6 - The Eye of the Virgin: Ike Schwartz Mystery 6 Read online

  “Sorry about that, Sheriff. She’s new to the agency.”

  “It’s not my place to say, but if I were you, she’d also be the newest recipient of a boot to the rear. But it’s your game.”

  “Yes, it is. Good help is hard to find and booting a federal employee, figuratively or otherwise, is next to impossible. Okay, so you found a set of prints that we need to chat about.”

  “This Francis I’m speaking to?”

  “Yes. Francis Drake. Don’t even say it.”

  “Wasn’t planning to. No, we didn’t find a set of prints. We found a set of fingers. The prints were lifted from them, a man who had the bad luck to turn up dead in an emergency clinic. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Sorry, not on the phone. We have assigned this case to the FBI. They will contact you personally and fill you in. I can only tell you what I told your people, the man was on the watch list.”

  “Oh, goody, the FBI. That’s all I need to make my week complete.”

  “Yes. Okay, an agent will contact you shortly. That’s all I am prepared to say at this point in time.”

  Ike hung up. Point in time? What in hell was a point in time? When did time get points? A moment in time he could understand, but a point? Governmental double speak. And soon, an FBI agent on his turf.

  “Essie, where in the Billy Blue blazes is that fresh coffee?” Ike’s breakfast had started talking to him.

  Chapter Seven

  Louis Dakis knew he had a soft berth. He only taught three one hour classes—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings at ten forty-five, and two three-hour labs in the evenings on Wednesdays and Fridays. The labs consisted of instructing students in the craft of iconography, and each would, if they could harness their predilection for creativity, produce a passable icon. So far, only one student had grasped the central tenet of iconography: it should not be thought of as an outlet to make a statement, create a new format, or experiment with spiritual symbolism, but rather to execute a faithful copy of an older example of the same subject. By placing a stopper on the students’ need to splash paint, he had already driven two students from the class.

  At any rate, the university considered his schedule as full time and he drew a salary commensurate with that estimate. He didn’t make as much as he might have if he were an appointed faculty member with tenure and seniority rather than a hire, but it was enough. When combined with the low rent he paid for his faculty housing, he was pretty well set. Unfortunately, it would not last. He only had a contract for a single quarter. What he would do in June when it ended was another matter. He had been wracking his brain for a proposal to put in front of the Art Department’s chairman. He doubted he could sell him another round of Iconography 101—Iconography 102? It was the sort of course a college might offer only once every four years. Perhaps he could bone up on egg tempera painting. Not a popular medium since Andrew Wyeth passed, but trends come and go and any art department worth its salt would be interested in providing the broadest technical base to its students. He hoped.

  His phone rang. He glanced at his watch. Who would be calling him at four-thirty in the afternoon? He glanced at the caller ID, gritted his teeth, and picked up.

  “Louis, what were you thinking? How dare you.”

  “Lorraine? Is that you? Nice of you to call. How dare I what?”

  “You know very well, what. Breaking into the shop Sunday night, that’s what? Like, you don’t have enough of my stock, you’re back to collect more?”

  “Our stock, Sweetie, at least until the papers are signed. I have no idea what you’re going on about. You say someone broke into the shop?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, buster. The place was tossed. I almost lost a sale to Mrs. Strickland. Hell, I bet I did lose it, so thanks a lot. What were you up to anyway?”

  “Whoa. When did this happen?”

  “I told you, Sunday…or Saturday night or maybe Monday early…the police can’t be sure.”

  “Police. You called the police? And you, what? Told them that I might have been the one to…Lorraine, you didn’t.”

  “Who else could it have been? You came in once already and grabbed off all the good stuff, so why not you? I mean who else?”

  “The store is in metro D.C. Robberies are two a penny there. Anyone could have. However, you may recall when I took the stock, I still worked there, and I did it in broad daylight. I hope you also told them that you changed the locks and the security system password right after that and only you and…who? Who else has the new keys and password? Not me. You remember telling me that you’d done it? Your exact words were—”

  “I remember what I said. Okay, you don’t have a key.”

  “Or the new password. So, you will concede it probably wasn’t me.” Louis waited. “Lorraine?”

  “It wasn’t you, I guess.”

  “You guess? You know. And who, pray tell, did you entrust the keys and password to? Not the Italian Stallion?”

  “Franco has a key.”

  “And?”

  “Okay, he has a key and the password and he could get in. But there would be no reason for him to break in. All he had to do was come by and look at anything he wanted.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “No, not yet. Why would I? Besides I can’t seem to get in touch with him. He’s missing. I mean…rats, he went to New York last Friday and he hasn’t come back. He won’t answer his phone and…I don’t know.”

  “So Franco Sacci is missing and the store was burglarized. Coincidence? Or was it? Burglarized, I mean.”

  “I don’t know if it counts as a burglary. Nothing is missing, I don’t think.”

  “Was it a break-in? Busted locks, windows, whatever?”

  “No.”

  “Not a burglary then. That’s interesting. You had a break-in last Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and nothing’s missing. I had one Friday night.”

  “You what? Someone broke into your…house, apartment, where do you live, Louis?”

