Jasper

To be fair, the guy following me had it coming. He didn’t even bother ducking his head when I glanced his way, and he wasn’t very low key. I didn’t like having a tail, either. It kept me tense, and I’d been tense long enough – eight years, to be exact. What’s the point of freedom if you don’t feel free?

I had to do something about it. He was more than a cramp in my style, which had apparently gone out of style while I was in the joint. He was a burden, and he was dangerous. I needed to know who put him on my detail, partly to find out if I should be worried and partly so I could let them know they’d wasted their money on an amateur.

So, Sam and I got up from our barstools, walked to the other end of the bar where Mr. Suit sat looking out of place in the leather dive, and grabbed him by his cheap tweed jacket. We moved him to a table in the back and straddled a couple of chairs, facing him. I smiled and glanced at Sam, who had put on at least fifty pounds over the years. He had jowls, and I wondered if I’d been better off with three squares that tasted like shit and nothing to keep me busy but the gym.

I cleared my throat and motioned with my hand. “Give me your wallet.”

His eyes were cartoonish – huge and bulging out of his head. He stammered, “I-I’ll call the cops.”

“Hear that, Jasper? He’s not a cop,” Sam chuckled, his jowls and beer baby shaking.

“I could have told you that. Even cops can afford a better suit.” I sighed. “Just give me your wallet. If you’ve been hired to follow me, you have to know I’m not one to play games.”

He fumbled in his pocket and slid the wallet over with a trembling hand. Sam grumbled something under his breath and said, “Calm down, jackass. We don’t want to hurt you. Yet.”

I opened the wallet and took out his ID and business card, frowning at them. “Wesley Morton, Private Investigator. Apparently not a very good one, either. You live in the bowels of Harlem.” I returned the ID and kept the business card, tucking it into my shirt pocket.

“What do you want?” he asked, shifting in his seat like he was about to piss his pants.

“That’s my question for you.” I took my time lighting a cigarette and blew the smoke in his face, snorting when he coughed. “I want to know who hired you and why you’re tailing me. Which, by the way, you suck at.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

It was a brave and stupid thing to say. Sam leaned forward with his arms crossed on the table. “Do you have family, Wesley? Maybe a mother or a girlfriend? Strike that. I don’t see how your pathetic ass could get a girl.”

But beads of sweat broke out on the guy’s forehead, and I knew we had him, if we just muscled a little harder. “I’d hate to have to come to your place and tear it apart, looking for a name. All you have to do to save yourself a whole lot of trouble is tell me who wanted you to follow me.” I had several ideas, but one stood out, and I needed confirmation.

The smell of fear was thick enough to surpass the stale booze and smoke in the place, and my heart pounded. He pressed his lips together, like that would keep him from talking, but then he blurted out, “Wilhelmina Cohen.”

My blood froze, and I nodded slowly. I knew who she was. What I didn’t know was why she had an interest in what I was doing now. I pointed at Wesley Morton and glared at him. “Get out, and don’t let me catch you following me again. If you so much as step foot into an establishment I’m at, I’ll tear up that ugly jacket of yours and use it to tie you up so my friends can beat the shit out of you. Do I make myself clear?”

He all but ran for the door, and Sam slapped me on the back. “I thought you might have gone soft, Jasper. Nice job.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. I didn’t like it. I had enough to deal with and didn’t need some stonehearted bitch sending little monkeys to keep tabs on me.

“So, who is she?” Sam asked. “Some chick who wrote you letters in the pen? Wants to have your babies or something?”

“No,” I told him, standing. I hadn’t even finished a beer, and I didn’t care. I had things to take care of. “It’s bigger than that.”

“You leaving already?” Sam hefted himself to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over. “Anything I can do?”

“Not yet, but I’ll let you know.” I slapped his chest amicably and turned to leave. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” My social graces had never fully matured, but they definitely lacked a certain finesse now that I’d been institutionalized with limited contact. When your only company is a bunch of felons, most of whom lacked the brains to escape capture, you tend to lose what little charm you might have managed to build before getting locked up.

