A middle-aged man leans down. “Do you know why we pulled you over this evening?”
“No, sir.”
“Step out of the vehicle please. Both of you.”
We comply. He doesn’t ask us to keep our hands where they can see them. He doesn’t rest his hand on his gun. He just steps back and waits for us to get out and then waves us to the sidewalk, where a younger woman, also in uniform, joins us.
“The car is a rental,” Connolly says. “The paperwork is in the glove compartment. I presume you’d rather get that out yourself?”
The older officer waves for his partner to do that, and I step out of her way. She retrieves the rental agreement and says, “It’s rented to an Aiden Connolly.”
Her partner grunts, which I presume means he’s confirming that’s the name on the license. He’s only paying half attention as he circles the car. Then, without saying a word, he goes to the cruiser and climbs in. We wait. A moment later, he’s out again.
“I see you have a Lexus registered in your name, Aiden. Seems odd, renting the same vehicle for a drive from Boston.”
“My car has been making a knocking noise, and I haven’t had time to get it into the shop. I rented this for the trip today.”
I try not to grumble in annoyance. The state police have no jurisdiction here, and it’s hardly a crime to rent a car when you have one already. Connolly is calm, though, as if this is a perfectly reasonable line of questioning.
The older officer circles the car again. I glance to the younger one for clues, but her face is as expressionless as Connolly’s.
“What was the purpose of this trip?” the officer asks.
When Connolly isn’t quick to answer, he glances over. “The longer it takes you to respond, the more obvious it’ll be that you’re making up stories.”
“No,” Connolly says carefully. “I do not need to discuss my evening with you, and I am trying to determine whether I should request legal representation or simply explain, as I have nothing to hide.”
“If you have nothing to hide, you don’t require legal representation.”
Connolly gives him a humorless smile. “Does that line actually work on anyone, officer? Yes, I know I should insist on speaking to a lawyer, but it’s late and I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding I can easily clear up. I am here visiting my friend, Ms. Bennett.” He nods at me. “Who runs the antique shop just over there.” Another nod. “We had purchased a painting online for her shop, and we retrieved it tonight.”
“The painting’s in the trunk?”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer leans his hip against the car. “It wouldn’t happen to be a painting of a little girl, would it? Crying Girl by Victor Costa? A painting that was reported stolen two weeks ago?”
Connolly’s brows shoot up. “That is the painting. I certainly hope it wasn’t stolen. We were dealing in good faith with a reputable auction site. If it is stolen property . . .” He glances my way.
“We’ll return it, obviously,” I say. “Though I’ll have to ask for proper documentation to file an insurance claim.”
If Mercy stole the painting, I’ll give it back. The insurance excuse is a ploy to give me time to uncurse it first. But when I say that, the older officer’s eyes glint.
“Insurance. Isn’t that your business, Mr. Connolly?”
“It is.”
The officer—Platts, I see on his badge now—waits. Connolly just stands there, as if he too awaits more.
“Seems a little suspicious, don’t you think, Aiden?”
Not “Mr. Connolly” anymore.
Connolly replies blandly. “I’m not certain how you see that, sir. Yes, my firm insures Ms. Bennett’s business. If this is a stolen painting, she will be able to file a claim for the exact amount she paid tonight. That means she won’t have lost any money, but she will have wasted an evening retrieving goods she can no longer offer for sale. Insurance or not, she will come out farther behind than before she bought that painting, unfortunately.”
“If she paid for the painting. If she can provide all proper documentation of a sale.”
Connolly nods. “True, which brings up an important point. I’d actually purchased it on my credit card, for convenience. As it was for her business, she should be able to recoup the loss under her policy, and then I would be repaid, but I will need to check the exact details of that policy. It may turn out that, with the policy I sold her, I cannot recoup my money on the painting, which would be ironic.”
“Not ironic,” Officer Platts says. “Convenient.”
Connolly frowns. “How so?”
Officer Platts pauses, as if he threw that out because it sounded good, and now realizes there’s no way Connolly could benefit from not being able to recoup his money from his own company. He glances toward his partner for help, but she only shrugs.
“It’s suspicious, that’s all I’m saying,” Platts mutters. He squares his shoulders. “I’m going to need to see that painting, and I’m going to need to see your receipt.”
Connolly doesn’t even twitch. He only says, smoothly, “Of course, officer. Let me show you the receipt first. May I pull it up on my phone?’
Platts grunts, and Connolly takes out his cell, while warning that he’s reaching into his pocket, though neither officer seems the least concerned.
Connolly taps his phone a few times and holds out the original receipt. “As you can see, I was the purchaser, and I bought the painting reported stolen.”
“And you paid for it?”
“I provided my credit-card information, as you can see on the receipt. As Ms. Silver—the seller—did give us the painting, I can only presume she successfully charged my card.”
“You didn’t notice? Two grand to eBay, and your credit card company didn’t flag that as suspicious? Mine sure would.”
There’s a pause. Such a long pause that my gut twists, thinking Connolly didn’t consider that. But when he answers, his tone is apologetic with just the right hint of embarrassment. “I have what is known as a black card.”
The younger officer whistles. “That’s a real thing?”
Connolly tugs on his tie, clearing his throat as if embarrassed, though no color rises in his cheeks. “Er, yes. My family has a . . . special relationship with our bank.”
“What the hell’s a black card?” Platts snaps.
“It means he isn’t just rich,” his partner says. “He’s super-rich. Yeah, the bank’s not going to call him for spending two grand on a painting.” She looks at Connolly. “I gotta ask. Is it an actual black-colored credit card?”
He takes out his wallet, again warning that he’s reaching for it. The card he removes is black with a gold edge.
“That’s real gold, right?” she says.
“I’ve heard so, though it may be an urban legend. I’ve never had it tested.”
“You’ve tested out the unlimited spending, though, I hope?”
He gives her a ghost of a smile. “Of course.”
Platts clears his throat and glowers at his partner, but she ignores him and says, “Nice. Still, we are going to need to see that painting.”