“Well, yes. Mr. Christianson had donated a Monet and he’d offered access to another rare painting.” Waverly glared at Viktor, annoyed and confused as to why he’d lie. “We took his private plane.”
“And you’re certain you weren’t injured in any way?” the detective pressed.
“Does she look like she’s been shot? I mean come on. She’s rockin’ those Louboutins. Looks like she stepped off a runway.”
“Do you find this amusing, Mr. Christianson?” The detective asked.
“I’m always serious about fashion. I don’t know about you, but I love fringe. Sexy and sporty all at once.” He smiled, his eyes lit with amusement.
Waverly glanced down to the ridiculously expensive boots he’d bought for her. While impressed with the way the low-heeled suede shoes supported her feet like she was walking on a cloud in heaven, she still had a hard time accepting the extravagant gift.
“I want to run through this again.” The detective glared at Viktor, not amused with his attitude.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put a call in to the mayor. You may not be in a hurry to open this museum, but I am!” Dr. Williams turned on his heels, angrily stomping out of the rotunda.
“Your boss seems tense,” the detective commented as she tapped at her phone.
“Perhaps he should take a yoga class,” Viktor suggested with a wide smirk. “Get his chakras aligned and all that good stuff.”
“I do yoga. You got a problem with yoga?” Waverly challenged. Her confusion warped into anger.
“Hardly. Hot yoga is my jam. Hotter than hell.” He laughed, giving her a knowing smile.
Waverly feigned a smile, attempting to hide her displeasure. The sound of the detective clearing her throat drew her attention and she caught the look of annoyance on her face as she glared at both her and Viktor.
“I’m sorry. Truly,” Waverly apologized.
“Let’s go over it one more time. Were you aware of any threats against the museum?” The detective asked.
“No.”
“Did you notice anyone unusual? It’s my understanding that you gave Mr. Christianson a tour?”
“Yes, I did. He’d donated a painting. We met in the exhibit. And then my boss had asked me to show him around the museum.”
“Did you know the shooter?”
“Absolutely not,” Waverly protested. “What would make you think that?”
“You’re sure of that?” The detective held up her phone with an image of a white male subject, dressed all in black. With his eyes wide open, his death stare haunted her.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she shot back without taming the shock in her voice and diverted her gaze from the picture.
“All right then.” The detective proceeded to flip through the edges of the notebook paper she had in a plastic sleeve. “Perhaps you’d like to explain why the shooter had this on his body. Is this you?”
“Who took this?” The blood drained from her face as Waverly reached for the photo. Miami. “Where did you get this?”
“I was hoping you could explain why this shooter, who is still unidentified by the way, was carrying a picture of you.”
“I…” Waverly looked to Viktor who nodded at her in support. “I was recently in Miami.”
“Why does the shooter have this picture of you?” the detective pressed.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know who the shooter is.”
“What were you doing in Miami?”
“I was there to see a friend. She’s an old college friend who, uh, she went missing a week ago. I’ve already reported it to the Miami police.”
“What were you doing in this picture?”
“An anonymous donor had texted me about a painting. And before you ask, I don’t know how they got my number. Maybe the office admin gave it to them. Or maybe they got it online. I don’t know. It’s not really that unusual these days to get someone’s mobile number. But somehow they knew I was in the area.”
“How could they possibly know that?”
“I don’t know. Social media, maybe? I made a few posts while I was out. Nothing special or identifying. Just palm trees. The beach. I guess they could maybe tell where I was staying in South Beach by looking at them. I don’t know.”
“And?” The detective pressed for more information.
“And what?” Waverly’s body temperature rose as the detective interrogated her.
“Who was the person you met?”
“I don’t know. Like I said. It was a courier. I signed the paperwork he’d handed me acknowledging I was going to take custody of a painting.”
“And you didn’t ask about the owner or anything?”
“It’s not necessarily the norm but it happens. People don’t want me to know who owns it. I sign off for the property from the intermediary and take temporary possession. Sometimes an offer is made. Sometimes not, depending on if there’s already existing documentation from a reputable source. When I arrived back in San Diego, the painting was already at the museum. Right now, I don’t even know if it’s real.”
“Do you have it now?”
“Yes. I’m in the process of evaluating it.” Waverly shook her head, losing her patience. “Look. Anyone can find me on social media. There are lots of sickos out there. What happened in Miami is no different than any other time. But I don’t have any idea why the shooter had a picture of me. Or how he got the picture. How would I possibly know that?”
“I’d like to see the painting if you don’t mind.” The detective slid the papers back into the sleeve.
“Of course.” Waverly reached for the elevator buttons. “My office is upstairs.”
“Detective. If you’d indulge me for a minute. Could you tell me if there was anything else unusual about the shooter?” Viktor asked, his voice smooth and direct.
Waverly’s eyes widened in astonishment as the detective smiled at him. What the hell?
“We’ve already established that he’s a white male in his twenties. No ID on him. He had several knives on his person as well as the assault weapon.”
“Any unusual marks? Tattoos? Scars?”
“He had a tattoo of a goat. Multiple scars on his body. Pock marks.”
“A goat? Like the white, fluffy kind?” Viktor inquired, his voice sickeningly sweet.
“No. More like the scary kind. It had long horns. Like some kind of a devil. It’s possible he was in a gang, but we haven’t completed our investigation yet.”
“Interesting.” Viktor turned to Waverly and raised an eyebrow. “Where was it on his body?”
The detective released an audible sigh and pursed her lips. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you.”
“I promise I won’t tell a soul.” Viktor smiled at her.
“It was inside his cheek.”
Waverly scrunched her nose in disgust. “Oh my God. That’s gotta hurt.”
“Yeah. Well. It’s not the first unusual place a perp has decided to put ink. You have no idea.”
“Detective,” Viktor continued. “I have some friends, of the occult persuasion if you will, and they probably should know about this. PCAP. I’m sure you know about them. They handle unusual circumstances.”