Had I gone soft? Definitely not, I thought as I strode down the street in the warmth of the summer night, reveling in the rancid smell of the city I’d grown up with. I hadn’t gone soft at all. In fact, if anything, I’d become harder and colder. And I wasn’t going to let some spoiled little girl ruin my second chance at living outside the bars. Wilhelmina Cohen could kiss my ass. I’d rid myself of the problem quickly and move on.

Mina

Cover compromised. Returning retainer.

I read the text over and over, growing more furious with each pass. I’d paid a pretty penny for Wesley Morton to keep tabs on that horrible man, and he’d failed. He’d quit like some simpering little fool in less than two weeks. Even I knew there was little chance of a felon screwing up so soon after his release.

I thought seriously about sending back some choice words, but it wouldn’t do any good. I was back at square one and didn’t know where else to go for help. I’d always found it difficult to trust people, and I’d heard horror stories of private investigators turning the tables to get more money from the subject, which led to people like me getting hurt. And I didn’t put it past Jasper Cunningham to do just that.

I’d managed to put a little faith in Wesley, since he had dated my cousin in college. At least that was a familial connection. And look where that got me. At this point, I was better off digging up dirt myself.

I stared up at the portrait of Daddy above the fireplace. Maybe that was the key. If I did this myself, I didn’t have to trust anyone else, and I really did feel like I could avoid whatever mistakes Wesley made that got him ‘compromised’. I flung myself back on the Italian leather couch, trying to decide the best course of action.

Wesley had already provided me with some very basic information, most of which I probably could have found myself. I had an address, a list of acquaintances, and a workplace. Surely I could use that information to find him and follow him. And I didn’t have any obligations in the foreseeable future that I couldn’t pass off to Becky or Chastity. They could handle the charity auction and the gallery showings for a few weeks. In the long run, when I explained the situation, they would understand if I went off the radar for a while.

After all, Jasper Cunningham had killed my father.

Maybe he hadn’t used a gun or a knife, but what he’d done had just as surely killed Stephen Cohen. He’d had a weak heart, and he’d been under a lot of pressure trying to acquire the de Kooning painting for his private gallery. And for some reason, Jasper Cunningham decided he absolutely had to have one of my father’s favorite works, Le Rêve. The Picasso had cost nearly $160 million by the time my father had it repaired, and it wasn’t like Cunningham came from that kind of money.

He’d nearly stolen it. And the Shots Marilyn. And the Police Gazette.

The last, a de Kooning had just arrived a week before the Picasso, and my father had, as yet, not been publicly recognized as their new owner. I had no idea how Cunningham had known or why he’d chosen to target my father’s art collection, but the whole ordeal had caused Daddy’s heart attack, which had dislodged a blood clot and led to a stroke that killed him.

As far as I was concerned, eight years behind bars wasn’t enough for a murderer, and I just knew Cunningham, that disgusting pig, would try something again. He’d target some other poor soul or find some other way to make the money he would have made if he’d actually absconded with the paintings. I didn’t know if he planned to ask ransom for their return or to sell them anonymously at auction, but he would have been a good $400 million richer. That was a lot of money to lose, and I didn’t doubt he still wanted it.

I’d done a little research of my own, and I knew that prison had strict schedules and routines that included getting up early. I had a feeling that Jasper Cunningham would continue that routine now, trained to do so for eight years. If I wanted to get on his tail, I’d have to be up and waiting outside his apartment even earlier.

I knew what he looked like. Even if I hadn’t seen a recent photo, that man’s face was burned into my mind from the trial. I checked the grandfather clock and winced. I hated going to bed early, but if I wanted to pull this off, I didn’t have a choice. I needed my rest. So, I set an alarm for 4:30 in the morning, hoping I wouldn’t be a complete zombie, and hauled myself into the bedroom. I had a plan for tomorrow. That was all I needed at the moment. Everything else would fall into place over time. I was sure of that.