Chapter 6:

Arsenal

As a small child, Peter Arsenal was once caught by his mother cutting the family cat’s whiskers with a pair of pinking shears.

Horrified, Peter’s mother confiscated the scissors, soothed poor kitty, banished Peter to his room and immediately made an appointment for her son to see a psychiatrist. Crying by herself in the bedroom later, she hoped against hope that her child wouldn’t grow up into a monster. Perhaps it was just childish curiosity, not cruelty. Perhaps Peter would learn his lesson.

Peter did indeed learn a lesson that day. Don’t get caught.

It wasn’t so much that young Peter was hateful, though he could be. It was more that he just didn’t care. It was fun to hurt others. He didn’t feel any pain when he burned an ant with a magnifying glass or put a tack on his sister’s chair. He felt laughter, pleasure at his ability to control and conquer them. It was fun!

It was easy to guess what answers the psychiatrist wanted to hear, and soon Peter’s mother was reassured that her son was just fine, a pleasant, intelligent boy who felt genuinely sorry for the cat he’d hurt. True, Peter had stopped torturing animals, but that was because his experience with the doctor had shown him something: it’s much more fun to manipulate people than animals.

Peter Arsenal killed a man when he was eighteen. Sneaking back to his dorm room late one night from a girl’s house, he came across a bum, some homeless drunk passed out in an alleyway in his own filth. Nobody’d miss him.

Peter had taken to carrying a bowie knife on his belt. It was easy—too easy. In a quick, lithesome move, he plunged the blade deep into the vagrant’s back. He was rewarded with a soft, bubbling hiccup. Blood coated the vagrant’s lips, and there was no more.

Peter didn’t feel guilty. He had never felt remorse about anything, ever. If you never get caught, you never get punished. And with a drunken bum, who cared, anyway? There were some delicious moments of anticipation afterward, of course—what if someone had somehow seen? What if he were questioned, suspected?

But he wasn’t. The murder didn’t even make the papers.

Peter was tempted to try it again, but in a happy coincidence, Peter was drafted into Vietnam shortly thereafter, and for the next eighteen months, he got to taste as much blood as he wanted. That was enough. Even butchery got boring after a while.

On his return, Peter Arsenal went back to college and received a master’s degree in fine art. Once graduated, he set up a studio in his mother’s home and began painting for a living—or so he tried. He was remarkably productive, but singularly unlucrative. Nobody understood it. (The truth was, people understood it perfectly well—they just weren’t interested in buying it.) Peter soon decided that the art world was populated by malicious troglodytes who wouldn’t know genius from Howdy Doody. Worse, Peter was at the mercy of gallery owners and the jurors of art shows to get his work seen, because if people didn’t see it, they couldn’t buy it.

And Peter didn’t like to be at the mercy of anybody.

So with money bullied from his mother, Peter opened Arsenal Gallery in 1980. Within six months, he realized he’d found the perfect career. Artists, sniveling little idiot savants that they were, answered to him. Why not? Peter was rich, attractive, influential, and often charming. Even some young artists whose careers had been decimated by the whims of Peter Arsenal came away from it thinking he was a compassionate man. Painters and sculptors would go to the most absurd lengths to win the honor of a solo exhibition. Fawned over him, said pretty things, bought him expensive luncheons and (in the case of some of the ladies) even administered spirited blowjobs in the hopes of landing a show at the very exclusive, elite Arsenal.

He was free to crush them to his heart’s content.

And so Peter Arsenal went on to spend the next three decades in pure bliss. He was important, sought after, successful, provocative, exciting—everything he could have hoped for as an artist, and more. He had a good critical eye and a talent for business, of course, he never could have succeeded if he hadn’t, but more importantly, Peter Arsenal had no fear. He had killed a man in cold blood when he was little more than a child himself. He had slaughtered in the Vietnamese jungle. He had been held captive a primitive dungeon for a week during the war before fighting his way out. If these selfish little artistes whoring their work thought they could threaten him, well…it couldn’t be done.

And the same went for the two tiresome detectives facing Peter Arsenal now over the conference table in his office suite. Peter: tall, elegant, with perfect waves of blond hair and an gracefully tailored suit. The detectives: an older, jowly Italian man who should stop buying his suits at Sears and a chubby woman of about thirty who really needed a push-up bra and a good orthodontist.

