, and there’s the painting. They asked her why she slashed the other paintings. ‘Because I can’t cut off his head.’”

  “The actual quote was, ‘Because I can’t cut off his dick.’”

  She looked askance at me.

  “I was the cop on that case. It’s how I first met Brian.”

  “Why did you let me go on like that if you knew the story?”

  “I like the sound of your voice.”

  Thanks to Brian, who is a brilliant promoter, the publicity was tremendous. His stories to the press made it seem like a national treasure had been desecrated.

  As a result, the demand for everything by Grass, including the slashed paintings, skyrocketed. He became one of the most successful artists in the area, and he makes sure to slash every third painting because now, twelve years later, nobody knows which ones were included in the robbery. But to collectors, the chance to buy an original “cut Grass” represents an investment opportunity. Go figure.

  As Nora said, the world of art is a strange and wonderful place to be. But don’t travel through it unless you’re accompanied by very deep pockets.

  By now, I had the distinct feeling that Nora was letting me know that she was available as a second dessert. I would like to say that I was able to deduce this because of my exceptional detective skills. However, since Nora had had her hand on my thigh for the last half hour, and I had now reciprocated, I’d have to have been an idiot not to understand the signals.

  Brian had invited me, along with about one hundred of his nearest and dearest, to celebrate the third anniversary of his relationship with Lorenzo Blanco, his lover. Three years was a long time for Brian, whose typically tempestuous relationships usually run about three months.

  There were about a dozen of us left here in Charlie’s Crab on A1A in Palm Beach. You can see the whitecaps of the Atlantic Ocean scintillating under the stars if you stand at the front window since we’re just across the street from the beach. The help had gone for the evening except for the manager, who was waiting patiently somewhere out of sight. I looked up and saw Lorenzo, a tall, bronzed, handsome hunk of about thirty-five, taking a set of keys from Brian and grinning as he waltzed to the front door.

  I turned back to Nora, who regarded me with raised eyebrows and a half-smile and brushed a strand of wavy, dark brown hair, the color and sheen of new ranch mink, away from her eyes. I decided to go for it.

  “I know we’ve only just met,” I began with more nervousness than I expected, “but would you like to–”

  “Yes,” she interrupted. There was just the slightest droop to her left lower lip, which added a touch of mischief to her grin. “I’ll follow you home.” She took my hand. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to ask.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes.”

  “Didn’t I drop enough hints?” she asked. “Aren’t you a detective?”

  “Used to be. Now I do private security.”

  “So you’ve got the skills to guard my body all night.”

  I started to laugh, and she joined me. When the hollow roar of the explosion shattered the air, it certainly ruined the mood.

  2

  “Keep everyone back here and call the cops!” I yelled to Nora as I leaped out of my seat and ran for the parking lot.

  Brian’s silver Porsche Carrera convertible had been reduced to a flaming pile of rubble. Chunks of metal, glass, and the well-toasted remains of Lorenzo were all over the parking lot. The car next to the Porsche was burning as well. Naturally, everyone had gathered at the openings that used to be windows. I yelled at them to move back because the gas tank of the burning car was likely to explode, too. A moment later, it did. The force of the blast threw me back and onto the ground. As I pulled myself up, I became aware of the smell of burning rubber and plastic. But it was not enough to overpower the stomach-wrenching odor of charred human flesh.


  “I called the fire department!” someone yelled, and I could hear the sirens coming up the road. I checked my watch. It was close to two in the morning. Roads were deserted by now, so the trucks could move at maximum speed. Thirty seconds later, the first one hit the driveway. Three firefighters leaped out to hose down the remains of the Porsche and the second car until they were awash in spray and foam and were now little more than smoking, hissing messes.

  I’m always amazed by the bravery and coolness of firefighters under pressure. These people risk their lives without a second thought in order to ensure the safety of people they’ve never met and may never see again. A tall, fully suited firefighter, probably the leader of the brigade, strode rapidly toward me.

  He removed his goggles. “Jeff Shott, as I live and inhale smoke. How come whenever I see you there’s always trouble?”

