Page 51 of A Talent for Murder

“Great,” Henry said. “Chris Salah. I’ll check in with him in the morning.” He took a step back from the door.

“His phone number is probably on the website,” Rebecca said, her voice suddenly friendlier now that Henry was backing away.

“Thank you again, you’ve been very helpful to someone who knocked on your door in the middle of the night.”

“It’s not quite the middle of the night,” she said.

“How long have you been married to Robert?” Henry said.

She moved her mouth to the side while she thought, then said, “Four years now.”

“Was he running a gallery here when you met him?”

“God, no. He was a dealer, though, an art dealer, but it was all online. I’m the one who convinced him to have a gallery. You don’t really think he’s in financial danger, do you?”

“Please don’t worry about it. The person I’m looking into did take quite a lot of money from my client, and then your husband’s name showed up as another potential client for this same person. Does your husband like to gamble with his money?”

“With my money, you mean?” she laughed. “No. My husband is only interested in art. I mean, he loves to sell a painting, but unless he leads some kind of secret life, I don’t think he’s investing in get-rich-quick schemes.”

Rebecca didn’t seem worried, and Henry thought it was probably because her husband had no access to her own wealth. He could also tell that she’d decided that he was harmless, and for a moment he considered pulling out his phone, showing her the old headshot of Ethan Saltz, then asking if that was her husband. He wasn’t sure she’d tell him, though, and he was sure that as soon as he did that, she’d become very suspicious, probably warn her husband that someone had come around snooping. He decided he could wait until morning to confirm the identity of Robert Charnock.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he said. “I’ll call on Chris Salah in the morning. You’ve been very helpful.”

Henry had been parked outside of the Charnock Gallery since dawn when a stylish man he assumed was Salah bounded up the steps at ten a.m. and let himself in the front door. During the night he’d managed two fitful hours of sleep in the backseat of his car, then gone to a twenty-four-hour diner for coffee and to use their restroom to clean up.

He knew he would have to act fast if and when Salah arrived. The most important piece of information was whether Robert Charnock was actually Ethan Saltz. If he wasn’t, then he needed to go back to the drawing board, also called the internet, and keep looking. But if Charnock was Saltz, then he’d need to find out where he was. Either he had kidnapped Lily, or he had killed her and hidden the body. Henry pushed that latter thought, the most likely scenario, to the back of his brain.

Henry got out of the car and walked across the tree-lined street to the stone steps that led up to the Gothic façade of the gallery. There was a simple sign by the ornate front door that indicated that the Charnock Gallery resided here, and below the sign was a doorbell and a speaker box. He pressed the bell.

A muffled voice came through the speaker box, saying hello.

“I’m looking for either Robert Charnock or Chris Salah,” Henry said.

“Did you have an appointment?”

“I’m here on an urgent criminal matter,” he said. “I’m a licensed private investigator and Rebecca Grubb told me to come here.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The man who opened the door was about what you’d expect a high-end gallery manager to look like. He was dressed in salmon trousers and a linen-ish jacket in a blue check. He was very slender and had an impeccable haircut. “I’m Chris Salah,” he said, as Henry stepped through the opened door. “Is Robert okay?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “I haven’t spoken to him. Is there a place we can sit?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, and they went down a short hallway tiled in black-and-white and into a cluttered office with two desks, one that sat in a bay window and one that was pushed against the opposite wall. “Robert’s not here,” Salah said, “so we can sit at his desk.”

Henry looked around the small office space. It could have been the offices for an insurance company except that on the largest wall hung an enormous abstract oil painting and on Charnock’s desk there was a small ballerina sculpture that looked like it might have been a Degas. Salah must have seen Henry’s eyes go to the sculpture and said, “It’s a fake, but Robert always says it’s the best fake he’s ever seen.”

“First things,” Henry said, and pulled up a photograph on his phone, leaning across the desk to show to Salah. “Can I confirm that this is your boss, Robert Charnock?”

Salah looked at the photograph and frowned, and for a moment Henry thought that he’d just run out of luck. Then Salah said, “About ten years ago, sure.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, taking a seat across from Salah. “I don’t mean to be dramatic, but there’s been some confusion about Charnock’s real identity, and I wanted to make sure that we are talking about the same man.”

“Is he in trouble?” Salah asked, his voice more excited than concerned.

“He isn’t,” Henry said. “But I do need to locate him as soon as possible. Do you know where he is?”

Salah sighed. “I think he’s in Maine right now. He travels a lot, going to antique stores and estate sales. It’s his absolute passion. I can call him for you if you’d like.”

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