The Devil's Portrait: A John Cooper Novel

By G.S. Marriott

At a small art gallery in Los Angeles, the recently acquired portrait of a scarred young woman draws attention more for its' foul odour than artistic accolades. Detectives from the Art Theft Detail immediately recognize the smell as human decomposition and the signature on the painting has many art lovers shocked. Could this grisly piece of art really be the work of former child prodigy, Alexander Dimitroff?
Detective Horne of the ATD asks her old friend, Homicide Detective John Cooper to investigate. Without a partner and currently chained to a desk, Cooper readily jumps on board and agrees to take a look. He first runs the likeness through the missing persons database and surprisingly pulls up a hit right away. Another portrait shows up, this woman and her disfigurements similar to the first, and she too, proves to be a missing person. With an unseen timer ticking down on a potential third victim, Cooper needs to get his partner back and put a stop to these macabre killings before another woman finds her way onto a collector's wall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543961720

Book preview

1

October - 2009

The house, situated in the northern sector of Newport, Rhode Island, was an old and stately, grey stone structure, dating back to the late 1800s. It had 19 rooms, including four bathrooms and sat majestically atop the crest of the property, which encompassed some sixty acres of meticulous gardens and greenery. The landscape was adorned with a multitude of tasteful sculptures and fountains, commonly viewed in the higher end gardening magazines. When the worker bees of the world read about how the ‘rich and famous’ lived, this was pretty much what they would see. A serpentine, cobblestone laneway weaved its’ way through the sprawling foliage, ending in a circular driveway in front of the colossal wooden doors of the home. The handles and knockers alone would fetch a price equal to the cost of a new small vehicle for anyone living in the blue-collar world, which this definitely, was not.

Sitting in front of the adjoining triple car garage, were three vehicles; a late model hunter-green Land Rover LR3, a white 2009 Porsche Boxster S-Model and a black 2007 Jaguar XK convertible. The vehicles were currently being tended to by a young man of about twenty-three named Erik, whose chiseled body was on display beneath shorts and a tight sleeveless shirt. His long blond mane, coupled with sea blue eyes and exaggerated muscles, left little doubt the boy’s ancestry was from somewhere in the Nordic regions. Whatever that country may have been, was irrelevant to the ladies who crossed his path because, regardless of their age, the young man was instant eye candy, who they openly and embarrassingly salivated over. He would no doubt, be their nightly fantasy until such time as the fantasy might become a reality. He was just putting the finishing touches on a wipe down of the Land Rover from its’ wash, a chore he was obviously a regular hire for. The Porsche and the Jaguar, given the small pools of water lying underneath, had already been detailed to a gleaming shine.

A large stadium type building to the east of the property, was home to two statuesque Arabian bred horses. The oversized building left these animals wanting for nothing. As elegant as the two dark brown equines were, the woman currently leading one of them from the paddock clearly escalated that beauty to a completely higher dimension. She was obviously the lady of the house, and at thirty- eight years of age had looks that could not only kill, but easily entice any man she wished and she knew it.

Dressed in a tailored jacket, tight beige riding breeches, and high black boots, she looked to be in total control and the animal to human bond between the two, produced a symbiosis that few others could ever realize. Her smooth and graceful mounting of the giant steed only confirmed that comfort level. Vanity was obviously in play however, because she had decided to forego the usual wearing of the safety helmet in order to allow her long black waves of hair to flow freely while riding.

Before heading out, she beckoned the young man by the cars over to her. She was having problems with one of her stirrups, she had told him. She claimed it was sitting too low and he obligingly jogged over to calm her concerns. Upon his arrival, she turned the horse so the young man and herself would be blocked out from any visual observations from any of the house windows. As he reached over, placing his hand on her boot, she leaned forward and grasped his wrist, sliding his hand slowly upward along her inner thigh, until finally bringing it to rest at the desired location. Although uncomfortable with her placement of his hand, he knew from previous tutorings, what was expected of him. He slowly began to massage her firmly and gently through the skin-tight material, causing her to moan and squirm beneath his touch. She allowed this to go on for two to three more minutes, until she had reached a level of ecstasy that satisfied her and at that point, abruptly threw his hand aside and cantered off.

