Where Is Amanda Kasey

Photo by Raychan on Unsplash

 

Where Is Amanda Kasey

A Short Mystery by F. Haywood Glenn

Carl and I were returning from two wonderful weeks in Paris. Although the vacation was beautiful, it was also very tiring. We both felt that we could have used a couple of days just to recuperate from the vacation. However, that was hardly in the cards. Even before our plane landed, I got the eerie feeling that something was wrong. That may have been why I wasn’t surprised when I got a call from my partner Ken before we left the airport.

“I’m sorry to call you so soon after your vacation,” he said. “But I thought you might want to know about a very interesting delivery we received today.”

 “A delivery?” I questioned. “What was delivered?”

“A tablet.”

Several seconds of silence ticked by. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for bad news.  “A tablet, Ken? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Did you access its contents?”

“Of course I did. Lydia, you’re not going to believe what’s on this tablet.”

“Just tell me, Ken! What is it?”

“Photos! Photos of all the stolen art that we heard about at the end of the Davies case.”

“Who sent the tablet?”

“No clue. No name or return address. Just a tablet .”

 

“All right. I’ll try and get into the office as soon as I can.”

I’m not sure if this was bad news but it was curious, to say the least. That art was stolen months ago, and although Sebastian Davies was the prime suspect, we knew that the police had no leads. But why us, I thought. Who would send us photos of stolen art? This was a peculiar situation, I thought again, but it certainly bears looking into.

I went home to put some things away and changed my clothes. Carl was asleep before I left the apartment. My mind raced as I drove through the city to my office in the county. Who could have sent those photos to our office? Obviously, it was from a potential client, but who and why so mysterious? I had so many questions.

Ken met me at the door looking as anxious as I’ve ever seen him. I examined the padded envelope. There was no message, either handwritten or typed. There was no return address on the envelope as Ken had already told me.

There were six photos. The photos were the work of just two artists and had been taken by a professional photographer. Our first objective was to figure out who sent these photos to our office and why. Ken took the tablet to have the photos printed and enlarged. He tacked the eight-by-ten photos to a large board in the office. That turned out to be a good idea. I made us look at that board every time we went in or out of the office, which kept a fresh eye on the case. 

Four of the six pieces were painted by the same artist. Neither Ken nor I knew much about art but they appeared to be pastels. The other two were oil paints. The six pastels were signed by Mandy, with no last name. A little internet search turned up Amanda Kasey, an unmarried forty-year-old artist. Miss Kasey was the owner of The Piazza of Color, an art studio on South Street in Old City where she sold her art, the art of lesser-known artists, and held small art classes. I made plans to visit her studio while Ken continued to track down potential photographers.

 There was an active website and the studio was easy enough to find. However, when I arrived, I was surprised to see that it was not only closed but it was boarded up. I stopped into neighboring shops to ask questions and was informed that Miss Kasey suddenly closed her studio and moved out of town. Her neighbors did not know where or why she moved. Apparently, she also moved out of her city apartment and left no forwarding address. This girl must be running, I thought. But what was she running from?

Ken was able to learn the identity of at least one of the artists. Identifying the photographer was more difficult, but Ken was able to find three photographers in the Philadelphia area who specialized in photographing art for prints. He quickly narrowed down the list to a young woman, Emily Booker, who worked out of her home in Wynnefield. He made an appointment for the two of us to visit with Miss Booker the next afternoon.

Emily lived in a large, three-story, six-bedroom home near City Avenue. Five other young people were also renting the home. They were all artists of one sort or another. She was a photographer but her housemates were painters, musicians, a singer, and one very shy actress. Emily was a sweet young woman and she readily sat down and agreed to answer some of our questions. She did know Amanda Kasey. They were not friends but she had been photographing Amanda’s art for some time. She described Amanda as a nice lady who was passionate about art. She was also passionate about introducing and teaching art to young people. She was familiar with the pieces on the tablet but she was not the photographer for those pieces.

Back at the office that afternoon, I began to research the paintings. They were mostly landscapes, fields of wildflowers at dawn and sunset. Published prints of three of the four paintings were selling around the world for less than five hundred dollars each, but the fourth painting was an oil portrait of a young woman. It appeared to be an original. The woman was sitting on a stone bench and appeared to be in a courtyard of some sort, maybe a cathedral or university. Ken and I agreed that the background looked European. There were no other clues as to who was the model for this portrait and Miss Kasey could not be found.

