The Medusa Ritual Read online

“Look at this statue, Dot,” Mostyn said.

  When she saw what Mostyn was looking at, she said, “A person.”

  “I think you’ll want to see this up close.” The tone of his voice was such that she knew he thought it very important.

  Kemper walked to where Mostyn was standing, and stood next to him. She gasped. “Oh, my…”

  Before them was a statue of a woman sitting on the floor. Her hands were raised as if she were warding off an impending blow, and the look on her face was one of sheer terror.

  Kemper examined the statue, slowly walking around it. “I’ve never seen anything so lifelike. How do you do it?”

  Cortado smiled. “Trade secret.”

  Kemper smiled back. “Of course.”

  “How much?” Mostyn asked.

  Mild disgust flitted across Cortado’s face. “If you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it. I’ll send Milt.” And Cortado turned and left.

  “Guess you put him off,” Kemper said.

  “I can’t help it I’m not rich. I always ask the price if I don’t see it.”

  Kemper replied, “Tsk, tsk. We’re pretending to be rich. Your middle class is showing.” And she shook her finger at Mostyn.

  “Sorry,” he said, dragging out the two syllables.

  She bent close and touched the figure. “It feels like stone, but there’s so much more detail than I’ve ever seen on a statue.”

  She stood just as a man wearing an ice cream suit walked in.

  “Hello,” he extended his hand to Mostyn, who took it. “I’m Milt Salzman. I’m James’s manager.” He gave Kemper a bow.

  “I’m sorry I insulted the artist,” Mostyn began, “but old habits die hard. I was wondering how much the statue cost.”

  “The bigger pieces are very unique,” Salzman said. “We have three human figures, four rats, and the one bat. Half a million for the rats, one mil for the bat, and ten million for the human figures.”

  “I see,” Mostyn said, while taking his phone out of his pocket. He typed on it and returned it to his pocket.

  “Was there a particular piece you were interested in?” Salzman asked.

  Kemper was looking at the two other human figures. One was a man lying on his side, his face displaying a profound look of horror. The other was also a man who was walking. His face showed surprise, rather than terror.

  “Take a look at these, Pierce, dear.”

  “The rats don’t sell well, if I’m honest with you,” Salzman said. “I can knock ten percent off the price.”

  Mostyn’s phone chimed. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He smiled and returned the phone to his pocket.

  “I’ll take the woman, the bat at the entrance, and pick out a rat for me.” Mostyn handed his card to Salzman. “Call that number and arrange with my people for pick up. I want them tomorrow. Will that be a problem?”

  “The show runs for another four days,” Salzman said. “We don’t let pieces go before the show ends.”

  “I want them tomorrow, or no sale,” Mostyn said.

  “Well, uh,” Salzman looked at the card. It told him Mostyn was an investor. “Yes, of course, Mr Mossman. I’ll make arrangements with your people first thing in the morning. We will, of course, have to run a credit check. It’s standard policy.”

  “No. Call them now. They’ll pick the items up first thing in the morning.” Mostyn took out the phone again, tapped on it, and then showed Salzman the screen. “That’s my bank account. You can see I have the money in it.”

  Salzman looked. “Well, yes, but, well, er… This is all highly irregular.”

  Mostyn shrugged. “Do you want eleven and a half million, minus the ten percent, or not? This isn’t a difficult transaction.”

  There was a gleam in Salzman’s eyes. “Mr Cortado wants his buyers to be happy.”

  “Good,” Mostyn said. “Make me happy.”

  5

  __________

  ◼︎

  Mostyn held an early morning breakfast meeting to hear what the other team members had discovered and to report his and Dotty’s findings. After the coffee had been poured and everyone had taken what they wanted of the pastries, eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, and toast, Mostyn asked Jones and NicAskill to begin.

  Jones, a look of disgust on his face, said, “I never saw such shit in all my life.”

  Petrie chimed in, “Contemporary art is just plain ugly. Like most people.”

  “Then you’ve never seen good contemporary art,” NicAskill replied.