Her name was Anastasiya Dimitroff, a former working girl who had won the proverbial lottery by being plucked out of the dredges of St Petersburg, Russia years earlier and taken as a consort and later a wife, to a wealthy businessman. Upstairs, looking out from the bedroom window at the salacious games being played between this adulterous woman and the hired help, was that very same businessman, and husband, Nicholas Dimitroff. At forty-two, he had kept himself in good shape and with his short dark hair and good looks, often drew comparisons to actor George Clooney. Throw in a personality that enamoured him with virtually everyone he came into contact with, and the result was a constant flow of major coups with regards to his business ventures. This persona was also effectual when it came to women, single or married, who brazenly plied their seductive ways, trying to tempt the man into their beds, some of whom were successful.

Dimitroff’s exaggerated income over the years had been derived from illegal means. He was an arms dealer with absolutely no scruples about selling to anyone as long as they could pay. His cover of legitimacy and respectability came in the guise of a textile importer / exporter, but the bulk of his fortune came from dealing with counterparts in overseas countries, many of whom were enemies of the very country he lived.

Dimitroff knew of his wife’s missteps from the very beginning. Once a whore, always a whore, but she did serve a purpose and that’s why she was with him. He actually used her as a means to an end in order to solidify deals, by putting her special talents to practical use. She was offered up to provide the bonus perks he felt necessary to close his deals with prospective clients and because she loved the lifestyle, not to mention the harsh reality of the alternative back in St. Petersburg, she accepted her role without much fuss.

She had been secured as part of the purchase price when formulating one of his many deals with the Russians years earlier. Normally, they wouldn’t usually give up such a worthwhile commodity like Anastasiya, but the price Dimitroff had extended to them far surpassed what the woman would have made for them over the next year, so they accepted his offer. She didn’t come cheap, but because he had used her himself several times prior, he was convinced that with her looks and talents, she would be a definite asset. Using her to close out deals would have her making back the purchase price ten-fold in a very short time. It was all about doing business and Dimitroff knew the game better than anyone and she knew what her role was to be. A true marriage it wasn’t, and as far as any physical relationship, she knew he didn’t need or want her for that, as he got his elsewhere. She was fine with the arrangement, as long as the gravy train stayed on the tracks. This was a business enterprise, to not only consummate major deals, but further assist in justifying his legitimacy within the business and social world they now lived.

The one unforeseen circumstance to this pairing, was the arrival of a child almost seventeen years earlier soon after their union. Jonathan Dimitroff was an unplanned and unwanted addition, created after a late night of over indulgence and, until a couple of years ago, both parents had done a dutiful, albeit non-loving and uncommitted job of parenting the young man. Nicholas was always away on business and she had no time for children and actually disliked them, particularly Jonathan, to the point where she would verbally abuse him whenever the father wasn’t around. The abuse escalated to physical as he approached his teen years.

Fortunately for him, in the early years, their lifestyle afforded them the services of a nanny and she was with the boy constantly until the age of twelve, so the abuse was sparse. Jonathan was a good kid, but very inhibited and secluded in his own mind. Despite his upbringing, he had developed an acuity and sensitivity for painting. The word prodigy had been thrown about several times, as far back as prepubescent. He had talent, his father had been told. A brush in his hand was magical, like the wand of a great conductor directing an orchestra. Whether from divine intervention or some other source, he was able to capture subtle nuances of everything around him, regardless of whether his work was portraits or scenery. Whatever he painted was gradually separating him from his contemporaries and the local art world was starting to pay attention.

