Detective Finch on the job

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   Detective Finch knocked on the door of the studio apartment in SoHo, a San Francisco district that contained many artists.
   "One moment, please," an accented voice shouted. "Just getting dressed!"
   Finch heard paper rustling inside the apartment. A minute or two passed. He knocked again.
   An man in his 60's, with a short white goatee opened the door. "Yes?"
   Finch flashed his badge. "Mr. Zivku?" he asked.
   "Yes yes, that is me. Cristian Zivku," nodded the man, speaking with a heavy Eastern European accent.
   "I'm Detective Finch. We spoke on the phone. I'm looking into the disappearance of some acquaintances of yours. The Romanian Ambassador, Timotei Scala, and his wife, Eugenia Scala."
   "Yes, yes. Please come in," said Cristian.
   "Thank you," said Detective Finch. "I appreciate your openness."
   "Not at all," said Cristian. "I am eager to do anything that I can to help find my good friends. You would like some wine?"
   Finch shook his head. "No, no, we are not allowed to drink on the job."
   "Ah," said Cristian. "Making sense. That is the expression, yes?"
   "Yes, makes sense," replied Finch. "Now, let's discuss the events of June 15th." Finch took his notebook from his pocket. "You invited the Ambassador and his wife over for dinner, right?" As Finch spoke, his eyes scanned the apartment. Buckets of paint sat everywhere. All colors. Paintings covered the wall, mostly abstract lines and dots.
   "Yes, Ambassador Scala had contacted me to view some paintings. Naturally I invited him and his wife over to dinner."
   "Yes," said Finch, making notes. Finch noticed that two of the paintings on the wall were covered with paper. "And how did you know Ambassador Scala?"
   "Well," said Cristian. "I am a well-known artist in my country. Here, in America, I am not so big yet." He smiled. "But in Romania, I am something of a legend. So when the Ambassador came to America, he was eager to see me."
   "Right," said Finch. "And then what time did the Ambassador arrive?"
   "The Ambassador never arrived. He called me to say that he had another meeting, and would come another night."
   "So you never saw the Ambassador and his wife that night?" asked Finch.
   "No," said Cristian. "I have never met the Ambassador, not that night or any other. That night, as I said, he called me from his cell phone to cancel."
   "Because that is the night that they disappeared," said Finch.
   "Yes, I know," said Cristian. He dabbed his eyes. "I would do anything to help find them, believe me."
   Finch nodded. "Well, I certainly appreciate that." He looked curiously at one of the paintings that was covered by paper. Now he noticed that it wasn't completely covered, that a painted shoe extended below the paper. The shoe had been painted directly onto the concrete wall. It was a black, formal shoe. Finch shook his head; he hadn't come here to study art.
   "Mr. Zivku," continued Finch. "Did you hear from the Ambassador after that call?"
   "No," replied Cristian. "That was the last time I heard from him."
   Finch doodled in his notebook. There was something unusual about the shoe on the wall. It was not an American style, more of a clunky foreign style. Finch looked at the buckets of paint again. The colors seemed to have a strange glow to them. "Mr. Zivku, would you mind if I walk around your studio?"
   Cristian straightened. "Are you calling me a liar?"
   "What?" asked Finch.
   "I told you that the Ambassador and his wife never came here. Now you want to look around. You are looking for clues, yes? You are calling me a liar!" His face started to grow red.
   "Please, relax," said Finch. "I'm just trying to do my job, which is to find the Ambassador and his wife. If you would just let me look around briefly, I'll be done. I really appreciate your cooperation, particularly in light of your visa situation."
   Cristian scowled. "Look what you want," he said. "Please do not touch anything. I will be in the other room, I have work to do!" He stormed into the other room.
   Finch walked around the studio slowly. He eyed the brushes, the buckets of paint. He looked down at one of the buckets of red paint, and saw something glittering in the paint. Finch put his hand into the bucket, and picked out a thick gold ring. His hand had a strange itch, and Finch wiped off all of the paint on his hand with a hankerchief. He put the ring into his pocket.
   Finch walked over to the paper-covered painting, with a shoe extruding from it. He kneeled over and removed the tape that held that paper covering the painting. The rest of the painting had been covered over with glowing white paint. All that remained of the painting was the shoe. Then Finch realized why he was troubled. It was so odd to see a realistic painting of a shoe, in a room filled with abstract art. The shoe was definitely out of place.
   Cristian came back into the room. When he saw that Finch had uncovered the painting, he yelled. "What are you doing! I told you not to touch anything!"
   "Don't move," said Finch. He took his gun from where it had been tucked into the back of his pants. "Please, stay still."
   "What is this nonsense!" cried Cristian.
   "Hands behind your head, please," said Finch. "Turn and face the wall."
   Zivku obeyed the commands. "Detective, please to give me the phone number of your superior! I will most certainly report you."
   Finch walked over and picked up the bucket of red paint, and a brush. He dipped the brush into the paint, and circled the shoe on the wall. "DO NOT TOUCH," he wrote with the red paint on the concrete wall.
   Cristian turned his head and saw what Finch was doing. He screamed in rage. "What are you doing? This is my art!"
   "Please, Mr. Zivku. Be quiet and face the wall." Detective Finch walked across the room, to the other painting that was covered by paper. He feared what he would find under the paper, yet he knew that he had to look. Finch swallowed as he knelt to untape the paper. Pulling the paper off, he found a glowing, full sized picture of a woman underneath. She was pounding the wall with her fist. He recognized the woman as Eugenia, the wife of the Romanian Ambassador.
   Finch read her lips as she pounded the wall. "Please...let me out," read her lips.
   "My God!" Finch gasped.
   "Aaargh!" Cristian yelled.
   Finch turned to see Cristian running at him, with a bucket of paint in his hand. Finch threw himself to the ground, grabbing Cristian's ankle. Cristian stumbled, spilling the paint onto the wall next to Eugenia. Getting up, Finch realized that he had dropped his gun. Finch grabbed Cristian, and flung him against the wall. Finch opened his mouth in shock as Cristian dissolved into the wall, into the strangely glowing paint that had been splashed into the wall.
   Cristian turned around, but was still trapped as a picture inside the wall. Finch sat for a moment, stunned. He stared at the glowing paint in the bucket. Then Finch took the red brush, carefully circled the picture of Cristian, and wrote "DO NOT TOUCH" on the wall.
   Finch turned to Eugenia, still trapped in the wall, who looked back at him. "Don't worry, Mrs. Scala," said Finch in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "We will have you out of there in no time." He looked over at the other wall, at the picture of the shoe. "I'm not sure about your husband, though." And finally he looked at Cristian, whose face was contorted with rage. "And this guy, we will have in jail for quite a while." Finch picked up his cell phone. "The guys down at the precinct won't believe this one."