Chapter 10: Derek

Dealing with Sergeant Jones was even worse the second time around.

Although it wasn’t his jurisdiction, the Sergeant was looped in because of their recent interaction after Kevin’s death. The Columbus police officers that responded to the scene let him join their interrogation via a conference call.

The phrase “conspiracy-theory whack-job” was employed multiple times throughout the course of the conversation.

“So, let me get this straight,” Jones said. “You hired these friends of yours, the Harts to help prove your girlfriend was framed. They tell you in the nicest possible way that you’re full of shit, that she’s guilty as hell. Then, as you’re leaving, your vehicle gets sabotaged, which, according to you proves that someone is out to get you. You know what I think?”

Derek sat, arms crossed, exhausted. “You would be wrong.”

“Oh, am I?” The sergeant dominated the conversation, even though he was connecting remotely. The Columbus cops seemed content to sit back and give him the floor.

“We pulled the logs, and your car received the bad update right after you parked, when you were right next to it. The way I figure it, you set it up before you left, expecting bad news. This is your fucked-up idea of a contingency plan, yeah? The only other person anywhere near that spot was a cute Asian girl one level down. She was playing on her mobile and had one of those stuffed, purple Pet-Me-Poodle things clipped to her backpack. Maybe she did it. Or maybe, just maybe, you sabotaged your own car to get our attention. Well guess what? You have our attention and we are not amused.”

“On her mobile?” Derek asked, suddenly more interested. “She could have been sending the firmware update. Who was she?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me. We don’t know and we don’t care. She is not a person of interest at this time.”

In the end, they let him go. He had to sign a statement acknowledging responsibility and committing to pay for all damage caused by the incident. In exchange, the statement explicitly guaranteed that there would be no further civil or criminal liability beyond the money required to repair the bus stop.

Jones’ exasperated sigh was clearly audible over the line. “I’ve been doing this thirty years, and I’m telling you, that idiot’s going to cause a lot more trouble before he’s finished. Keep an eye on him.” Then he hung up.

After Jones hung up, and before he left the station, Derek tried one more time to get information out of the Columbus cops. “So, now that I’ve signed, would you answer a question for me? Tell me, you didn’t even try to track down the Pet-Me-Poodle girl?”

The two cops glanced at each other. “Alright, fine,” one of them said. “But get this through your head: I’m only telling you this because I have this sixth sense, call it a gut feeling, that you’ll be back here harassing us if I don’t. We don’t know who she is because she didn’t park her own car there. She was headed up towards the rentals. Lots of apartments near there, and they give you a discount if you pick the car up from the garage, so walk-ins are pretty common. You can see on the tape she was on her mobile with someone, then changes her mind, turns around and walks out.”

Before Derek could ask the obvious follow-up question, the officer continued. “Legally, I can’t give you the video, but it doesn’t matter because she never looks directly up at the cameras so facial recognition is out. If you really want to go down that road, you’ll have to go bother the mobile companies and get them to tell you who had live mobiles in the parking garage. But, so we’re clear, if I get a call from a mobile tech tomorrow I might have some trouble remembering this conversation.”

Derek sighed again. “Bother someone else. I seem to be hearing that a lot lately.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Derek gritted his teeth, called up a Lyft on his mobile and allowed himself be carted home by the obnoxious, obsequious iCruise auto-nav in the rental.

Then he carefully, methodically proceeded to turn his home into a fortress. Next time, he wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

The machinery in his workshop could manufacture the steel-reinforced doors but a special order was necessary to acquire the bullet-proof glass for the windows. The new camera placements made certain to get full coverage with video, audio and even thermal imaging.

That left the most critical, and most expensive component: the security drones. Only non-lethal models were legal. However, the market offered an enormous variety of creative solutions that danced on the edge of what the law permitted.

Derek was browsing an impressive catalog of these models and didn’t pay much attention when an order came in, barely giving the email a second look.

When the call came, he neglected to glance at the caller ID, but the warm voice was instantly recognizable.

“Hello, dear. When can I expect my new chairs? Order number 96352, by the way.”

Derek took a deep breath. “Lydia. It’s been a while.”