Ken was able to track down the artist of the other two paintings. Ashton Scott, known as simply Ash, was a middle-aged gentleman who, according to his bio, had been painting and selling his works for several years. He was surprised to learn that photos of two of his works were sent to private investigators. He did say that he knew Amanda Kasey and that his paintings were in her shop because she agreed to help sell them. As to why someone would photograph them and send them to our office, he had no idea.

Both Ken and I had other cases to pursue but for reasons that I cannot explain, this case consumed both of us. Because we did not have a client, we did not have anyone to whom we could report our findings. We decided that we would only work on this case in our spare time.  

Ken began to look into Ashton Scott. He was not surprised to learn that Ash wasn’t as truthful as he could have been when Ken first spoke with him. Ash was in his mid-fifties and recently divorced. He and Amanda had a relationship that went far beyond selling art. A look at his financials told us that he had recently come into a great deal of money. There were several deposits of five thousand dollars each. His art, although good, was not selling for such large amounts of money. These deposits were traced to off-short accounts belonging to unknown corporations. All this told us that Ash was a shady character and may have had something to do with Amanda Kasey’s disappearance, but what?

I should have been spending my time researching a cheating husband for a wealthy, aging heiress. Sitting in my car in the parking lot of an exclusive restaurant with my camera ready, I waited for the subject to emerge arm in arm with his girlfriend. He came out and got into his car and pulled away, but I never saw him. My attention was so consumed with the disappearance of Amanda Kasey that he was able to slip right by me. I didn’t even see him.

A week later I received what appeared to be a coded message. The message contained four numbers which translated into one word. Ken cracked the code in a short time. The message said, “FEDS.”

My friends in the Philadelphia Department told me that there were no reports of missing persons fitting Amanda’s description and there were no reports of any stolen art. At this point, I was completely baffled.

It was the weekend and Carl and I had planned a nice weekend trip to the Lehigh Valley to visit his parents. Because it was October and fall was just around the corner, we expected a pleasant ride while enjoying the changing fall foliage. We were both looking forward to the great dinner that his mother had prepared for Saturday night and we would head home on Sunday afternoon. It didn’t turn out as I expected. I wasn’t very talkative and Carl noticed right away.

“Why so quiet?” He asked and we rode along.

“I apologize. I just can’t stop thinking about this art case.”

“Is it really an art case? Sounds more like a missing person case, even if no one reported the artist missing. Maybe I can help. Let’s talk about it.”

“No. I don’t want to mess up our weekend talking about work.”

“Lydia, you aren’t talking to me at all. If that is what you’re thinking about, tell me about it.”

“ All right, all right.”

By the time we reached his mother’s house, Carl knew everything that I knew. As soon as his mother came out to welcome us, we agreed to put the case on hold. It was a perfect evening. Mrs. Williams is a great cook and I did not realize how much I missed a home-cooked meal until I sat at her table. Baked chicken, macaroni and cheese, string beans, and homemade buttermilk biscuits were all so delicious. Mrs. Williams was a smart, engaging woman. We chatted about everything from politics to fashion while Carl and his father talked about sports. Later in the evening, we sat in their spacious backyard around a small, stone fire pit sipping the best herbal tea that I had ever tasted.

Sunday morning breakfast was even better than the evening meal. After breakfast, Mrs. Williams was determined to share Carl’s 1997 high school yearbook with me. Carl wasn’t too happy about it, but he said little. He was a great athlete and very popular. But, try as I may, I could hardly pay attention to Mrs. Williams. While looking at those photos, it occurred to me that I needed to know more about Amanda Kasey. 

Who was Amanda Kasey before she opened the Art Studio? Where was she from and how did she come to be in Philadelphia? Determined to answer these questions and more, I was even less talkative on the ride back to Philadelphia. I think Carl just gave up and we rode in silence for a long while. 

Carl went to bed as soon as we got home but I went to my computer. I began to research all the public records available to me, altering the spelling of Amanda’s name. I searched Amanda Kasey, Mandy Kasey, Amanda Casey, and Amira Kasey. Mandy Casey provided some information. She was the right age. She was an Art History graduate of a small college in upstate Pennsylvania. She moved to Philadelphia in 2004, after which she disappeared from public records. This had to be Amanda Kasey but the name Mandy Casey came up in an FBI investigation.

