Roger L. agreed to meet with me at his art gallery, which was located in an upscale area of the city. Roger appeared calm. He said he’d heard about Stephen’s death from his assistant - apparently it’d made the news. Beneath Roger’s well-groomed exterior, I sensed a darkness. Maybe it was the coldness in his gaze, or his clipped, almost disengaged manner. He gave me a short tour of his gallery. He was quite proud of it. I told him I didn’t know a damn thing about art and was here to ask him about Stephen. This didn’t seem to bother Roger at all.
“I met Stephen when he walked into my gallery with a few small paintings and objets d’art. He was interested in selling them to me. Most of what he had was worthless, but a few pieces were unique, and quite valuable.”
“Did he say where he got them?”
“He told me he had inherited them from an uncle who had travelled throughout Asia while in the military. He was knowledgable about their provenance. I took his word for it. Most people with old art don’t have their original reciepts.”
“When was the last time you saw Stephen?”
“The day he was killed, apparently. I met him at a bar near his home. He wanted cash for a jade statuette I was keen on having.”
I nodded. “It was in Stephen’s apartment.” I didn’t mention that it had been used to bash in Stephen’s skull. “Why didn’t you buy it?”
“He was insisting that I buy other pieces from him, along with the jade statuette. I refused.”
“Why? Were the other pieces worthless?”
Roger smiled, but it was without warmth. “Not quite. He gave me a laquer jewelbox to appraise. I found something in it that was… disheartening.”
“And what was that?”
“Drugs. The telltale residue of white powder. And what looked to be a ‘fix kit’ - a syringe, a pack of needles, and a small burnt spoon.”
“Have you seen a lot of fix kits?”
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