  Petrie waved away NicAskill’s comment.

  “Check out Lukas Freeborn, or Amy Gibbons, or Helen Cranshaw.”

  “Never heard of them,” Petrie said.

  “Then your ignorance is showing.” NicAskill replied, a wicked smile on her face.

  Mostyn intervened. “We can discuss modern art another time. What did you learn?”

  “Sorry, Boss,” NicAskill said. “The fat guy that was talking to you and Dr Kemper? Well, he came over to us after talking to some skinny old woman in a dress right out of the 1930s. Apparently he owns several of Cortado’s paintings and thinks the guy is the cat’s meow. I finally got him to talk about Cortado instead of just his paintings. Took some doing, but he finally started to tell me what he knew about our artist.”

  “So what did he say?” Baker asked.

  “Apparently Cortado came out of nowhere about five years ago,” NicAskill said. “At first he just sold his paintings. Then about a year and a half ago, Salzman joins him and Cortado starts offering sculptures for sale.”

  “A year and a half ago is when we first heard of Die Unaussprechlichen Riten von Dem dessen Name Nicht Genannt Werden Kann,” Dr Stoppen said, the German words rolling fluently off his tongue.

  “Which implies there may be a connection between the book, Salzman, and the statues,” Mostyn said. “Good. Anything more you two can add? Jones?”

  “Nope,” Jones replied. “Nicky said it all.”

  Mostyn mentally shook his head. The Greek god was moving in for his next conquest. He turned to Winifred Petrie. “Dr Petrie and Dr Hammerschmidt, what did you two discover?”

  Petrie answered, “Apart from a lot of ugly paintings, not much until I saw the sculptures.”

  Hammerschmidt interrupted. “Most of the people there had just heard of Cortado. So they didn’t actually know much if anything about him. It seems Jeremy Pitkin, the fat guy in the bad tux, has been something of an evangelist for Cortado. He got most of those people to show up.”

  “The sculptures are something else,” Petrie said, taking back the stage. “In my opinion, I don’t see how he could have carved them. My nephew has done some sculpture work and has made some lovely pieces, but he has yet to achieve the detail in his work that this Cortado is claiming to have achieved in his. And my nephew’s been sculpting for ten years.”

  “I’m a chemist, not a geologist,” Hammerschmidt said, “so recognizing types of stone is not my field. However, I didn’t recognize the stone those sculptures were carved from. If, as Winifred’s implied, that they were carved at all.”

  “If I had to take a guess,” Baker said, “I think the stone was something akin to marble, which will hold very fine detail, but I don’t think it was marble and I’ve never photographed marble statues with that much detail.”

  Mostyn then told the group his and Dotty’s findings, as well as the purchase of the sculptures for the lab people to analyze. When he was done, he asked if anyone had any questions.

  “Yeah, I do,” Jones said. “What’s next?”

  “I want you all to start nosing around the art community,” Mostyn replied. “Find out everything you can on Salzman and Cortado. We should have a report from headquarters this afternoon. But I want the local talk.”

  “What about the people at the show?” Petrie asked.

  “I don’t think they’ll be helpful, since Dr Hammerschmidt said most of them hadn’t heard of Cortado prior to last night,” Mostyn replied.
“However, Mr Pitkin might be persuaded to tell us more. NicAskill, I’d like you to talk to him. You probably know more about modern art than all of us combined.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.”

  “And I think you should talk to him alone,” Mostyn added. “I think he’ll tell you more that way. He seems to like the ladies. After you’re done, catch up with Jones.” To the group, he said, “The rest of us will take the partners we had last night. I don’t think we’ll encounter any problems, but I don’t want to take any chances. Questions?”

  When Mostyn saw that there weren’t any, he told the team to move out.

  ***

  Mostyn drove the black sedan out of the hotel garage.

  “Where are we going?” Kemper asked.

  “I want to start with the Jewish girl’s school across the street from the gallery.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s there.”

  “For crying out loud, Mostyn. Do you have to be so goddamn cryptic?”