He had just celebrated his seventeenth birthday and spent almost every waking hour in the studio his father had set up for him. Nicholas had always been a zealous advocate of his son’s talents ever since he was first made aware of his genius and supported him generously. He spent whatever amount of money was needed for his son to flourish. Anastasiya was not so gratuitous with her praise or love. She viewed his talents as mediocre and an encumbrance to her ‘center of the universe’ standing. She despised the boy and the vast amount of money her philandering husband was spending on this childish adventure to nowhere.

Over the next two years, while her husband was away, she would go up to the studio and destroy and burn some of his paintings. She would force the boy to remove his shirt and trousers and introduced the riding crop as the new, go-to instrument for her sadistic torture. She further threatened that if he ever told anyone, she would end his painting career instantly by cutting the tendons in his painting hand, while holding a sharp carving knife across the back of his hand. When the boy entered his teen years, the Nanny was let go. The safety net now gone, Jonathan needed to do whatever she said or his life as an artist, the only one he ever coveted, would be gone in a heartbeat.

Nicholas, when he was home, had noticed that Jonathan often seemed overly quiet and sullen, but since the boy said nothing, he chalked it up to simply being a super focused kid engrossed in his art. As far as Nicholas was concerned, his boy lived in a completely different world, therefore the father was unable to recognize any issues, writing them off instead as peculiarities associated to his genius.

Two weeks after the boy’s nineteenth birthday, the family suddenly pulled up stakes and moved to the Los Angeles area of California. Nicholas had undoubtedly crossed a line in one of his business dealings and became the target of some very incensed and menacing individuals, one whose origin and purpose was very clear in his mind. It was the Albanians who were behind it, and he knew if captured, his family would be in grave danger. He had screwed them over on a weapons deal for a vast amount of money and they were pissed and looking for blood, so he packed up everything and left for the west coast. He had told his wife and son that business was forcing the move.

Once out there, they would also have to change their names and Anastasia didn’t seem to care too much, because in her mind she was going to Los Angeles, home of the movie stars, cinema and warm weather. There would never be any more snow, just sun and ocean and a wider selection of rich men who were much better looking with their beautiful tans. Jonathan acted out a little, but with most of his time consumed in his studio, it didn’t appear to bother him too much either. He was on the internet daily and was fully aware that Los Angeles was a mecca for the art world, much like New York and Chicago. He was, for the first time, finally starting to look at himself as possibly a big fish in a bigger pond and he felt he was now ready, more than ever, for a leap forward.

They had purchased a home on Laurel Way, just above Sunset Blvd. in the Beverly Hills area. It wasn’t as big as the Rhode Island home, but it had the pool and cabana and all the other extras normally associated with the more affluent life styles. The horses were sold, because Anastasiya had said she would not have any time to take care of them. She did, however, keep her riding crop and leather gloves, because she still might have use for those. Nicholas knew people who, for a steep price, would be able to furnish them with new identity papers that would pass muster with any government or public agency. They would now be known as Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm and Caroline Carter along with their teenage son, Alexander.

2

A little over four years had passed and it appeared that Malcolm and his family had escaped their pursuers for good. They had, after all this time, decided to move on and leave them alone. A naïve man might think that, but Dimitroff was not one of them. The move and name change had definitely helped. There hadn’t been even the slightest of incidents or threats made toward any of them since their relocation. Back in Rhode Island, they had survived a small gas explosion in one of the out buildings. Fortunately for them, they hadn’t been home at the time and even though the authorities ruled it an accident, Dimitroff knew otherwise. He was convinced it was a scare tactic created by his former business associates and decided a move and identity change was in order.

A month before Alexander’s twenty-fourth birthday, the Carters were coming home from a business outing at a country club down in Inglewood. They rarely attended these gatherings together, because they truly couldn’t stand each other’s company, but because it was for business, her presence was a necessity. Caroline had gotten worse with her venal ways since the move west, possibly because she didn’t have to wear as many clothes. Her constant nips, tucks, and botox injections from her flamboyant doctor, made it easier for her to exhibit her assets to their full potential. He was certain the doctor was well looked after. Whatever it was, even with the uneventful span of time, her sexual proclivities made it dangerously more difficult to stay below the radar. These people simply didn’t forget or walk away.

