No Rest for the Wicked - Chapter 2

Jerry’s office is a tiny oasis just on the other side of the bustling Vegas strip from where Max lives. His office defies the typical image one might have of a bail bondsman’s space. It’s unexpectedly cozy and inviting, with a warmth that wraps around you as you enter. The soft ambient lighting casts a gentle glow across the waiting room, creating an atmosphere of relaxation. The arranged plush chairs offer comfort, and a bubbling fountain in the lobby adds a soothing auditory backdrop, its gentle trickle reminiscent of a serene brook. The air is fragranced with the delicate scent of blooming flowers, courtesy of an aromatherapy diffuser that spreads tranquility throughout the space.

Max once asked Jerry why his office seemed more like a spa than a bail bondsman’s, and Jerry replied simply, “People are wound up when they need my services; best to make them feel calm and safe, even when they shouldn’t be neither.”

It was that conversation that caused Max to smile a bit as he walked in. Jerry’s explanation that his friend needed help with something related to a murder wasn’t all that relaxing or safe sounding, for that matter. But then again, there is nothing safe about Jerry.

“Alright, Jerry, I’m here. Who’s so important that I had to drag myself off my comfortable couch?”

Jerry was standing just outside his main office in the back, sipping on what was likely a coffee. He posed by the door; cool, dangerous, and effortless. With a dark as night complexion, smooth bald head atop an over six foot lean frame, it’s no wonder he’s a hit with all the ladies and a bit intimidating to most men. Dressed like an upscale businessman in a three piece fitted suit, the bulge of his two Glocks showed underneath the slick dark gray jacket draped over a deep blue shirt.

“A journalist. Bobby Austin. Works for the local paper.”

“How’d you get involved with a journalist?”

“He was investigating some malfeasance associated with the working girls and local brass. One of the fine ladies asked me to check him out to see if he was legit or not.”

“And is he?”

“Yeah, he’s legit. I wouldn’t have facilitated this meeting if he wasn’t.”

“Facilitated? He asked to meet me?”

“He’s aware of your work and asked if I thought you’d help him figure somethin’ out.”

“And you said…”

“I said you would if what he needed was well…legit. And if I asked.”

“And is what he needs legit?”

“Well, I think it’s up your alley, and I don’t think Bobby is the type to lie. So…I’m askin’”

“Alright, for you, I’ll hear this guy out. So where is he?”

“He’ll be here soon. Said he’s about five minutes out.”

A red-faced mess of a man came barreling through the front doors.

“Ah, there he is.”

If there was a figure that was the physical opposite of Jerry, it’d be Bobby. With wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose and a beard that seemed to have a mind of its own, he appeared far older than his actual age. As opposed to effortless, everything this man did seemed to require an inordinate amount of effort. He stormed through the lobby with the force and unpredictability of a tornado, barely sparing Max a glance. His beige slacks were a size too short, and his cream-colored button-up shirt was a crumpled mess with a few old stains…from the colors, likely mustard and coffee.

“You got anythin’ to drink here? I’m parched!” Bobby exclaimed, looking past Jerry into his private office.

Jerry nodded and gestured for Max and Bobby to come into his office and take a seat, closing the door behind Max. “Yeah Bobby, I got some water for ya’.” Handing Bobby water from the mini fridge, Jerry sat behind his desk, looking even more imposing than he does standing up. “Bobby, this is Max. Max, Bobby.”

Bobby glanced over at Max, sizing him up through his smudged lenses. “I heard you do good work, albeit a bit on the more bizarre side.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Around. So you looking for a case?”

“I understood you needed help with a potential case.”

With a sniff, Bobby replied, “I’m not sure I need any help. I manage just fine on my own.”

Max sighed and lifted himself out of the chair, “Alright, then, it’s been fun, Jer. See you tomorrow and bring donuts over next time you come visit for wasting my time tonight.”

Jerry held up a hand. “Now just wait a minute, Max. Bobby, you said you wanted to meet Max, and I have obliged to assist with your request. I’d hate for you to embarrass me in front of my friend and put me in his bad graces. Just go ahead and share with him what you shared with me.”

Bobby slumped in his chair. “He as good as you claim he is?”

Jerry nodded. Max cocked his head at the gesture. High praise, he thought to himself.

Bobby hung his head and breathed in deeply, “Alright, I guess I’ll start at the beginning. I was on assignment over at the Davenport estate to write a piece honoring the late artist Adrian Devine for the paper.”

“Devine…that sounds familiar. Why do I know that name?”

“You don’t seem like much of an art lover, so I would imagine it’s from his untimely murder that made headlines twenty years ago.”

“Ah, there’s the murder you spoke of.” Jerry nodded slightly in agreement. “What do the Davenports have to do with a murdered artist?”

“They have the largest private collection of his work. When he was alive, the Davenport family considered him a close personal friend. There were rumors that perhaps he was a bit too close with the daughter, Erin Davenport.”

“Aren’t the Davenports notoriously private? I’m surprised they’d let a reporter onto the grounds, let alone talk to one.”

“They are private. But the matriarch is determined to change their public image. It was her idea to do the piece on Adrian.”

“Who is the matriarch?”

“Margaret Davenport. Allegedly, she’s a veritable nightmare if she doesn’t get her way. My editor reluctantly agreed to her request. Anyway, I had gotten the interview portion with Mrs. Davenport done and was walking around the premises with her, taking photos of Devine’s work in the house.”

“All of this sounds pretty run-of-the-mill boring so far.”