  “No.”

  “Is that all? Shit?”

  Mostyn let out a laugh. “Lighten up, Dot.”

  Dotty Kemper took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Okay, Mostyn. Will you please tell me why you want to start at the girl’s school?”

  “As I said, it’s there and because the school is there they might know something.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that.”

  “Anymore questions, Dr Kemper?” A smile tugged at Mostyn’s lips.

  “Not at the moment, Special Agent in Charge Mostyn.”

  “Good.”

  There was a pause and then Dotty asked, “Would you like to retire here, Pierce?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it. Off hand, I’d say there are too many people. I’d like to go someplace a little quieter.”

  “Here in southern California?”

  “Sure. Someplace off the beaten path.”

  “Good. I like it here.”

  Mostyn thought of Helene and wondered if she’d like it in southern California. He loved Dotty, loved her very much. However, if he was honest with himself, he loved Helene too.

  There are times, he thought, when I wish Helene had left us to our fate down there in K’n-yan. Might have been better for all of us.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Dotty said.

  “They aren’t even worth that,” Mostyn replied. “Just focusing on the traffic.”

  Mostyn threaded the sedan through the crowded west LA streets and soon they were at their destination. He circled the block twice, before finding a place to park.

  “You really think they’ll know something here?”

  “Probably not,” Mostyn replied, “but we won’t know until we ask.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  They walked in the front door of a simple structure shaped like a child’s building block with several smaller rectangular-shaped cubes attached and encountered a security guard sitting at a desk. “How may I help you?” the man asked.

  “I’m Special Agent in Charge Pierce Mostyn of the IRS.” Mostyn showed the guard his ID. “And this is Special Agent Dotty Kemper.” Kemper showed her ID. “We’d like to talk with the chief administrator.”

  “That would be Dr Abraham Katz. Let me phone and see if he’s available.” The guard made his phone call, spoke to someone named Miriam on the other end, and after a minute he hung up. He looked at Mostyn. “Miriam, Dr Katz’s secretary, will be here momentarily.”

  Momentarily stretched into seven minutes, before Mostyn and Kemper heard shoes clip-clopping on the terrazzo floor. Miriam was a short, busty woman, with stylish gray hair, and was dressed in a cream pants suit. She walked up to Mostyn and Kemper.

  “I’m Miriam Cantor. If you will follow me?” She turned and started walking back the way she came. Mostyn and Kemper followed. When they reached the door to the office, she paused, and said, “Dr Katz is very busy.”

  Mostyn replied, “We won’t take up any more of his time than is necessary.”

  Miriam Cantor opened the door and entered the office, the outer portion of the office as it turned out. She walked up to a door, knocked, opened it wide enough to poke her head in, and then pushed the door open, indicating with her hand Mostyn and Kemper should enter.

  Mostyn nodded to her and walked through the doorway, followed by Kemper. Miriam closed the door behind them. Before them a tall, heavyset man stood behind a large walnut desk. His hair was black and partly covered by a black kippah. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and a red tie with tiny navy blue dots.

  He walked around his desk, his hand extended to Mostyn. “I’m Abraham Katz. I understand you’re with the IRS?”

  “That’s correct.” Mostyn took the doctor’s hand and shook it. “I’m Pierce Mostyn.”

  Dotty extended her hand. “I’m Dotty Kemper.”

  Dr Katz took her hand and held it momentarily before letting go. “Please, have a seat.” Katz motioning to a sitting area off to the side of the room.

  Mostyn and Kemper sat on the couch and Katz sat in one of the tub chairs.

  The administrator folded his hands across his stomach. “I hope we haven’t missed something in our bookkeeping.”

  Mostyn smiled. “We aren’t here about the school. At least not directly.”

  The relief was visible on Katz’s face.

  Dotty smiled. “Unfortunately our presence has an undesirable effect on people. I apologize.”

  Mostyn continued, “We’re actually investigating some of the artists and art galleries and were hoping you could be of help to us.”

