She dumps them on the conference table. The Initial Brigade hits Pause in unison and pushes past her to the goods.
“Where are my Nibs?” J.P. mutters. “I gotta have my Nibs.”
“They’re there already. Sheesh. What are you guys up to, anyway?”
“Sorry, Jenny, but it’s top secret.”
“Yeah, I know, but you can trust me. I swear.”
I hesitate, then decide to give in a little. “We’re working on something for the Mutual Assurance file. And that’s all I can tell you.”
“Okay, I get it. Say, did you call him yet?”
The tips of my ears feel pink. “Call who?”
“Oh, you know. Him.”
I. William’s head rises. “There’s a him?”
“It’s no one.”
“Oh, there’s someone,” Jenny says.
“That’s enough. Back to work, Jenny.”
I follow her to the door to lock it behind her. I’m not quite sure why I’m being so security-conscious, but I feel justified when I see Sophie lurking in the hallway. I walk into the hall and close the door behind me.
“What do you want?”
She flicks her stick-straight hair over her shoulder. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Everyone’s talking about how you’ve commandeered the Initial Brigade and all the AV equipment. Do I smell alcohol?”
“Just give it up, Sophie.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I know it has something to do with the Mutual Assurance file.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
“Well, you’re going to have to learn to live with disappointment.”
“This isn’t over.”
“Oh, but it is.”
I slip through the door so she can’t see inside, then I lock it behind me. The Initial Brigade are back in their seats, snacks at the ready in their laps, hands curved around their remotes.
“Should we go to orange alert?” I. William asks as I sit down next to him.
“If orange alert is the color for not telling Sophie anything, then yes.”
“Orange it is.”
I stare at the screen. I’m not sure I can take much more of this. “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong.”
“What’s that?” Monty says.
“Pause for a second, will you guys?”
They hit their Pause buttons with practiced synchronicity. I walk to where I can face them. Behind me on the wall is a blowup of the museum.
“Follow me here. Our theory is that the thief found a way to hide himself in the bench in the Bushnell Gallery, probably while the security guards were getting the next group of guests.”
“How come the security guards didn’t notice that someone was left behind?” J.P. asks.
“I’m not sure, but he probably created a small diversion somehow to confuse them.”
Monty lifts his hand.
“I told you, Monty, that’s not necessary.”
He grins. “Right. Well, what if he said he was sick? Then he could pretend he was going to the bathroom but actually hide somewhere close to the gallery so he could slip back in between groups.”
I turn and examine the map. “He could have hidden himself in this bathroom here.” I point to the bathroom around the corner from the Bushnell Gallery. “I’ll find out from Detective Kendle whether there are alarms on the bathrooms.
“So group leaves, thief slips back in, making sure to stay out of view of the cameras, and conceals himself in the bench. And there he waits overnight until the alarms are turned off in the morning. Then he gets out, removes the painting from its frame, conceals it inside whatever he’s wearing, and leaves the museum once it reopens.”
I. William’s eyes light up. “Which means . . . we should be able to see him leaving on the video!”
“Precisely. If we can identify one of our guests on the video footage the next morning, then we have our man.”
J.P. sighs. “So now we’re going to have to try to identify people from the back?”
“Plus the guy has to be wearing something different from the night before, or he’s a total idiot,” Monty adds. “That could take days.”
“Do we even have that footage?” I. William asks.
“The recordings are twenty-four hours long. What time do they start?”
“At noon.”
“What time do they open in the morning?” J.P. asks.
I think back. “The party was on Saturday. I think they only open at eleven on Sunday.”
J.P. goes to the computer and types for a few seconds. “Yup. She’s right.”
“Which reduces the window to one hour.”
“That’s pretty tight.”
“But he must’ve been eager to get out of there. I can’t believe he’d hang around for longer than he’d have to.”
“Stands to reason,” I. William agrees.
“Let’s hope so,” Monty says emphatically.
“All right, let’s give it a go,” I say.
I. William picks up his remote and starts to fast-forward toward the day after the party. The video blurs through endless hours of an empty lobby punctuated by the infrequent visits of the overnight security guards. When it gets toward 11 A.M. on the video, he slows it down to real time. We watch the screen intently. The time stamp says 10:52.
“That’s the head security guy from the night before,” I. William says, pointing to the man I recognize from the altercation with Bushnell’s parents. “He left around eleven.”
“How come they didn’t find the painting missing overnight, by the way?” I ask.
“They don’t patrol the whole museum,” J.P. says. “There are heat and motion sensors in all the galleries. The guards just patrol the halls.”
“The day guards are coming on shift. Do they have to disable the alarm section by section, or is there a master switch somewhere?”
“There’s a master switch,” J.P. replies. “It was in that security manual the museum sent over.”
Monty rolls his eyes. “Show-off.”
