FanStory.com - Unfinished Brushstrokes Chap 17by Begin Again

Police cruisers with flashing lights filled the busy street outside the train depot and the auction house, creating a spectacle as Nick's arrest unfolded. Curious onlookers, including auction participants, gathered near the large bay windows, murmuring and pointing as the dramatic scene played out.

Dylan spotted Jenna and Garth as they weaved their way through the crowd. When they joined him, he asked, "What's happening over there?

"Donatelli and his crew made an arrest. They believe it's the guy responsible for Megan's kidnapping," Garth replied.

Dylan's eyes widened in shock. "Megan was kidnapped? How come I didn't hear about this before now?"

"It was all hush-hush because some believe a very prominent judge was involved," Jenna whispered.

"Doyle?" Dylan asked anxiously. "Did they catch him?"

Garth shook his head. "They nabbed some young kid picking up the ransom money. He'll be left holding the bag unless he gives up the judge."

"Do you think he'll fold? It would be awesome if he provided us with something to use against this guy."

"Don't get too ahead of yourself. The way the ransom drop was carried out seemed haphazard to me. I can't believe a clever person like the judge would arrange it that way. There's definitely more to the story, but Donatelli didn't share much."

"So, if Donatelli isn't giving you any information, how did you end up here when it happened?" Jenna questioned.

"Dylan texted me about some paintings and suggested I come look. Perfect timing, I guess."

"Paintings?" Jenna stared at Dylan. "Are you sure?"

"No! I saw them only from a distance, and then the security guard kicked me out."

"Let's keep a low profile and wander around the room. You can point out the storage room, Dylan. We don't want to raise too much commotion if we don't have to,"

"It's that one near the back door exit sign. I believe the security guard locked it."

"Not a problem." Garth strolled down the aisle, stopping now and then to examine an antique or something else that looked interesting. When he reached the storage room, he tried the handle but found it locked.

A gruff male voice called out, "Hey, you, the Cowboy, can't you read? The sign says only authorized personnel."

Garth smiled. "Then we don't have a problem because I'm authorized."

"Do you think you're funny? I know who works here and who doesn't. You aren't on the list," the guard snarled.

"That's where you're mistaken." Garth flashed his badge. "This moves me to the top of the list."

The security guard gulped. "You're with the FBI?"

"You're catching on," Garth said, gesturing at the doorknob. I want you to open this door."

"But, sir, no one's allowed —" the guard stammered.

"I assure you I am allowed. Either unlock the door, or I will shut down this auction until someone does."

Reluctantly, the guard removed his keys from his belt and unlocked the door, stepping aside so Garth could enter. "There's nothing of value in there."

"If that's the case, why is it locked, and why are they paying you to guard it?"

As he stepped inside, Garth scanned the cluttered room but found no paintings. "Dylan, where exactly did you see these paintings?"

Dylan moved toward the door and pointed across the room. "They were over there by that stack of boxes. I don't understand."

A male voice boomed as it approached, "Henry, why's this door —"

He stopped when he saw Dylan. "Listen, I was nice the first time, but now you're getting on my nerves. I told you to get out."

"He's with me,"

"I don't know who you are, but I'm telling you the same thing I told him. This is off-limits. Get out, or I'll throw you out."

"Wayne." Henry, the first security guard, stammered.

"Henry, I'm doing my job. If you can't get these guys out of here, I will."

"He's FBI," Henry muttered.

Garth tipped his Stetson and smiled. "Nice to meet you."

"Why didn't you say so before now?"

"We did!" Garth turned around and pointed at the empty spot by the display case. "I'm told there were some paintings near those cases. Mind telling me where they went?"

"He's mistaken. There haven't been any paintings in this room. I don't know what he thought he saw, but there weren't any paintings," the guard insisted, but Garth wasn't easily deterred.

Dylan insisted, "I know what I saw, sir. There was a colorful scarf draped across one section."

Garth walked around to get a closer look. He found a long stick and poked it behind the case. He raised it with the scarf dangling from the tip. "Might this be the scarf?"

Dylan raised his voice. "That's it. That's the scarf."

Garth asked the guard his next question, "Has anyone been in and out of this room?"

"Just him. Haven't seen anyone else after I locked the door."

"What about that door? Can anyone come in and out of it?"

"Yeah, sure, if it's unlocked. It's a loading and unloading entrance when we need it."

Garth tapped his radio and requested additional help. "We'll need to see all the security footage for this room."

"Security footage?"

Garth pointed at the cameras. "Yeah, I want to see what those cameras were filming."

As they waited for the team to arrive and the security guard to provide the requested footage, Garth looked around the room.

Jenna's mind shifted back to her first arrival on the scene and Jackson's strange behavior. She finally decided it was worth mentioning. "Garth, when I parked my car, I saw Jackson putting something in his trunk. He seemed very nervous. Peter, his sales associate, was there too. Is it possible that one of them might have been involved?"

"It is strange that both men would be here. I would like to know what Jackson was putting in his trunk."

"I know they both have financial trouble, and the paintings are worth a fortune," Jenna added. "And I know Peter told me a lie about his wife."