“Too long. But business before pleasure. Please, tell me I won’t have to break out the folding chairs again for my gallery auction in two weeks. Pretty please?”

Lydia knew him well. Caring, or pretending to care about the furniture rather than their history was a perfectly tailored form of flattery, a blatant peace-offering. He wasn’t certain how to feel about that.

But, for now, she was asking to be treated like a customer, and that was something he could do. “One moment, let me pull up your order. Here we go. Your delivery is scheduled for the twenty-fourth between two and four. Next Tuesday soon enough for you?”

Of course, she should have already received an email with the scheduled delivery date. That’s how the automated system worked.

“That will be lovely, thank you. I don’t suppose you’d like to attend our auction? I know how you treasure Game Day, and I happen to know there’s going to be a few Leonov pieces up for sale.”

He’d first met Lydia when he bought that painting. It still hung on his bedroom wall.

“Ah, well,” he said. “I like it so much that I’m not particularly interested in cluttering up the wall space around it. I’m going to have to pass.”

“Mmm. I’d really like the chance to change your mind. How about dinner, this Friday, just you and me? Anywhere you want. My treat.”

“Anywhere?” He was suspicious that Lydia’s interest might be connected to everything else that had happened recently. His paranoia warred with his desire for answers. The deciding factor was his curiosity as to whether she would follow through on her offer. “In that case, why don’t you stop by the house and let me cook for you? How about seven o’clock.”

Lydia had always hated his house, and in particular how it doubled as his workplace. She insisted it wasn’t respectable.

Derek would have taken her concern more seriously if the sound-proofing wasn’t so effective. It was impossible to tell when the machinery was on unless you were standing inside the workshop, but that didn’t stop Lydia from claiming the noise bothered her. That included numerous instances when the workshop was not, in fact, running.

“Friday at seven, it’s a date,” she said, more readily than he anticipated. “And this way you can show me where you have Game Day. I’d love to discuss the aesthetics, how you might best accommodate a second piece.”

“I haven’t moved it in the last two years,” he informed her, as if she hadn’t already guessed as much, as if he missed the obvious innuendo.

“Well, I may have a few ideas for you then. I’m looking forward to Friday.”

After she hung up Derek stared ahead, unable to focus.

Maybe Lydia was truly desperate to boost the attendance at her next auction. She certainly cared enough about her art gallery that she might reach out to him. But still, why now?

Maybe she honestly wanted to get back together for some reason, wanted to get back into his bedroom in the hope of picking up where they left off. He’d wounded her pride when he dumped her and Derek had the distinct impression that Hell would freeze over before she ever forgave him for that.

On the other hand, maybe something else was going on.

Was that phone call unusual? Yes. How unusual? How out of character was she acting? How sure could he be?

His eyes refocused on the screen in front of him.

It was time to take the initiative. It wasn’t as if he would have done anything that wasn’t strictly platonic with Lydia on Friday. He had made the offer out of curiosity, but waiting suddenly seemed like a bad idea. Better to surprise her, to catch her off guard.

Derek’s new car arrived that afternoon. The following morning he received a large package from a security company that contained, among other things, a mobile signal jammer. That would ensure there wasn’t a repeat of the incident that destroyed his previous vehicle. He was on the road an hour later.

Aside from the paintings on the wall, Lydia’s gallery in the Short North hadn’t changed much. He approved of the overall aesthetic: the polished hardwood floors, the airy, open atmosphere, the off-white walls and the plant in the corner which provided a splash of life to the ambiance.

Though attractive, the gallery had always made Derek uneasy. Things were a little too crisp, a little too neat, a little too perfect. There wasn’t a speck of dust, and while the plant was real there wasn’t a single yellow leaf on it. There was a smug pretentiousness about the gallery that made him feel out of place.

It was also possible that came entirely from his impression of the owner.

Unsurprisingly, she wasn’t immediately visible when he entered. One of Lydia’s well-paid art students was at the front desk. Derek knew he was a well-paid art student because she found every opportunity to mention her good relationship with the professors at Ohio State and how she enjoyed giving the students a leg up.