  “Little house on the edge of Callend University’s campus. I have a short term teaching gig. It’s very nice. It’s in Picketsville, Virginia. Very academic and all that.”

  “Lucky you. Did your thief take anything?”

  “No, I came back early from my evening class and caught him or her. Whoever it was beat it out the back door before I could get a look. So, no nothing missing here either. And your robbery? Nothing missing. That is odd, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I guess so. That’s the funny thing. Icons were scattered all over the place. None of the other paintings or statuary was touched. I ran through the inventory and everything is here, except for The Virgin of Tenderness that we bought in Egypt. You know the nice variant of the Virgin of Vladimir, the one where the figures have been reversed out so that Mary looks to her left instead of to her right, that one.”

  “The one I took. I found it in the catalogue you sent if you remember. I have it here.”

  “I know you do, but it’s still on my inventory and it’s supposed to be here.”

  “Lorraine—”

  “No, I’m serious. A guy came in Thursday looking for one. He didn’t like any I had. I said…I mentioned you had it, but I could lay my hands on it. He said he’d be back. I want that icon, Louis. I need the sale.”

  “Lorraine, we’ve been over this a hundred times. You want a settlement, talk to the attorneys. It was your decision to force a divorce. You and your grease ball Italian lover. So, if you want to divide the goods, talk to the lawyers. I have what I think is mine by right. That’s it.”

  “I will, you can bet on that. As soon as Franco gets his ass back here, you’ll be hearing from a whole lot of people.” The line went dead.

  Something about a woman scorned. No, that’s not right. I am the one being scorned, she’s the scorner. I am the scornee. A man scorned—doesn’t have the same gravitas.

  Louis returned to the desk where he had
set up his small easel and studied the tracing of an archangel. Until he added color to the robes and a symbol in its hand, it could be any of the four better-known archangels. But this was one he hoped to sell, so it would be either a Michael or a Gabriel. Not much demand for Raphael or Ariel, and none at all for the rest of the archangelic crowd: Azrael, Jeremiel, Jophiel, Metatron, Raguel, Raziel, Sandalphon, Uriel, Zadkiel, Chamuel. Leave it to the Persians to clutter up the heavens with an excess of beatific personae.

  No, the buyers of this sort of artwork wanted the familiar, the tried and true, Gabe and Mike. He’d work on this icon for an hour or so and then head out for something to eat. The faculty recommended a restaurant called Frank’s. It had once been Chez François and had failed in that incarnation, so the owner changed the menu from phony French cuisine to plain fare and reopened as Frank’s. There was also the possibility of eating at that diner at the crossroad downtown, but he guessed that would be a better bet for breakfast. Of course diners served breakfast all day.

  He’d decide later.

  Chapter Eight

  Ike held the scrap of paper out toward the fading sunlight and peered at the number he’d scrawled on it earlier. He turned and glanced at the number on the wall beside the door frame. This was the place. He climbed the porch’s steps. He didn’t see a door bell so he knocked. There was no answer. He stepped back, leaned to his right, and checked the driveway. A car sat toward the rear of the house. Somebody should be home. He raised his hand to knock again when the door swung open.

  “Yes?”

  “You must be Louis Dakis. I am Sheriff Ike Schwartz. I thought I’d drop by to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

  “I told the other cop everything I know on Friday night, but sure, come in.”

  Ike stepped through the door and glanced around. No odor of acetone, only the faint residue of after-shave. Dakis gestured toward a chair and sat down as well.

  “You had some questions?”

  “Yes. More importantly, I wanted to get a feel for the house and the break-in. You say someone broke a window and entered through it?”

  “I think so. It’s an assumption. As you can see, I’ve taped a piece of cardboard over the broken pane. The university’s maintenance crew said they’d be out tomorrow to fix the window. But if you want me to, I can remove it so you can see that the window pane had been shattered. When I returned from my class the window sash had been pushed up, that is the window was open and I am sure I closed it before I left earlier, and someone was in the house. Ergo, the assumption.”

  Ergo, my patoot. “You never saw the person, I take it.”

  “Never saw him, no.”

  “And, as far as you can tell, nothing was taken?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could I see the items that were disturbed?”

  Dakis led Ike into the study area where the easel was set up. An array of icons leaned against the wall, each separated at its edge from its neighbor by a thin slip of cardboard. Ike eyed the material on the easel and leaned closer to have a better look.

  “An archangel? Which?”

  Dakis seemed taken aback. “You recognized the image in the tracing?”

  “Lucky guess. I spent some time in Saint Petersburg—Russia, not Florida—back when I was otherwise employed and had some time on my hands. You’ve been to the Church of Spilled Blood, I assume?”

  “Once, yes. I didn’t want to leave. I could have spent a week in that place. Those magnificent icons, inside and out. Amazing…now, this one will be a Michael, I think. I will work on him but be prepared to switch to Gabriel if I receive a commission before I’m finished.”

  “Is that likely? I would think you’d want the commission first.”