Back in the office on Monday morning Ken and I decided to go over what we did know. Amanda Kasey was one the artists and the most well-known. The lesser-known artist was Ash. While Ash was easy to find, Amanda had disappeared. Ken said, “I think that portrait may be the key to everything.” I agreed so we decided to have our friends at the FBI put that photo through the facial recognition software.

I called Lisa Keats, an FBI agent whom I had worked with on other cases.  She not only agreed to meet with me for lunch and share whatever she could, but she also agreed to help us identify the model in the portrait. Mandy Casey was indeed Amanda Kasey. 

“Amanda witnessed a high-profile murder a few years ago,” Keats said. “The State’s Attorney recommended Amanda for the Witness Protection Program. She was very afraid and wrapped up her affairs quickly preparing for the move. Unfortunately, when the Marshalls went to pick her up, she was gone.”

“What do you know about Ashton Scott?” I asked.

“Her boyfriend?”

“Yes. I’m betting he has something to do with all of this.” I watched the expression on Lisa’s face when I mentioned Ashton’s name. She tried to hide it but I could tell that she was surprised.

“I don’t know anything about him except that he is an Artist.”

“Oh,” I said.  She stared at me for a moment and I didn’t look away.

“All right, I can see that you think that I know about Ashton. I will admit that he is a person of interest and we are currently investigating how he is involved in this matter. Unfortunately, I don’t know much more than what I’ve already told you.”

“Can you tell me who was murdered?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “You know that I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”

“Yes, but I thought I’d try anyway.” 

“What about our model?”

She hesitated, which told me that she didn’t want to share what she knew. “I know that I should not share this information because it could be related to this case. However, I will tell you that the model is the daughter of a very rich businessman from New York.” I smiled trying to lighten the situation. It didn’t work and Lisa left the restaurant without finishing her meal.

 

Later that day, I was back on the case of the cheating husband. This time he was attending a function at an exclusive golf club on the mainline. It was a private club and there was no way I would be admitted so, once again I was parked under a tree just waiting in my car.  I was able to get a few photos of him as his car cruised past me into the driveway. Moments later another car slowly approached. It was an African-American woman. My first instinct was to disregard her, thinking that this guy would never be cheating with a black woman. After a few minutes, I decided I could be wrong.

As I sat in my car debating if I should creep through the bushes that surrounded the club to get a better look inside the courtyard and peep at the cheating couple, her car slowly exited through the gate. She drove and he was the passenger. I quickly returned to my car and followed and a safe distance. They took the parkway into the city and to a well-known hotel. I was able to get several very candid photos as they exited the car at the entrance of the hotel and a few more photos as they waited for the valet to drive the car into the parking garage. She was a tall, well-dressed, and shapely woman in her late twenties. She looked like a model but he looked to be much older. It didn’t matter to me. I had the evidence that my client wanted. Once I turned over these photos, I would be paid and think no more about this couple or what the fallout of their affair might be. I was happy to be done with this case.

I went back to the office to clean up some paperwork before heading home. Ken had been looking into Ash and was excited to tell me what he found. “Evidently,” Ken said, hardly able to contain his excitement. “Ashton Scott is not even an artist. The paintings are not his. He has never painted anything in his life, so far as I could tell. Ashton Scott is a con man.”

“Oh?” I questioned. “How did you come by this information?”

“Easier than you might think. Ash is not just a bystander. He has a very public criminal record. He has spent time in state prisons in Illinois, New York, and Pennsylvania. He was convicted of armed robbery when he was just nineteen years old. Prison seems to have educated him in the criminal lifestyle. Subsequent crimes include bank fraud and bribery. Those paintings were created by a man he recently roomed with in a city halfway house after his release. I’m still trying to figure out exactly how this connects with the Amanda Kasey case.”

“I’m thinking that Mr. Ashton Scott may have everything to do with this case. His role is slowly becoming clearer to me.” I said. Ken nodded his head. He agreed. “I’m tired, Ken. I’m going home to sleep on it and we will go over everything again in the morning.”

“Sure.”

Later that evening, I discussed the case with Carl again over dinner. He started telling me about similar cases that he worked on over the years. I was barely listening. Then I heard him say something about a postmark. I interrupted him. “Postmark?”