  We shook hands. “Good to see you, Zach. You guys are always impressive.”

  “My boys and girls are the best,” he responded, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a yellow rubber sleeve. “Looks like you cleaned the parking lot with that nice white jacket.”

  Zach Sloan was a buddy of sorts from my detective days. We used to run into each other at arson-related homicides. He’s a no-nonsense guy who knows his business.

  “What’s the story?”

  Before I could reply, an unmarked cop car, blue light flashing, pulled up behind the truck. A short, burly, baldheaded guy in a too-tight golf shirt that said “Detective” on it sauntered up to us. His paunch preceded him by about four inches.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted us. “Exactly what the fuck is going on here?”

  “Lieutenant Zach Sloan,” I volunteered, “this is Detective Sergeant Arnie Orby, one of Palm Beach’s finest. And most articulate.”

  “You actually admit to knowing this guy?” Orby asked Sloan, looking at me with a grin.

  “Only under duress,” Sloan said. “I was just asking Jeff here what happened.”

  “Great,” said Orby, “enlighten us. ’Cause this smells like something bad. And I don’t mean just the fact that the driver was obviously cooked way past done.”

  “About five minutes ago,” I said, “Brian Gorey, whose party this is, handed a set of keys to Lorenzo Blanco, who was, until the explosion, his long-term companion. They were both smiling and hugging when the exchange took place.”

  Orby turned to the tall, gaunt uniform who was standing at his right shoulder. His badge said “Anderson.”

  “Andy,” said Orby, “go inside, ask everyone to sit tight, and find Mr. Gorey. We need to talk to him. I’ll be right there.”

  He turned back to me. “Anything else you remember, Jeff? Anything at all?”

  I said we were all out of the sightline of the blast, which was fortunate because no one inside was injured.

  “If you guys don’t need me, I’ll mosey on over to see what started this party,” Zack said, gesturing to the wreckage.

  “Maybe an accident?” Orby asked hopefully.

  Sloan snorted. “Ka-boom. Not likely. Too fast and too big.”

  3

  “Jeff, you know this guy Gorey,” said Orby, pulling on his ample chins. “Why don’t you keep me company while I talk to him? Maybe it’ll relax him a little.”

  I followed him inside. Brian was sitting at a front table, still shaking. Tears were leaking from his eyes. He dabbed at them halfheartedly with a white linen napkin. Anderson stood next to him, trying to look invisible. Orby jerked his head in the direction of the others in the back, and Anderson ambled toward them. Orby suggested I take a seat as he thudded into a chair. He introduced himself to Brian.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Gorey, but I have to ask you some questions.”

  Brian looked up at him. Brian is usually a very debonair individual. Every hair is in place. His suits, custom tailored, look as if they were ironed onto him. He is articulate, urbane, charming, a consummate salesman, very educated in his field. He fits the image of the highly successful, well-renowned art dealer that he is. At that moment, however, he was a distressed, overwrought man of fifty-five who looked every day of his age, with a few birthdays added on.

  “I loved Lorenzo,” he said, trying not to weep, but it was clear that grief was clouding his brain and his sinus passages.

  “We’ve been together for three years. Tonight was our anniversary. I was going to give him… I gave him the car. He was so thrilled. I asked him last week what he wanted for our anniversary. He said all he wanted was at least another three years like the ones we’d had.”

  Brian closed his eyes and picked up the napkin. He shuddered slightly. I stood up and put an arm around his shoulders. He leaned against me for a couple of minutes and sobbed. Finally, he looked up. “Thanks, Jeff, it’s all right.” I sat down.

  “Lorenzo was always going on about how exciting it was to ride in the Porsche, especially with the top down. He was like a little boy. I can certainly afford another car, so why shouldn’t I give him this one? I thought I’d surprise him with it tonight.”

  “Did you tell anyone about this present?” asked Orby, pen poised over his small notebook.

  “No one. I just thought of it a couple of days ago, as I said. And I’m the only one who ever drove the car.”

  “Do you know if Lorenzo had any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt him?”