“I spoke with Lydia yesterday about a few Leonov pieces that will be up for auction next week,” he told the kid. “Is she here now?”

“Yes, she’s in her office. I’ll get her.”

If Lydia was surprised to see him, she hid it well. She greeted him with a warm, practiced smile. “Well, look who it is! So good to see you.”

She was almost exactly how he remembered her: Lydia was beautiful, and it was obvious that she spent a lot of time and effort making sure this was the case. Her honey-blonde hair had the perfect amount of curl to it. The neckline of her black dress was just low enough to show off her body while still qualifying as elegant.

“And you,” Derek smiled back. “I thought over what you said, and you’re right. I might have room for another painting. Why don’t you show me what you have?”

“It’s wonderful to have you here, though I should clarify that the Leonovs we discussed currently aren’t on display. They won’t be here until the auction next week. I do, however, have the full catalog in my office. Shall we?” She motioned back towards her office.

When they were both in her office, Lydia closed the door behind her. Her voice retained much of its warmth, even if her words didn’t match the tone. “You really are a twenty-four-karat asshole, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me about her?”

Her sudden anger didn’t surprise Derek. No one could hold a grudge like Lydia.He did, however, have to fight the urge not to ask how she knew about Morgan. He had to admit taking advantage of her situation by becoming her keyholder might well qualify him as an asshole, even if it was in both of their interests.

Lydia hadn’t mentioned a name, though. While he planned confront her about whatever involvement she might have in whatever was going on with Morgan, playing dumb was probably the right move.

“Excuse me?” he tried to sound indignant. “Who are we talking about now?”

“Oh, spare me,” Lydia rolled her eyes. “You’re here because you thought better of making me dinner and then going upstairs to, you know, find a spot for that painting. So who’s the poor girl you’re stringing along now?”

“Not that it’s any of your business but there is someone. We’ve been to dinner once, and I think it’s fair to say I want to see her again. That’s as far as we got. Is this about jealousy, or do you sell artwork here?”

“Oh, now you want to talk about art.” Lydia crossed her arms in front of her. “Sure. But that’s what you do, isn’t it? You change the subject instead of talking about anything. You sit there and sit there and everything is fine until it isn’t. Don’t pretend you’re going to show up for the auction. You’re here to give me the brush off? Fine. At least have the decency to admit it.”

Derek hesitated, gauging how best to phrase his response. “I’ll admit that while I’m open to buying something, I’m mainly here because I’m curious. It’s been two years and it’s not as if you didn’t already know when your delivery was scheduled when you called. So why now?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You are curious about where things stand? Are you kidding?”

“It’s either that or I’m really excited about art. Take your pick.”

“I thought we could talk, that’s why. You’re right, it has been a while. But I was happy, you seemed happy, we were talking about getting married. Then you left. Did it ever occur to you that I might still be wondering what happened? Or should I ask, who happened? Some tall, blue-eyed redhead grab your attention, or what?”

Tall, blue-eyed redhead? That was oddly specific. He immediately thought of Ed, though that wouldn’t make any sense.

“Back then, there was no one else, I promise,” he told her. “It wasn’t working, that’s all. We’re too different.”

“That’s what you said two years ago. Care to give me another hint?”

Derek couldn’t understand how she didn’t see the problem. They were polar opposites. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Fine, sure,” he said. They were in an art gallery so that’s where his mind went when trying to explain. “So, you know I hate abstract art, right? You remember why?”

“When I asked for a hint, it wasn’t because I wanted to play twenty questions.”

“Good art is based in reality. It’s a painting or a sculpture or a song of something, about something real. I look at Game Day and I see the festivities, feel the excitement in that crowd. It conveys something, because I recognize what’s going on in that scene. Leonardo da Vinci studied human anatomy so he could get human figures right. That’s art. Abstract art, it’s random paint on a canvas. By definition, it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t communicate anything. A five-year-old could do it. But a Rothko original is still a hundred million dollar status symbol. And well, the problem is that I don’t think you can tell the difference between a status symbol and something real.”

“You left because I don’t hate Mark Rothko,” Lydia was clearly annoyed now. “Right. If you’re not going to be straight with me, you can leave.”