“Yes. I know that you said that there was no return address on the package but did you or Ken check the postmark?”

“No.”

“There is a lot of information in a postmark. You can find the name of the post office that took possession of the package and the state and zip where it was mailed from.”

“Thank you, Carl. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You also might want to check the dockets. If this girl were to be put into witness protection because she witnessed a murder, it is likely to be scheduled for trial soon. Check both state and federal dockets. You won’t get a list of witnesses, of course, but you may  find something useful.”

I slept better that night than I had in the past two weeks. I knew that Carl gave me some valuable information and I couldn’t wait to track down those leads.

In the office the next day, I found the envelope in which the tablet was mailed. According to the postmark, the package came from New York.

Ken checked the state dockets and I checked the federal. We were both surprised to learn that there was a murder two years ago that took place in the alley right behind The Piazza of Color Studio. Here was the breakthrough that we needed. The police called it a drug deal gone bad. A seventeen-year-old black teen was part of a drug deal that turned into a shoot-out.  The suspected murderer was the son of a well-known New York Crime boss. Back at the office, Ken and I scoured the news coverage of the incident on the internet and in local newspapers. The murder was covered extensively.

The internet was full of reports on the entire family. Their crimes ranged from money laundering, illegal gambling, prostitution, and drug smuggling. Ashford Scott’s name was mentioned in connection with this family in quite a few of those reports. Ash was really a bad guy and his association with this family was evident.

This was not the first time that the youngest son of this crime family was in trouble. Most of the charges were petty crimes but this time, the son was being charged with murder and his father would do anything to save his youngest son. 

The most interesting news we learned from the internet was no one knew that Amanda Kasey was missing because the authorities thought that she was in the custody of the Marshall Service. When the Marshall Service finally reported that they did not have her in protective custody, it sent area law enforcement into a tizzy. This was probably what Lisa wanted to tell me. The Marshall Service and the Philadelphia Police Department are both actively looking for Amanda Kasey. “I believe the father sent us the tablet in the hope that we would locate Amanda Kasey for him. Ash worked for this man and was likely supposed to let his boss know exactly where to find Amanda.”

“They have her,” Ken said. “It is the only explanation.”   

“Maybe it isn’t the father that has her,” I said. “I think that might be the plan but she is being kept somewhere until the trial is over. I’m willing to bet that Ash is holding her somewhere. If we find Ash, we find Amanda.”

We both went to the internet again. This time we searched for any property that could be associated with Ashton Scott.  It took some time but eventually, we found that Jerrod Scott, Ash’s grandfather was eighty years old and owned a house in Lake Placid, New York. “Shouldn’t we tell the FBI?” Ken asked.

“Do you think that they would tell us?” I said.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Let’s take a road trip. We’ll call the FBI if we find evidence that she is actually held in Lake Placid.”

It was a seven-hour drive, stopping for meals along the way. We registered at a local Inn for the night and had dinner in an old-fashioned diner. At six a.m. the next morning we were parked outside of the Scott home sipping hot coffee. No one came in or out of that house all day. We had no proof that either Ash or Amanda was inside. But just as Ken and I were planning to call it an evening and go back to the Inn for the night, a black sedan slowly moved into the driveway. The first person to exit the car was a big, muscle-bound man with long black hair. He roughly pulled a blindfolded woman from the car and soon Ash exited from the passenger side of the front of the car.

“You were right,” Ken said.

I called Lisa to give her the information. Lisa called the local FBI office. “Thank you,” Lisa said. I could hear the exasperation in her voice. “We were on a whole different tract. What made you think that Ash would be holding Amanda?”

“It wasn’t just me. Ken and I both thought Ash had more to do with this than what was showing up in the evidence, so we went for it.”

“Good job. I need you two to stay on that house until the local FBI is on the scene. They will call you when they are near.”

“No problem.”

“And Lydia, I really do appreciate this. I apologize if I was short with you earlier. Thank you again.”

Lisa was right. The FBI called and was on the scene within the hour. We watched as the two men were taken into custody and Amanda was rescued. 

Ken and I had dinner in our favorite diner before spending the night in the Inn. We headed back to Philadelphia early the next morning.

We never had an official case because we were not hired by an official client. Still, there was some satisfaction in knowing that we were able to put the pieces together and see this case to its logical end. As far as I was concerned, this was another case solved by Lydia James Detective Agency.

THE END

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