Though seemingly forgotten, they still had to be careful, but her level of comprehension never seemed to grasp that. He refused to just kick her loose, because of the enormous wealth he would have to give up to get rid of her. That left him with two choices; make her vanish altogether and tell everyone she walked out on him or leave their current arrangement status quo. He determined that keeping her around and turning a blind eye to her whoring, might be the best course for now, but he would be adamant about her using more discretion. If she didn’t, she would be sent packing.

He could have easily eliminated her and in all likelihood gotten away with it, but chose the latter to avoid any excess scrutiny. Although she agreed to be more vigilant and cautious about her playtimes, she was fully aware of her hold on him and that his threats were empty ones.

He also knew how her brain worked and that her primary reason for breathing was trapped somewhere between her legs, so things weren’t about to change anytime soon. He might have to hire someone simply to watch her and keep her on the straight and narrow for now. What she was doing with her constant dalliances was putting their lives in perilous danger on a daily basis. If she didn’t change, their pursuers certainly wouldn’t need any GPS to find them, that was for damn sure, because she was a made to order beacon. If found, it would not end well for either of them.

Nicholas had sold them a variety of weapons for an enormous sum of money several years earlier and some of the automatic weapons had literally blown up in the face of the shooters, killing them instantly. A complete check of the entire payload revealed that forty percent of the weapons were defective in one way or another. This included small arms all the way up to the motorized assault vehicles These people were violent and seeking only a refund was never an option to them. Carter still made his arms deals, but strategically through a middleman, always making sure his name was never used.

He would continually go back to Europe and broker the deals there. Having to use a middle man now, compromised his financial take on these contracts, but that was the current price of doing business and still better than the alternative, he’d concluded. The buyers, to date, were unaware of his part in these deals and therefore assumed he was deeply hidden and no longer in the game. In their minds, they were working with a new dealer and as long as the deals were to their liking, they were happy.

Though they weren’t actively searching for Dimitroff any more, they hadn’t written him off completely. Carter was well aware that if they ever became mindful of his current dealings behind the scenes, it would stoke the flames to levels he never wished to see.

Malcolm and Caroline were travelling along the Santa Monica Blvd approaching the 405. They were in the updated 2014 silver Porsche Carrera and although there were other vehicles on the thruway, the traffic was relatively light. They hadn’t been on the highway for more than a mile, when suddenly a black Escalade appeared out of nowhere and struck them hard from behind. Malcolm recovered from the initial impact and tried to elude them with the sportscar’s speed advantage. They were being showered with gunfire.

Christ! Malcolm screamed. Where the hell did they come from?

Who are they? What do they want? Caroline screamed frantically, looking out the back and side windows at their pursuers.

Malcolm knew immediately who they were, but was too focused and scared to answer. He just drove for his life, but unfortunately, he was fighting a losing battle. A second volley of gunfire cascaded down upon them from the SUV, which shredded the rear tires of the Porsche. The frame was now rubbing on the wheels and the rubber was flying from the car at an alarming rate, leaving the rear rims virtually bare, causing sparks to fly up from the asphalt. Any speed advantage the sports car once had on the larger vehicle, had disappeared. The SUV surged forward again, striking them in the rear once more, forcing the car into a spin, but once again Carter regained control of the crippled vehicle. He unsuccessfully tried to pull away, but the damage had already been done, elminating any possible getaway. The engine was now smoking.

The Escalade pulled alongside the crippled Porsche. The passenger, a larger than life man wearing a ski mask waited until Carter looked directly at him. He wanted to see the fear as he targeted the man and car with his automatic weapon. These people’s mission was to exterminate, plain and simple. They were paid to kill. Carter knew this was the end.

The consortium who had hired these individuals weren’t your Wall Street types. They were members of a violent and dangerous entity, who didn’t appreciate anyone messing with them or their money. Though Carter knew the manufacturers had been the ones who had screwed things up, these folks always went back to the money handler when things went wrong. After all, it was that man’s job to secure the best deals from the best people. Supplying inferior products, while demanding the highest price, could only result in one thing and breathing wasn’t a consideration.