“No, that’s not—” he’d never had to put this into words before. “That was an example. And it’s not that you don’t hate Rothko. If you genuinely love that crap, fine, but I can’t see how anyone would. But I don’t think you love it either. If you did, that would be different, that would be great. I just don’t think anyone, if they’re being honest, really loves Rothko. What I’m trying to say is you don’t have an opinion. With you, it’s all about the current fashion. You care more about the artist than the artwork, more about the label than the taste, more about the brand than the quality. Everything is about appearances with you.”

Lydia uncrossed her arms, walked over and put an arm on his shoulder. “I hate to break this to you, dear, but that’s how the world works. Ninety percent of success is appearing successful. No need to shoot the messenger.”

He’d heard that one before, and there was a kernel of truth in it. However, it wasn’t so much the way of the world as the way of a certain type of person. The world was made up of people. He didn’t like that sort of person, the sort that let themselves be influenced by symbols, that let everyone else make up their mind for them.

He chose not to acknowledge her comment. “Back then, I was thinking of proposing. You weren’t all that subtle in hinting that you wanted a ring from that one jeweler. I forget his name now, but anyway, I bought one. I was looking at it, and I couldn’t get over how hideous the thing was. All the other rings he had for sale were even worse. I know, I know, all real diamonds and gemstones mined instead of made in a lab. It still looked like some freakish alien bug-eyed thing. You actually wanted to wear that monstrosity, or something like it, for the rest of your life. That’s when I realized it was all a huge mistake.”

Lydia shook her head sadly. “You really don’t get it, do you? You think the point of an engagement ring is to look pretty?”

Derek shrugged. “Mostly. I mean if you’re wearing one it means you’re taken, but any cheap ring would do that. And, it proves a guy is willing to spend money, but come on. I don’t think I needed to prove anything there. Other than that, the point of an expensive ring is to look nice, since you’re always wearing it, right?”

“No,” Lydia said. “It’s not about a man proving his worth to his fiancée. It’s about proving it to everyone else. You wear a Palmieri original, and everyone knows what it is. Every man who sees a ring like that will think twice about trying to hit on the woman wearing it. He will instantly know she’s out of his league. It’s real-life magic.”

“So you tell the jerks to buzz off, how hard is that?” Derek didn’t see how impressing people was such a big deal, especially in his personal life. “I don’t care about proving anything to anyone. I don’t need to. It’s about what I do, not what other people think.”

Lydia shook her head again. “Oh, dear. I really don’t like insulting your entire gender, but only a man could ever say that. Try taking a stroll through the park in August and telling the mosquitoes to ‘buzz off.’ Insect repellent works better.”

“But—” Derek took a moment to decide how to respond.

“Even if I believed that other peoples’ opinions are so important — which I don’t — even then, there has to be more. What do you actually like, yourself, for yourself? I could never figure it out. Your gallery here, sure, but that’s turning appreciation of other people’s work into a business. I’m not sure I ever saw you point at one particular piece in your gallery and say ‘That. I really like that.’ It’s always, ‘This one is interesting because... ‘“

“Once upon a time, I really liked you,” Lydia said. “But evidently I have terrible taste in men.”

“Did you really?” Derek realized he’d veered dramatically off course from why he’d originally come here, but it felt good to vent some of the lingering frustration he still felt towards his ex. “Because maybe that’s the real problem. You care so much for status symbols, I started to get the impression I was nothing more to you than another one for your collection. Then you could put a little tick mark besides ‘rich, successful husband.’”

“You think I was with you for your money?“ Lydia was incredulous. “You know how much I have in my trust fund.”

“Not the money, but the status of someone who already had it. You said it yourself. You wanted a ring that could tell the world how wealthy your man is. Suppose a guy walked into your gallery and you hit it off great, but then you learned he was only looking, admiring your art even though he could never afford anything. Maybe he’s just a poor delivery driver. They’re still around, you know. The high end shops don’t use drones. He’s in after his shift because he loves art and you get to talking, and he asks if you’d like to grab some coffee. Think you could ever be with someone like that?”