  “I don’t think there was anyone who didn’t like Lorenzo,” he said. “He was handsome, charming, immature at times, maybe even naïve. He made everyone feel like they were interesting. Even if they were self-absorbed artists.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about Lorenzo?”

  “He grew up in New York City, came down here for college, and stayed. He works for Merrill Lynch. He used to be my broker’s assistant. Recently he moved up to the bond trading department. He was doing nicely.”

  Orby made a note in his book. “And your relationship? How would you characterize it?”

  Brian looked straight at Orby. His eyes were firm, and his hands were locked together on top of the table. He looked as if he were poised for a sale to an important client.

  “We loved each other, Sergeant,” he said firmly. “We were two mature, gay men who understood our own needs. We were committed to our relationship. And now I am alone.”

  He stood up, once more himself. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “Mr. Gorey,” Orby said mildly, “I’m not questioning your choice of lifestyle. I’m not here to judge you, only to gather information. From what you’ve told me, this doesn’t look good for you.”

  Brian turned to me in confusion. “Jeff, what does he mean by that? I didn’t kill Lorenzo.”

  “He means that if you didn’t kill Lorenzo, the bomb was meant for you.”

  4

  Nora, looking numb, was seated at a table in the back. I sat down next to her.

  “You’ve got some marks on your face,” she said quietly, dipping her napkin into her water glass and cleaning some soot away from my right eyebrow. “I have a feeling we have a long night ahead of us, and it won’t be spent anywhere comfortable.”

  “I’m sorry to say that you’re right. Listen, if you noticed anything at all unusual tonight, tell him,” I said, pointing to Orby.

  “You were it.” She shrugged, taking my hand in both of hers, more to be holding onto something secure than as a gesture of interest.

  Nora and I were the only couple. Anderson had separated everyone else so Orby could question them about tonight’s events. He’d compare responses and search for inconsistencies. I knew he’d do a thorough job because he’d been taught by someone who was pretty good at it.

  I’d met Orby toward the end of my time with the Sheriff’s Office. I was on scene at what looked like a burglary gone extremely awry.

  The remains of the homeowner were securely duct taped to a ladder-backed dining room chair. The downstairs looked as if the home’s invader had used everything in the h
ouse for batting practice. After that, the perp had hit a grand-slam homer out of the park using the owner’s head. Blood and brain matter were dripping from the ceiling and down the wall behind the corpse.

  The fury of the destruction smelled like drugs to me. As I was pondering the scene, watching the techs vacuum up every speck of evidence, I heard a muffled retching sound behind me.

  “Orby,” I said, reading the nametag of a short but very fit-looking rookie cop. “Jack Orby’s kid?”

  He nodded, glassy-eyed, still unable to speak.

  “Your first homicide?”

  Another nod.

  “If you puke on a crime scene, you’ll need a DNA test to clear you, and you’ll be riding a desk for at least ninety days.” I motioned to him. “Follow my footsteps. Don’t ruin the scene.”

  “Looks bad,” he said, glancing at the shattered remains of the master bedroom.

  “But not this one,” I said, leading him into what looked like a child’s room. The collection of stuffed dogs and teddy bears on the bed was undisturbed. “So the perp’s probably got kids. He’s sentimental, and he’s stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “Got a knife, Orby?” I asked.

  He pulled a Swiss army knife out of his pocket. I popped open the big blade, picked up the first bear I saw, a three-foot panda, and sliced through the stitches at its neck. I stuck in my hand and rooted around. Sure enough, I tossed the taped plastic baggie on the bed.

  “Holy shit,” said Orby, his eyes wide. “That’s real shit.” Not the most eloquent of statements, but that’s what it was: good old-fashioned heroin. We were definitely not here for a b and e.

  “So, Orby, what were you going to tell me?”

  “The TV guys are waiting on a statement.”

  “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.” Just outside the room, I stopped. “Orby, you like being a street cop?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered. “But I’m aiming for detective, like my dad.”

  When I came back upstairs with my captain, Tim Slater, whom I’ve known since I started on patrol, I gave Orby a jump-start on his detective’s shield. “Officer Orby discovered a bag of what looks like pure heroin.”