Altward. My maiden name is Smith; it is clearly an advantage to keep the Altward-tag in the California art community. It has a better brand value,” she shrugged, boobs bopping.
“Ah, I understand,” Ron said, not.
Marion Altward moved forward to better show off her wonder breasts. “OK, shoot.” I almost laughed out loud at that remark.
Ron was unfazed and he asked questions about the general setup of the gallery, the artists and the daily dealings. Marion Altward leaned over a lot, managed to hitch up her skirt by two inches, without manual intervention, but could not give us anything that we didn’t already know.
“Your ex-husband recently picked up bank loans for about two million dollars. Any idea what he needed the money for?”
Marion shook her head. “But I bet he had a little cash problem after our divorce a year ago. I didn’t strip him but my lawyer got me a nice package.”
“Do you know what he needed the money for?” Ron asked again.
“I can only speculate. Maybe he has a good deal on hand that he needs to finance. Or he needs money up front to prepare a new show? Whatever?”
“You’re still in contact with your ex-husband?”
“Not really, no. We meet now and then at charities or social events and we exchange pleasantries. Or an occasional coffee. But that’s it.”
Ron looked over at me for additional questions. I decided to give it a shot. “What kind of business is Andrew doing with Thomas Cornelius?”
“Is he still around? Cornelius turned up about 18 months ago; I never really got to know him. Andrew and I had already separated and had started fighting for the lot. They worked on some kind of jewelry deal; it was supposed to be a big thing, another breakthrough.” The rolling of her eyes told us what she thought of her ex-husband’s deals. “I don’t know any details, though. There was another partner involved, someone named Max.”
“Max who?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know, but I heard them drop the name several times.”
“Would Mr. Faulkner know anything about it?”
“I assume, him being partner of my former husband.”
“You know anything about the jewelry involved?”
“He made a lot of phone calls to Mexico.” Another shrug, she was bored.
Ron’s notebook page—after intensive interview note taking, showed ten doodles and three words: ‘Max, Mexico and Faulkner,’ which summed it up nicely.
“Thank you very much for your time, we appreciate it,” Ron snapped his notepad shut.
Marion gave him an extra deep look into her front end as we got up. We shook hands and on the way out she said, “By the way, how did that little tramp take the death of her father?”
“Excuse me,” Ron looked at her, bewildered, and for once, dropping his already-know-it-all attitude.
“You know, the California baby doll, Phoebe or whatever her name is, that Andrew went to bed with.”
Ron caught himself in time and said politely, “Miss Eastman is devastated, that is for sure. But I bet your former husband takes good care of her.”
After Marion closed the door behind us and we stepped into the elevator, we exchanged high fives.
“Son of a gun. Andrew shagging the daughter of the night watchman.”
I almost kicked his shins but thought about my consultant status. “Why didn’t they tell us?”
“We didn’t ask!”
“You were too busy interviewing her breasts!” I said and quickly held my mouth shut, not believing what I just had said.
“They answered. Did they not?”
Chapter 13
PAUL FAULKNER WAS the missing partner who turned up again. Although he lived close to Andrew Altward, his accommodations were not as posh as those of his companion. He had a nice condominium with a doorman and reception, but no penthouse, and it was about half the size of Altward’s. Another look at the ocean, Coronado in plain view.
“Must be a nice view after dark,” I mused after the introductions.
Faulkner gave a broad smile, pleased that
“Ah, I understand,” Ron said, not.
Marion Altward moved forward to better show off her wonder breasts. “OK, shoot.” I almost laughed out loud at that remark.
Ron was unfazed and he asked questions about the general setup of the gallery, the artists and the daily dealings. Marion Altward leaned over a lot, managed to hitch up her skirt by two inches, without manual intervention, but could not give us anything that we didn’t already know.
“Your ex-husband recently picked up bank loans for about two million dollars. Any idea what he needed the money for?”
Marion shook her head. “But I bet he had a little cash problem after our divorce a year ago. I didn’t strip him but my lawyer got me a nice package.”
“Do you know what he needed the money for?” Ron asked again.
“I can only speculate. Maybe he has a good deal on hand that he needs to finance. Or he needs money up front to prepare a new show? Whatever?”
“You’re still in contact with your ex-husband?”
“Not really, no. We meet now and then at charities or social events and we exchange pleasantries. Or an occasional coffee. But that’s it.”
Ron looked over at me for additional questions. I decided to give it a shot. “What kind of business is Andrew doing with Thomas Cornelius?”
“Is he still around? Cornelius turned up about 18 months ago; I never really got to know him. Andrew and I had already separated and had started fighting for the lot. They worked on some kind of jewelry deal; it was supposed to be a big thing, another breakthrough.” The rolling of her eyes told us what she thought of her ex-husband’s deals. “I don’t know any details, though. There was another partner involved, someone named Max.”
“Max who?” Ron asked.
“I don’t know, but I heard them drop the name several times.”
“Would Mr. Faulkner know anything about it?”
“I assume, him being partner of my former husband.”
“You know anything about the jewelry involved?”
“He made a lot of phone calls to Mexico.” Another shrug, she was bored.
Ron’s notebook page—after intensive interview note taking, showed ten doodles and three words: ‘Max, Mexico and Faulkner,’ which summed it up nicely.
“Thank you very much for your time, we appreciate it,” Ron snapped his notepad shut.
Marion gave him an extra deep look into her front end as we got up. We shook hands and on the way out she said, “By the way, how did that little tramp take the death of her father?”
“Excuse me,” Ron looked at her, bewildered, and for once, dropping his already-know-it-all attitude.
“You know, the California baby doll, Phoebe or whatever her name is, that Andrew went to bed with.”
Ron caught himself in time and said politely, “Miss Eastman is devastated, that is for sure. But I bet your former husband takes good care of her.”
After Marion closed the door behind us and we stepped into the elevator, we exchanged high fives.
“Son of a gun. Andrew shagging the daughter of the night watchman.”
I almost kicked his shins but thought about my consultant status. “Why didn’t they tell us?”
“We didn’t ask!”
“You were too busy interviewing her breasts!” I said and quickly held my mouth shut, not believing what I just had said.
“They answered. Did they not?”
Chapter 13
PAUL FAULKNER WAS the missing partner who turned up again. Although he lived close to Andrew Altward, his accommodations were not as posh as those of his companion. He had a nice condominium with a doorman and reception, but no penthouse, and it was about half the size of Altward’s. Another look at the ocean, Coronado in plain view.
“Must be a nice view after dark,” I mused after the introductions.
Faulkner gave a broad smile, pleased that
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