  “I would, but right now, I’m in an inconvenient place for that. My wife and I used to own a shop in Washington and we sold these items.” He waved his hand in the semicircle at the icons leaning against the wall. “I could paint any angel and we could sell it. But she is soon to be my ex-wife and so I only get a commission if she feels like handing one off to me. I’m guessing she’s in the market for another iconographer, and when she finds him those opportunities will go away, too. But either way, archangels sell. Hell, even professing agnostics and nonbelievers love angels. Never could figure that one out—a heaven filled with angels but no God. Still, a sale is a sale. If I don’t find a buyer locally, I’ll put it on a web site I’m building. We’ll see.”

  Ike shook his head. “There are many iconographers available? I would have thought they were pretty rare.”

  “Compared to watercolorists, oil painters, potters, sculptors, and so on, we are, but not as rare as we once were. Twenty years ago it seems the only iconographers were attached to Orthodox communities of one sort or another. Now, there has been a resurgence in the craft, at least here on the East Coast, and there are hundreds of us. Not all good, but all available.”

  “What would one of these cost, if I may ask?”

  “Are you in the market?”

  “Not likely. Put it down to curiosity on the one hand and professional interest on the other. I want to know if they are worth stealing.”

  “A small icon done in acrylics I sell for two to five dollars a square inch. That would be with minimum gold leaf. Larger, more complicated ones with elaborate borders will go for six to ten dollars per, and very complex multi-scene icons up from there.”

  Ike nodded. “So, they are worth stealing?”

  “Yes and no. It’s a little like owning a classic car. Irrespective of what it’s worth on paper, you still need a buyer. It’s one thing to have a valuable piece, you understand, quite another to sell it. The expensive works are sought by collectors. There aren’t that many of them, to be honest, and then you have to know who they are and how to reach them. The cheaper renderings you can place in religious bookstores, on line, and so on, but a thief would have to know the who, the what, and the where. An ordinary break-and-enter thief would not, I suspect.”

  “You’ve had thefts attempted before?”

  “Yes, several. Usually, a thief will go for the cash register. Rarely will he or she take a picture. If the thief is a high end burglar, however, he may go for one of these but will more often than not target a specific piece or pieces. One which I assume means he has a client and an assignment, so to speak.”

  “And you said nothing was taken Friday night?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Were all the icons here?”

  “Yes. Sorry, no. I had one with me at the time. I took one to my class to show them what competent gilding can do to an icon. The one I took was very old, yet the gold shone like new. It’s the nature of gold. It never tarnishes. So, all but the one were here.”

  “I see. Is there anything else you can tell me? Maybe something that slipped your mind Saturday?”

  “Now that you mention it, there is something. Not something that I forgot, but something that happened more recently.”

  Ike slipped a notebook from his pocket, disengaged the pen attached to its side, and one eyebrow lifted, looked at Dakis.

  “I had a call from my ex. It seems the store was broken into Sunday or maybe early Monday night, as well.”

  “Where is the store?”

  “Washington, D.C., near DuPont Circle. I don’t know if you know the city, but—”

  “I know it.”

  “It seems she had a break-in, too.”

  “Let me guess: nothing was taken.”

  “Right. Icons scattered all over the place but nothing missing, except…”

  “Except what?”

  “It seems that I have one of the icons that is still on her inventory, so she thought maybe—”

  “That you took it?”

  “No, she knew I had it, but it may appear on the police report as missing. That might be embarrassing for me. Oh! Is that why you’re here? My wife tipped the Metro police and they called you to come and check me ou
t?”

  “No. No one has contacted me from Washington. Perhaps they will, but not yet. It’s a good thing you told me about the icon in advance. Save me a trip.”

  Ike stepped over to the stacks of icons and gently lifted them apart, studying the images. “There’s something I never understood. None of the icons I have seen has that little white dot in the eyes. I don’t know what it’s called. Do you know what I mean?”

  “A reflecting highlight. I call them reflectives for my students. The tradition is they are left out because the image represented is supposed to be the source of the light, not reflect light. All symbolic, of course. But, to tell the truth, when the gold has been applied in the nimbus it does seem to be a source of light.”

  Ike continued to sift through the icons. He noticed that Dakis seemed nervous when he did. He guessed if their positions were reversed, he’d feel the same way. Buford T. Justice rummaging through anything expensive would give anyone pause.

  “Which of these is the one you had with you Friday night?”

  Dakis eased an icon from the stack and laid it on the desk.

  “This one?” Ike picked the icon up and studied it. “And this was supposed to be in the store in D.C.?”

  “Yes. Please be careful. She said someone was in the store asking about it.”

  “Was there, indeed?” Ike tilted the icon so that he held it horizontally and sighted along its length. “Mr. Dakis, I will need to take this icon into custody—as evidence.”

  “You can’t. What evidence? Evidence of what? It wasn’t even here during the robbery.”

  “Yes, I know. That is why I need it. Unless I miss my guess, you will be visited again. The thieves, if that is what they were, did not find what they were looking for. The only common denominator between your failed robbery and your wife’s is this icon. Someone wants this particular piece. I don’t know why, but I aim to find out. You can be sure he will be back for it. In the meantime, I think it best if he doesn’t find it. I will give you a receipt.” Ike pursed his lips and stared at the icon. “By the way, how long would it take you to reproduce this?”