The time stamp flips to 10:59. The head security guard comes into view, followed by three other guards. The head guard gesticulates as he gives them instructions. Two of them lumber off reluctantly, while one takes his station at the metal detector. The head guard nods to someone off-camera and makes a slashing motion at his throat. It’s 11:02.
“He must be telling someone to turn off the alarm,” I. William says.
“Right. Eyes front, boys.”
We watch the silent movie unfold. The Sunday before Christmas is a slow day. The first visitor is an elderly man with a cane who arrives at 11:08. Over the next several minutes, there’s a trickle of traffic. Harried-looking mothers with young children, a couple in their early twenties with their hands entwined.
“Oh shit,” J.P. says.
I take the remote from I. William and hit Pause. “What?”
“I just remembered something.” He stands abruptly and walks toward the conference table, riffling through the stacks of papers, candy wrappers, and bottle caps. He locates a crumpled piece of paper and scans it. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. They’re about to discover that the painting’s missing.”
“What happens then?”
“They shut the whole thing down. No one out or in.”
“How long was the museum closed for?”
He checks his notes. “Two days. There’s no way our guy could stay in there that long.”
My mind crowds with doubt. This has to be the answer. Doesn’t it?
“Let’s keep watching. He still has time.”
I hit Play.
11:12.
11:13.
I. William’s face is so intense I almost believe that it’s going to work. That the mystery man crouching hidden in a marble b
ench holding a painting worth millions of dollars is going to reveal himself. Instead, a family arrives, a little boy of about four years old darting in and out of the metal detector. The guard reaches out to snatch him by the collar, just missing him. His mother looks affronted. She speaks precisely enough that you can read her lips, demanding to see his supervisor. The head guard comes over to placate her.
A man comes into view behind the family. He’s wearing a plain tan overcoat that reaches past his knees. One hand is holding a cell phone to his ear while the other is thrust in his pocket. His hair is hidden by a black ski cap, similar to the one Dominic was wearing when I first met him. As he passes the commotion caused by the four-year-old and his angry mother, he gives them a quick glance, revealing his profile. I feel a flash of recognition.
“No fucking way,” J.P. breathes.
“It’s Victor Bushnell,” I. William and I say together.
Chapter 25: The Half-Life of Happiness
Holy crap,” Monty says.
“Dude,” I. William says, “we just figured out that a billionaire pulled off a massive art theft, and all you can say is ‘holy crap’?”
Monty looks sheepish. “It seemed appropriate at the time.”
“But hold on,” J.P. says, staring perplexedly at the screen. “He’s not coming out of the museum; he’s going in. That doesn’t make any sense.”
The air seems to leave the room.
“You’re totally right,” I. William says. “What do we do now?”
I watch the silent movie playing out on the screen, my gut churning. Something offscreen draws the attention of the guard at the metal detector, as well as Victor Bushnell’s. Clearly, someone’s discovered that the painting’s missing.
Bushnell turns abruptly on his heel and leaves the museum while the guard’s focus is diverted. Moments later, several guards come into view, all talking and gesticulating excitedly.
“He left,” I say quietly.
“What’s that?” I. William asks.
“He left. Victor Bushnell. When he saw the guards coming. Why would he do that if he didn’t know about the theft?”
“But he couldn’t have stolen it, right? Not personally. Maybe he had an accomplice?”
Something niggles at the edge of my brain. “Wait a second. Oh, I know . . . wrong movie.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . we’ve been assuming that the thief was hiding in the museum overnight so he could take the painting out of the museum. But what if that isn’t it? What if he never took the painting out at all? What if it’s still in there somewhere?”
“And that’s why Bushnell was there?” J.P. asks. “To take it out?”
“Yeah.”
“But he’d be running an awful risk. And it didn’t work.”
“No, I know. But it still could. Once all the chaos has died down, he could walk in and take it anytime.”
“But why would he steal his own painting?”
“He has a large personal loan. The painting’s collateral for it.”
He shakes his head. “But why steal it? Why not just sell it?”
“But then he wouldn’t have the painting. This way, he gets out of his financial pickle and either keeps the painting or sells it on the black market in a few years.”
I. William pops a pretzel into his mouth. “We should tell Matt about this.”
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I want to make sure first.”
“Make sure of what?”
“That he did it.”
I. William points over his shoulder. “Isn’t that his face up there on the screen?”
“Yes, but we should make sure there isn’t some other explanation for him being there. And that the painting’s still in the museum.”
Please, please, let the painting still be in the museum.
“Wouldn’t they have searched for it already?”
“I’m not sure they did,” I say, a flash of my mother’s words in the night coming to me. “And I think I have an idea where it might be. Let me make sure before you say anything to Matt, okay?”
I. William shrugs and positions a can of spray cheese above his mouth.
“That’s disgusting,” J.P. says.