Carter turned and looked at his wife. You little fucking tramp. You’ve killed us both. I should have left you back in the streets of Russia to rot with all those other whores. He spat.

Time stood still as his thoughts turned to his son. ‘How would he carry on? He knew nothing of his father’s world, believing that the boy only knew him as a successful businessman. The young man was an incredible artist, who some referred to as a prodigy years ago and he was such a gentle soul. How will he survive without his guardianship, and would these tormentors be satisfied with his own death or possibly attempt to remove all vestiges of the Dimitroff lineage altogether?

The SUV closed in and a further spray of automatic gunfire ripped through the Porsche just as Carter turned his focus back to the road. The cascade of bullets caused several vehicles to crash into each other to avoid the carnage. The Porsche skidded sideways, spun a complete 360 degrees and once gravity and inertia took hold, became airborne, landing violently and vaulting into a deadly series of rolls before finally coming to rest against a retaining wall, smoking and steaming with a few flickers of flames visible. The sleek automobile was no longer recognizable. The hulking Escalade cruised slowly beside the wreckage and stopped. The highway was virtually theirs alone, as all other traffic had come to a stand-still hundreds of yards back. The passenger of the larger vehicle calmly placed a fresh clip into the magazine, pointed and fired one final volley at the stricken vehicle. When no movement was observed, the assailants calmly drove away and disappeared.

Alexander was at home when the police arrived. The detectives had advised the young man that his father had been killed in an automobile accident and his mother was in critical condition with serious head trauma and internal injuries. She was currently on life support, but doctors were optimistic she would pull through. It was a hit and run, they had told him. The other vehicle had been found abandoned some thirty miles away, but as yet, no solid clues had been found to tie anyone to the incident. Alexander may have been naive and somewhat of an introvert, but he wasn’t stupid. He had suspected for some time that his father had been dealing in a world of undesirables. No one had the kind of money he did from working in the textile industry.

Tell me Detectives. Is it common practice for the police department to send two homicide detectives on a death notification for something as inane as a motor vehicle accident? I’m thinking there’s more to this than you’re telling me. He said.

He grilled the detectives for ten more minutes before they finally relented. His father and mother appeared to have been the targets of a premeditated shooting for reasons unknown. They promised Alexander they would do everything possible to bring the perpetrators to justice.

No offense, gentlemen, but I seriously doubt that you will ever find these men, because it’s my guess, they’re probably already out of the country and headed back to their homes somewhere across the ocean. He said.

There was no question in Alexander’s mind that this shooting was a focused and intended attack against his father. The man had brought this onslaught upon himself, probably for screwing somebody over on a business deal and this was his reward. His mother had been collateral damage. Alexander wished she’d been the one to exit this life instead of his father. His father had moved them all to California for a reason and for the most part had kept them all safe and hidden.

His mother, however was a money grabbing slut of the highest order and if there could have been a way for the young man to have jettisoned her himself, he would have, but physically and emotionally he was not equipped for anything beyond wishing. His mother did absolutely nothing but draw attention to them all, with her constant flirting and fucking around with God knows who. She was a demonic, black hearted witch, who he would now be saddled with the responsibility of having to care for. He knew his father had always considered him soft and, in a way, he was right, physically at least, but in actuality, he was quite the opposite. If he could, by will alone, his mother would be dead at his feet this very minute.

Alexander’s discontent changed within days however, once he learned of his mother’s true condition. She had suffered severe disfigurements to her face, caused by the hail of bullets and violent roll of the car, together with severe burns to over forty percent of her body. She was also paralyzed from the waist down, but the doctors were hopeful she might regain some of her mobility over time. After a month, according to the doctors, his mother had healed to a point, whereby home-care should be able to handle things. They also advised that the comfort of being in her own home would be a positive psychological lift for her as well. Little did they know, Alexander thought.