“That’s because I haven’t told you the crazy part. Later, I headed back to the office to get the photos on the drive and ready for print and start writing the piece. After downloading the pictures, I noticed that each one had changed.”

Max looked at Bobby with a puzzled expression, “What do you mean, they’d changed?”

“I mean, they’d changed, dammit!” Bobby stood up abruptly from his chair and began pacing, “Devine’s work all features families with kids playing around on various sceneries. Think beaches, parks, fairs…that type of place. Anyway, the boys were missing in every photo.”

“Are you sure there were boys in the paintings?”

“Positive.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I personally viewed the paintings and compared the photos to the originals posted on-line; the boys are absent from each image.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t some kind of lighting issue or technical glitch?”

Bobby shook his head vehemently. “No way. The images were perfect, clear as day. But every single one of Devine’s paintings was different. The boys were all gone.”

Jerry spoke up. “Now, tell him what you think this is all about.”

Bobby nodded and sat back down in his chair, this time with a sense of eagerness. “I don’t just think…I know. Devine wasn’t just painting families. He was painting something else. Something buried in those images.”

Max looked at Bobby with skepticism and a twinge of curiosity, trying to sift through the layers of this strange story. Of all the plausible explanations, this one seemed the most outlandish. Doubt crept into Max’s mind, but then again he didn’t have a case, and he’d seen stranger things than paintings changing. And this sort of stuff happened in Vegas, stranger things even. Max had learned to accept more than the average citizen working cases that involved the unexplained, and changing artwork would fit right in with his past work.

“What makes you think this artist did something special with his paintings?”

“Apart from the fact that all the boys are missing? I don’t know! He might have had compromising information on the Davenports. Perhaps his knowledge led to his demise. Maybe they had him and the Davenport girl murdered.”

“Whoa, what murdered Davenport girl?”

“Erin Davenport, the daughter. She died mysteriously after giving birth to Mia Davenport, the alleged love child of Devine, shortly after he died.”

“So, you don’t know that someone murdered her?”

Bobby hesitated wide-eyed, “Well, no, but pretty suspect to die shortly after the untimely murder of her supposed lover.”

“What is the official story about who killed the artist?”

“The cops said it was a robbery gone bad, but I don’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“Bobby here has a healthy sized distrust of the government and police department,” interjected Jerry.

“You say that as if it’s not for good reason! Law enforcement in this town is notorious for turning a blind eye to the truth, hell, even working hand in hand with those who wish to hide the truth. You and I both know that from what I discovered about the beat up call girls story I worked!”

Max rolled his eyes. It’s not that Bobby was wrong. Plenty of cops in plenty of cities are dirty. But saying it doesn’t make it provable. “Okay then, let’s see these photos you took.”

Bobby swallowed hard. “Right now?”

“Yeah, I mean all you’ve given me is rumor that the Davenports had Adrian Devine murdered because he was bonkin’ Erin Davenport, who they also murdered after she had a baby. That’s all regular private eye work. The only thing that might engage my expertise is this allegation that these paintings changed on their own by some sort of power or will. So, let’s see em’.”

“You can trust Max. Let’s look at the pictures, Bobby,” Jerry held out his hand expectantly.

Bobby eyed Max again.

“You’re a real skittish one, aren’t you? Look, I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”

“Fine,” Bobby pulled out a removable hard drive from his pocket and handed it to Jerry, “These are the digital photos.”

Jerry plugged in the drive and brought up the files, turning his monitor to face all three men.

“See?” Bobby pointed at the screen, his voice tinged with excitement. “I told you it wasn’t just a printing error.”

Leaning closer, Max scrutinized the digital images. Jerry brought up the original works on-line and put them next to the photos. The photos didn’t match the paintings.

“This is intriguing, for sure. But where do I come in?”

“The police obviously covered something up,” Bobby sputtered, back up on his feet, pacing again. “Someone murdered Devine, and I bet the LVPD knows who and helped bury the evidence.”

“That’s a big accusation.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve seen how they operate. I guarantee they didn’t investigate Devine’s murder thoroughly. They probably rushed the entire investigation.”

Jerry leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Corrupt cops? No surprise. But that’s not much to go on.”

Bobby pointed at the screen. “This is something. Devine was painting families, but maybe he was painting something else, something someone didn’t want seen.”

Max furrowed his brows. “What does that even mean? Do you think someone painted over the boys? Or do you think they are fakes?”

“No. I saw those paintings up close, and no one had painted over them and I don’t believe the Davenports would ever have a fake anything in their mansion. You’re the expert on all these mysterious and bizarre phenomena! That’s why I wanted to meet with you. I deal in facts, not…whatever this is.”

Jerry leaned forward and asked Max, “Don’t you have that buddy on the force? Maybe he’s got some inside scoop or something.”

“Flip?” Max said, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine him having any clue about art or anything as bizarre as boys vanishing from paintings.”

“He could offer additional details concerning the Devine murder.”

Bobby looked over at Max hopefully. “So?”

“So…I’ll do my best to dig up some information. I can’t promise I’ll find anything from Flip. This murder was before he was on the force. But I can poke around about it.”

“I know I’m onto something with this, but I just can’t get a good foot hold on it.”

“I don’t find it hard at all to believe you struggle to get a grip on things sometimes.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jerry piped in, “Alright, relax. Max just likes to bust balls, is all. I appreciate you helping my friend out, as a favor to me.”

Well shit, Max thought to himself as he got up from his chair. Now he absolutely has to dig into this painter’s life and death, and become a bit of an art buff while he’s at it, “You bet, Jer. Happy to help.”