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"No. I have a few minutes." He got up from his chair. "Order dessert, ladies. I'll be right back."
Marcus walked out of the restaurant and onto an adjacent patio. Since it was a cool January day, the tables were empty, and they were completely alone.
"What do you need from me?" Marcus asked. "I didn't see anything last night. I told the detective that. I was completely shocked and saddened by what happened. I still can't believe it."
"How well did you know Judge Corbyn?"
"He was a fan of mine. He bought one of my paintings last year and has been very interested in buying more."
"Is that why he called you a dozen times in the last two weeks? To buy a painting?"
Marcus's gaze shifted. He cleared his throat. "He's been waiting for me to complete a painting for him, and he made his impatience quite clear to me, but I told him I couldn't sell it to him until it was perfect."
"That's interesting. I've never known Judge Corbyn to be particularly impatient, not when it comes to art."
"Then perhaps you know him better than I do. Beyond his interest in my art, I know nothing about him. I have met his wife, of course. She's a very nice woman. I feel terrible for her. I wish I could help you. I just don't know who would want to kill him. He was a huge supporter of artists and art. We all loved him." He paused. "I should get back to my friends. Are we done?"
"For the moment," he murmured.
Flynn followed Marcus back into the restaurant, watching as he joined his female friends. He was about to leave the dining room when another woman entered the restaurant—Victoria Waltham. That couldn't be a coincidence. She had to be here to see Marcus.
It wasn't unusual for a museum director to meet with an artist, but there was something about the way she checked her smile when she saw Marcus with the women that made him wonder about their relationship.
As she approached his table, Marcus got up. He said something to Victoria and her head turned in his direction. She looked a bit startled to see him, but she left Marcus and made her way over to the bar.
"Do you remember me, Flynn? From your father's gallery, a very long time ago?"
"I do," he said with a nod.
"I thought you looked familiar last night, but I heard the other agent say your last name was MacKenzie, and I got confused. And there was no time to ask. Everything was so chaotic and upsetting. When did you change your name?"
"A long time ago."
"I guess that's understandable. You didn't want to live under the shadow of your father's name."
"No, I didn't."
"I can't believe you're an FBI agent. That's awfully ironic. Have you been searching for your father?"
"Right now, I'm focused on figuring out who killed Arthur Corbyn."
"Why are you here?"
"I came to speak to Mr. Vitelli."
"Is he a suspect?"
"He's a witness, as are you."
She gave him a rueful look. "I wish I'd seen more. I wish the cameras hadn't gone out and that our security had been better. I feel responsible for not providing a safe environment for all the guests. This happened on my watch, and that's unacceptable. I thought we had set everything up so well, but I was wrong." She shook her head, self-directed anger in her eyes. "The Piquard family is also extremely upset, as is every member on our board of directors. I hope you know we'll cooperate in every way that we can."
"I'm glad to hear it."
Her gaze darkened. "I still can't believe it happened. Arthur almost hit me when he landed. I was right by the stage. I didn't know what was falling at first. I thought it was a light. But someone pushed him over the rail, right?"
"It appears that way."
"And you don't have any suspects? Arthur was a judge. I imagine he made people angry in his line of work."