One thing Malcolm Carter had done only a month before, was to contact his friend Ira Weschler and set up a will, leaving everything to his son. Alexander had control over everything. At his father’s request, though able to spend whatever and however he wished, Alexander need only call Ira whenever a financial problem occurred or any business opinion was required. His father, above all others, understood the boy’s intelligence and knew that although soft hearted, he was smart and would need minimal supervision to live out his life.

Alexander’s first order of business was to hire a nurse to tend to his mother on a regular basis. Aside from her disabled and battered state, there were other serious internal medical issues as well and he wanted nothing to do with any of it. There was one injury which pleased Alexander more than any other and that was the fact her voice box had been extensively damaged. Karma did indeed exist, he had concluded.

When she was brought into her room and placed into the bed, she saw herself for the first time, which brought about a muffled sound like someone trying to scream with a cloth in their mouth. Alexander, in full vengeful mode, had decorated the room personally. He had placed a number of mirrors in the room, all large and strategically positioned, so that no matter where his mother looked, she would always be able to see her hideous reflection. For the first few days, once the nurse had left for the day, he entered her room and stood beside her bed. He would look at her until she finally turned and made eye contact. He would smile sardonically at her and she knew why. She was scared, because she knew without question that, regardless of his boyish looks, he had total control and power over her.

Although unable to walk, doctors advised him she might regain the use of her legs, but it could take a long time. The nurse would be there throughout most of the day, but when Alexander had laid out the ground rules on her hiring, she was told she was free to leave for lunch breaks or whatever, as long as she did her job and he didn’t have to do anything himself. While at the house, she needed to be available to him at all times, no questions asked. The nurse, Holly Paxton, couldn’t have handpicked a better job for herself. The money was great. She could come and go as she pleased while looking after a patient who required minimal physical assistance. Paxton would prepare and bring the meals, but Mrs. Carter was able to feed herself and handle most other minor chores without much assistance. The only problem area at all, would be bathroom breaks and bathing, but that was nothing for her. Bed pans were available, but doctors had instructed both Paxton and Alexander to get her up as much as possible, to strengthen her leg muscles.

Alexander had modified those directions with the nurse by minimizing that particular activity to only once a day for twenty minutes only. When asked when the facial surgeries were to take place to correct the cruel scars, Alexander advised Paxton, those surgeries were not on the schedule in the immediate future, at least until his mother was able to get past her other medical issues. When she questioned him for more clarity, he calmly pointed out that there were plenty of other nurses available who would jump at the chance to work at his home tending to his mother, so the decision to follow his orders to the letter or be replaced, was entirely up to her. Stupid she was not and it didn’t matter to her anyway, she finally decided. Why should she care? She would just do her job, collect the better than average pay and move on, keeping her mouth shut.

This room would now be her life and the only contact outside of it would be through the nurse or him. He would stop by once each week just to stare into her face and gleefully absorb the look of despair and acknowledgement in that messed up face. A look that conveyed a complete understanding of his domination over everything involved with her life. There would never be, from this point forward, one facet of her life that her son would not control. To further illustrate this, he had purposefully framed and hung her riding crop and gloves, directly above her head board. These visits to her room were frequently accompanied by him grabbing an injured appendage of her fragile body and squeezing, gently at first, then more firmly until the desired reaction was achieved. He also rubbed a gloved hand across her burns just to hear the moans. Seeing the tears roll down her face and the muffled screams through her obliterated voice box, brought him nothing but absolute pleasure.

3

Present Day

The Art Theft Detail of the Los Angeles Police Department is responsible for the investigation of all thefts and burglaries when fine art is the primary focus of the occurrence. Unlike most units, they do have city-wide jurisdiction and are the only full-time municipal law enforcement unit in the country, devoted to the investigation of art crimes. Their responsibilities include protecting the artistic, cultural and historical heritage of the city, which covers some 450 square miles and its’ four million inhabitants. Frauds, fakes and other forgeries are also