A Brilliant Plan

Chapter 10

Word from Alex: Apologies for not posting more during the last weeks, but I had been travelling and working a lot. But I hope I made it up by publishing three chapters at once. 

PHOEBE EASTMAN LIVED north of San Diego in a coastal town called La Jolla, a nice little upbeat beach community. The upper class had their houses while the upper middle class had some apartment complexes thrown in. We parked the car in front of just such a monoculture housing complex and I asked Ron what Phoebe did for a living.

"She is an artist," Ron looked doubtfully at the neighborhood as if it didn't match, which it didn't. La Jolla was more expensive than San Diego, no place for the starving bohemian.

Ron went into the complex; followed the signposts and finally stepped up to a second floor apartment. He rang a bell and a blonde, brown-eyed California dream girl opened the door for us. She had puffed-up eyes and a reddish nose but was all the right sizes, from her hips, to her breasts and her smooth shimmering hair. She wore a straight blue cotton skirt and a striped blouse with a golden necklace visible through the opening at her neck.

Ron did a quick introduction and we sat down in a spacious living room that featured assorted modern minimalistic pictures. Lots of colors and bleeding patterns, abstraction and emotional expression. None revealed any mastership of the brush. We declined a soft drink. Phoebe fetched a box of tissues and the interview began.

"Thank you for seeing us, Miss Eastman," Ron said.

"I still cannot believe what has happened," Phoebe was sniffing in her tissue.

"When did you talk to your father for the last time?"

"Must have been last weekend. Friday or Saturday. We were discussing Thanksgiving prep stuff. Who was supposed to buy what, you know." Nothing to thank for this year, I was thinking, feeling with her.

"You said yesterday that your mother died a few years ago."

Just a sniff and nod in return.

"Did your father talk to you about his work?"

"Oh yes, now and then. Not that it was a very exciting job. He mostly just discusses the highlights and mentions when something special occurs. Like an attempted break-in or things he stumbled on during his rounds, like lovers necking in the backyard lot."

"You were aware of the current assignment he had at the Altward Gallery?"

"Of course, me being an artist and all." She waved around with her arm, probably to indicate that she had created the mono-colored canvases. "He was around great art all night. He had the round for a few months now and we even went there once or twice during the daytime. Dad introduced me to Mr. Altward."

"Did your father mention anything out of the ordinary regarding the Altward Gallery?"

Phoebe shook her head and sniveled into her tissue again.

"No recent attempts, no suspicious cars in the parking lot or nightly rattling doors, no phone calls or hang-ups?"

"No, nothing."

"Were you aware that the showroom on the second floor was a giant safe?"

Phoebe looked at Ron as if he had put her into the suspect basket. "Of course, I think everyone who ever walked up the stairs noticed the heavy doors and the massive frames."

"In his capacity as the responsible watchman, was your father able to get into the safe after hours?"

"As far as I know, he couldn't open the door by himself. Someone in the security company call center could do some emergency overrides but only then, the door would open. The whole thing is computer controlled and can be remotely checked at any time."