Peter bared his teeth pleasantly at the detectives. “I understand that this is your job, officers, and that it’s necessary for you to be thorough, but I don’t see the purpose of our going over everything again. I have a gallery to run and an exhibition to mount. Surely you must realize that this is my bread and butter we’re talking about.”

The older, heavyset detective, Pisciotta, flickered his eyes around Peter Arsenal’s office, with its exquisite design and lush appointments. “Yeah, I can see you’re on the brink of starvation here.”

Buckley, the chunky woman detective assigned to the good cop role, smiled in sympathy. “We apologize for taking your time, sir. We just have a few more questions. I’m sure you understand the necessity of having all the facts.”

Peter Arsenal sighed. There had been “just a few more questions” all afternoon. Why on earth were these plebian shamuses zeroing in on him? (Even in his internal monologues, Peter Arsenal used the proper plural.) There was no discernible reason for Peter to have organized a robbery. No monetary problems, no political reasons, and of course the last thing any sane gallery owner wanted to do was lose the contents of an entire show, putting him in hot water not only with the individual artists, but with the entire American Medallic Sculpture Association and all its affiliated entities. To do so was tantamount to professional suicide.

Which, of course, was why it was so brilliant.

Peter Arsenal folded his hands on the conference table. “Very well. Of course, you officers must pursue the matter with due diligence. You’re clearly very good at your job.”

Pisciotta looked at the gallery owner coldly. Buckley nodded and commented on how much they both appreciated his cooperation.

“Before this turns into a mutual admiration society,” said Pisciotta, “let’s get back on track. Arsenal. What I’m not getting here is, why on earth, if you didn’t trust Margaret Milton, and she never met the art shippers or ever closed out a show for you, why in god’s name would you leave her in charge of giving the show over to the art shippers? Doesn’t make sense.”

Peter Arsenal closed his eyes patiently. When he opened them, Pisciotta and Buckley were still there. “As I told you earlier, it’s simple. She has an excellent resume. More than a decade of experience. And my trust was borne out by the fact that she did do her job correctly.”

Pisciotta glared frankly. “Let me get this straight. Helping the thieves load the truck was correct? Buckley, you hear that?”

She nodded. “It’s interesting. You know, Mr. Arsenal, you’re absolutely right about Ms. Milton doing everything correctly, and she does have a lot of experience, but one thing ten years of experience in San Francisco isn’t going to do is familiarize her with local art shippers. If you’d been there, you would have recognized them—or not recognized them, actually—wouldn’t you?”

Peter Arsenal bared his teeth again. “Most likely. That’s where the thieves were lucky.”

Pisciotta’s fist hammered the tabletop. “That’s not luck, Arsenal, that’s what we call inside information. And the one person who knew you wouldn’t be there would be you. So let’s go over this again. Who knew you were going to—” He stopped when a beeeep sounded. “I thought you shut off your cell phone.”

Peter Arsenal shifted uncomfortably. “I did. This is another phone.” It beeped again as he drew it from his attaché case. It was the special pre-paid phone he’d purchased anonymously in a convenience store for the sole purpose of communicating with the thieves. They weren’t supposed to be calling yet, damn them. Where was the power off button?

“You got two phones?” Beeeep. Pisciotta sighed grimly. “Here, give it to me, I’ll switch it off.”

Peter Arsenal was trying in vain to find the power button. It beeped again. He couldn’t let the detective have the phone, he’d be able to see the Caller ID. “If I just ignore it, it will go to voice mail.” Beeeep. “Should stop ringing any second.” And it did. Satisfied, he turned back to the detectives. “What was the question, again?”

“Why you got two cell phones?” Pisciotta demanded.

“My mother is ill,” Peter bluffed. “I got the phone so my family can get a hold of me immediately if things take a turn for the worst.”

Buckley put her hand on Pisciotta’s arm to stop him from speaking. “So it’s only your family who has the number?”

“Precisely.”

She flashed a concerned smile. “And they’ll only call in case of an emergency?”

Belatedly, Peter realized the trap she was setting. “I don’t recognize the number on the caller ID. It’s not my family.”

“Could be the hospital calling,” said Pisciotta. “Can’t use cell phones in a hospital.”

“She’s being cared for at home,” Peter lied.

“So? Could be a visiting nurse.”

The phone beeped again.

Pisciotta stabbed a finger at the cell phone. “Better answer it.”

Peter glanced down and looked at the screen. Beeeep. The thieves again. “Same number.”