*****

A belligerent Nick sat at the metal table, his hands cuffed in front of him. Donatelli sat across from him, reading a file. The interrogation room was stark except for the buzzing fluorescent lights in the ceiling.

Donatelli broke the standoff. "Nick, let's cut to the chase. We know you set up Megan. You've been involved in this from the beginning. What we'd like to know is who's pulling the strings. My sources say it's Judge Doyle."

Nick's eyes flickered in a brief but noticeable reaction. He quickly straightened his shoulders, but when he spoke, his voice wavered slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Donatelli pounded his fist against the table. "Don't play games with me. We've got reason to believe the Judge is behind this. So, why don't you tell us where Megan is and what Doyle's role is?"

Nick's face hardened. He remained silent, clenching his jaw. After a stare-down, Nick surrendered and spoke. "I don't know where Megan is. And I'm not saying anything about the Judge."

The detective leaned forward, his voice low but icy cold. "Nick, think carefully. Judge Doyle is known in court for throwing the book at people like you. If your case ends up in front of him, you're looking at life. Your only chance is to give us something. Otherwise, we assume you are protecting someone who's far more dangerous. If that's the case, you're toast regardless."

Nick turned away and mumbled, "I want a lawyer."

"Fine. Keep your secrets. But remember, the longer you stay silent, the harder it will be for you once we crack the case."

Donatelli stood and nodded to the guard. "Put him in the tank with the other felons. And make sure he gets his one phone call because he will need it.

Donatelli left the room. The door closed with a heavy thud.

*****

Thirty minutes later, Donatelli was at Margaret Ashley's home. Lydia sat beside her on the sofa, trying to comfort her distraught friend. This was part of the job he hated, delivering bad news after promising the world.

"Margaret, we've apprehended the suspect and recovered the money. We're making progress."

Margaret's face was etched in pain. "Progress? What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice trembled. "You said you'd bring Megan home. Where is she? Did you find her or even have a clue?"

"We're working on it. The kid's involved, but he's not talking yet. We'll wear him down, but it will take time."

Margaret's eyes were wide in desperation. She sobbed, "Time! We're talking about my daughter's life. What if you don't have time?"

"We're doing the best we can."

"I want my daughter! Call Judge Doyle. He'll get you whatever you need. He'll do it for me — for my family."

Donatelli had already surmised that Margaret and John Doyle were having an affair. The fact he'd left town, booked on a fourteen-day cruise, said he was distancing himself from the case and Margaret.

"I'm sorry, Margaret, but Judge Doyle is out of town. He's left instructions that he's not to be disturbed."

Margaret's face paled, her emotions swinging from hope to despair. Lydia squeezed her hand and tried to reassure her friend, but she, too, knew he'd deserted her.

Margaret's voice cracked. "He can't be out of town. He was here. He would have told me."

"Ma'am, I'm told he and his wife are definitely on a Caribbean cruise." Donatelli thought for a moment and then asked, "What did you mean he was here?"

Margaret stammered, "I meant — he was here in town last night. Maybe — maybe he didn't go. Just — find him." Tears rushed from Margaret's eyes. "I need him."

"I understand how you're feeling."

Margaret snapped, "Do you? Do you have children? It's the most gut-wrenching pain anyone could ever feel." She reached out and grabbed his arm. "Please, I need my daughter back. Please find her,"

He nodded solemnly, unable to find the words she needed him to say. "We'll do our best. I'll stay up all night interrogating the boy until he breaks."

*****

While the detective tried to console Margaret, Nick sat on a narrow cot, his face drawn and worried. The cell was quiet, too quiet, except for an occasional clang of metal and distant murmurs from other inmates.

Suddenly, the cell door opened, and a group of rough-looking inmates entered. Their eyes were cold, almost vacant, as they lifted him off the cot.

The leader growled, "Heard you've been getting cozy with the guys upstairs."

Nick's eyes widened with fear. "No, that's wrong. I haven't said a thing."

"Hear that, guys. He says he hasn't said a thing, but that's not what we heard, is it?"

They all laughed. Then, without warning, the inmates buried their fists into his face, his sides, his gut. Their blows landed with brutal force. The sound of punches and grunts filled the small cell. Nick cried for help, but the relentless assault muffled his voice.

As the beating continued, Nick's face lost all similarity to the good-looking young man he'd been. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. His eyes swelled shut.

Finally, the inmates stopped, leaving him crumpled on the cement floor, bloodied and bruised, gasping for air. With a final kick to his torso, they shuffled out of the cell, leaving him in a heap.

The leader slammed the cell door shut. "Maybe now you know you should keep your mouth shut."

As he lay alone in the darkness, he felt himself slip into unconsciousness.

*****

As Donatelli left Margaret's home, his cell rang.

"Donatelli."

"Boss, an ambulance just rushed your guy to the hospital. It doesn't look good."

"What happened?"

"Don't know for sure. Someone did a number on him, that's for sure."

"I want the tapes from every one of those security cameras on my desk when I get there."

"That's the thing. The system was down. We don't have any footage."

Donatelli hung up. "Damn you, Doyle." As he climbed into his vehicle, his only thought was — "I should have listened to Woodman."