“How do you know unless you try it?”
“Trust me. I know.”
I sigh. “Can we focus here for a second, guys?”
They grumble their assent.
“Thanks. I. William, maybe you can find a facial-recognition specialist who’ll confirm that’s really Bushnell.”
“On it.”
“And, J.P., if you could clean all the physical evidence up and collate it; we’ll need that if there’s ever a court case.”
“No problem.”
Monty puts up his hand.
“Seriously, Monty, still with the hand?”
“What should I do?”
“How about summarizing what we’ve found until now?”
“Should I leave out the snacks?”
“That would probably be a good idea. Email it to me when you’re done so I can review it.”
“When do we crack the champagne?” J.P. asks.
“Soon. I promise. Don’t stay too late.”
“There’s no danger of that.”
The next few hours pass in a blur as I persuade Detective Kendle to come with me to the museum and check on my hunch—that Victor Bushnell hid the painting in the base of the bench in his gallery, and that it’s been sitting there ever since because he hasn’t had the opportunity to remove it. If I’m right, it must’ve been killing him to know it was there the whole time during Dominic’s show. Or maybe he doesn’t care about the painting at all and it really is just about the insurance money?
Detective Kendle flashes her badge at Security, and I follow her through the metal detector. She says something to the head guard, and he swears loudly, the guttural sound echoing off the marble walls. He stabs his finger toward two guards standing on the other side of the room in a gesture reminiscent of World War II movies—eyes-on-me and follow. They comply, and when we get to the gallery it seems like we’re all holding our breath as the youngest of the guards pries open the seat lid and looks down into the empty bench.
Detective Kendle takes over. She pulls on a pair of latex gloves with the expertise of a surgeon and moves her strong fingers around the base until they catch on something—an almost invisible latch to a hidden compartment. And there it is: a rolled-up piece of innocent-looking canvas that people are willing to pay millions for. The young guard reaches for it until Detective Kendle’s bark stops his hand. She reminds him about fingerprints as she plucks her phone from her pocket. She glances at me, looking mildly surprised, as if she can’t quite believe this is really happening.
I just shrug and look away, trying to figure out what I’m feeling. Shouldn’t I be elated? Or at least relieved? Wasn’t I happy today? For a moment? Right when we figured out the last piece of the puzzle, I felt elated. And now all I can feel is the echo of it, a small, uneven beat on the contour of my heart.
The half-life of happiness, I guess.
Chapter 26: A Piece of the Puzzle
Let me get this straight,” Sunshine says the next afternoon as I navigate through traffic in the fire-red MINI Cooper that she rented but feels too stressed out to drive. “Victor Bushnell stole his own painting?”
“Looks like it.”
“But why?”
“It likely has something to do with the loan he took to finish building his corporate headquarters when his stock price sank in the market meltdown.” It was right there in the investigator’s report. The building was supposed to be the Trump Tower of his enterprise, but when the credit crunch arrived, the banks weren’t willing to lend the company—already overextended—any additional money. They would, however, be all too happy to lend it to Bushnell, provided he could give them the right kind of collateral, of course.
“He wen
t to all this trouble because of a building?”
I shift the car awkwardly, depressing the clutch at the wrong moment.
“It’s not just the building. If he doesn’t make his loan payments, the bank will call the loan, and that could trigger a cascade effect. His whole business could have gone up in smoke.”
“But I thought he was a billionaire?”
“Just on paper. He pretty much leveraged everything he had.”
“That’s our exit coming up.” She points to a green sign that hangs above the highway.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“You’ll see. Go on.”
I accelerate to pass a van blocking my access to the off-ramp. “There’s not much more to tell, really.”
“How’d he hide the painting without the guards seeing?”
“He was in the last group of guests to go into the gallery. He told the guard that he’d forgotten something in the room right before the guard locked it. The guard let him go back in alone.”
“Well, that wasn’t too smart. Look lively.”
I turn my attention back to the road. It curves sharply to the right.
“Easy on my gears!”
“This wasn’t my idea, remember?”
“It wasn’t an idea, honey, it was a vision.”
That’s what she’d said on the phone earlier. She’d had a “vision” about me and wanted to pick me up so she could take me somewhere. I asked her if we could do it another time.
“Do you think I get visions like this every day, Emmaline?”
“I’m kind of busy.”
“The memo will wait. I’m picking you up in thirty minutes.”
“How the hell did you know I was working on a memo?”
“I told you, I—”
“Had a vision. I heard you.” I stared down at the blinking light on my Dictaphone. That had to be a lucky guess, didn’t it? “I really need to work on this. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“It can’t. It’s important. I promise.”
I heard the seriousness in Sunshine’s tone, a seriousness I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard before. And it occurred to me that what I was doing could wait a few hours. That I owed Sunshine that, at least.
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