  “How so?” Katz asked.

  “We’re looking into the gallery across the street,” Mostyn explained, “and in particular an artist named James Cortado and his manager Milt Salzman. Have you had any dealings with the studio or the men?”

  “Two, maybe three, years ago Mr Cortado taught a couple classes here. But he didn’t work out and we didn’t renew his contract.”

  “Can you tell us what the issue was?” Dotty asked.

  “I’d rather not,” Katz replied. “His being here ended up posing a problem with the younger girls, and we let him go.”

  “Can you tell us anything about him?” Mostyn asked.

  “Not really. I didn’t know him. Principal Kellerman dealt with him. I can give you her number and you can make arrangements to speak with her directly.”

  “Thank you,” Mostyn said, “that would be helpful.”

  Katz got up, went to his desk, and sat. He opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, scanned it, then jotted a note. He got up, and walked to Mostyn, giving him the slip of paper.

  “That’s her number. Tell her I gave it to you.”

  Mostyn stood, Dotty also. “Thank you, Dr Katz,” Mostyn said.

  “You’re welcome. Miriam will show you out.”

  When they were on the sidewalk, Dotty said, “Well, Cortado is as snaky as he looks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They booted him because he was being inappropriate with young girls.”

  “So it seems,” Mostyn replied. “And I’m not surprised given that he’s on our radar. He’s either up to no good or involved with those who are.”

  “Agreed. So now what?”

  “We talk with the gallery owners.”

  Mostyn started to cross the street, when a car, tires squealing, raced around the corner. He leapt out of the way just as the car swept over the spot where he’d been standing.

  “Are you alright?” Dotty nearly screamed the question.

  “I am. Looks like we pissed somebody off. The question is, who?”

  6

  __________

  ◼︎

  “It could have been an accident,” Dotty said.

  “Possible. Best keep our eyes and ears open.”

  The two crossed the street and entered the gallery. The place was rather dark. Not much light entered in from the windows, and the room lighting was diffused. The only areas of bright li
ght were where the paintings and sculptures were located. Mostyn hadn’t paid attention to the artwork on the ground floor, when he entered the building the previous night. He now had his chance to rectify that omission.

  To Dotty, he said, “Most of this stuff is hideous. Why would anyone want to buy it, let alone display it?”

  “Beats me,” Dotty replied. “Art’s not my thing.”

  “Hello. May I help you?” a voice called out from a dark corner. After a moment, a body became visible.

  “We were wondering if James Cortado was here,” Dotty said.

  “I’m François, the owner of the gallery.” He stood with an expectant air about him.

  “I’m Pierce Mossman, and this is Dotty Kemper. We were here last night to see Mr Cortado’s work.”

  “Oh, yes,” François began, “you made a sizable investment.”

  “Who told you that?” Dotty asked.

  “Milt Salzman, his agent. I had to be here at some ungodly hour so your people could pick up the work. God, couldn’t they have picked a decent time of day?”

  “Sorry to ruin your sleep,” Mostyn said. “Is Cortado here?”

  “Mr Cortado is not here, nor is Mr Salzman. Perhaps I can help you?” Although the tone of his voice indicated the exact opposite.

  “Perhaps you can,” Mostyn said, as he pulled out his ID and showed it to François. Mostyn enjoyed watching the gallery owner’s eyes become like saucers.

  “The IRS? Have they done something wrong? I mean, I have the gallery’s reputation to think of.”

  “Can’t say,” Mostyn answered. “We would, though, like to talk to them. Do you happen to know their addresses?”

  “I might have them. Let me check.” He disappeared into the dark corner he’d come from.

  While the gallery owner was gone, Kemper and Mostyn looked at the paintings, sculptures, and pottery.

  “This pot isn’t so bad,” Mostyn said, “but I’m not spending eight hundred bucks to have it on my desk.”

  “Skinflint,” Dotty said.

  “I don’t see you buying anything.”

  “And you won’t. At least here you won’t. Now take me to a gun show and you’d better hold on to your wallet.”