Buckley shifted in her chair. “Your mother could be dying, Mr. Arsenal.” Beeeep. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

Beeeep.

“Probably telemarketers. They’ve called before.” Beeeep.

“Go on and answer it. We’ll wait.” Pisciotta cracked his neck. Beeeep. “I got all the time in the world.”

Peter opened the phone and said carefully, “Peter Arsenal.”

One of the thieves said, “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

“Hello?”

“Hello. Can you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, you’re breaking up.”

The voice was crystal clear. “I can hear you fine. What, you can’t hear me?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“I’ll try—”

Click. Peter replaced the phone on the table. “Bad connection,” he explained.

“Maybe you should call them back,” Pisciotta suggested, with a sardonic smile. Beeeep. “Well, look at that. They called you.”

Buckley tried to maintain her good cop routine. “I hope your mother is all right. You really ought to answer it.” Beeeep.

“Not everyone has a good relationship with his mother,” said Pisciotta.

“Of course they do,” his partner replied. Beeeep. “Mothers are the salt of the earth.”

God, enough! Peter Arsenal snatched up the phone and hissed, “I’m being interrogated by the police! Do you mind?”

“Uh, no. Cheerio.” And the thief broke the connection.

Peter calmly closed the phone and took a deep, cleansing breath. “What were you saying, officer?”

Pisciotta drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I’m saying this stinks. The whole thing reeks. Come on, Buckley, I want to make some phone calls.”

Buckley stood up with Pisciotta. “Mr. Arsenal, don’t plan on taking any trips in the near future. We’ll be speaking to you again soon.”

“Yeah, maybe on that private cell phone of yours.” Pisciotta put his notebook in his breast pocket. “Don’t get up. We can find the door ourselves.”

And then the detectives were gone, presumably to track down the troublesome cell phone.

Peter cursed the detectives under his breath and picked up the cell. With the touch of a button—ah, and there was the elusive power button, on the side of the phone—he tried the thieves. No answer. They probably thought it was a trap. Why had they called, anyway? No trouble with the fence, he hoped.

The police were becoming extremely irritating. They’d gotten it into their heads immediately that Peter was behind the theft, and while it was rather satisfying to be seen as the criminal mastermind, the idea of being caught went against the grain. Peter Arsenal was not destined for an upscale prison for white collar criminals. Peter preferred his freedom. Therefore, something drastic may have to be done. Contact his attorney, of course. He should have done that this morning, but he’d gotten entangled in a lengthy phone call with the executive director of AMSA and when he was done, the police had arrived.

One of the office girls tapped at the open doorframe and poked her head in. “I switched the phones onto night setting, if that’s okay.”

“Thank you. I don’t want any more calls.”

“I’m leaving for the day.” She was hanging there, waiting for him to tell her something, exchange some juicy bit of gossip about the theft. “So do they have any clues?”

Peter shrugged carelessly. “They had rather a lot of questions about you, oddly enough.”

Her eyes became saucers. “I wasn’t even there!”

“They say it’s an inside job. I wouldn’t leave town if I were you.”

“But…” She turned sadly, unsure if he were serious. “Good night, Mr. Arsenal.”

“Good night, Shelby.”

Alone again, Peter reached for the phone on his desk, but went for his computer instead. Perhaps he could pin it on Margaret, after all.

Out on the street, Buckley got behind the wheel of the unmarked police car and fastened her seat belt. “What an ass.”

Pisciotta shook his head. “Saul Hersch has more class in his little finger than that Arsenal shit has in his entire gallery.”

“I liked him. Hersch, I mean. Arsenal just made me want to wash my hands.”

“What did you think of that cell phone?”

Buckley checked over her shoulder and pulled out into traffic. “Cheap plastic thing. Nokia. Probably bought it prepaid from somebody on the street or a convenience store. I don’t buy the sick mother thing.”

“Be nice to get our hands on that,” Pisciotta mused. “You get the number?”

“I think it ended in 316. Or 816.”

“What, you couldn’t see the whole number? You’re losing your touch, Miss Twenty-Twenty.”

She grinned. “Yeah, you try reading a tiny little LCD that’s being held at an angle upside down across a conference table and see how many digits you get.”

“I got a digit for you.”

Buckley glanced over and saw Pisciotta holding up his middle finger. She laughed and made the turn at Canal Street.

A block behind them, Peter Arsenal set the alarm on the door of the gallery and stepped out into the street.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.

Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.