Detective Nield takes my hand, pressing it firmly. “Ms. Tupper, good to see you again.”
“You too.”
“This is Detective Kendle. She’s in charge of the investigation.”
We shake hands. Hers is rigid and strong. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
Her green eyes appraise me steadily, reminding me of Dominic. I’ve tried hard not to think about him since I left Stephanie’s last night, and it’s worked, mostly. I can’t be responsible for my dreams.
“Of course.” She has a flat accent that sounds like it’s masking something broader, coastal. “Shall we go somewhere more private?”
She leads me toward a metal door that has a cutout made of that meshed safety glass you see on cop shows. She inserts a key into the lock and opens it. Inside, there’s a simple metal table with a chair on either side. The walls are painted that builder’s white that new homes come in. The air smells like fear.
“Is this the Box?” I ask.
The left corner of her mouth rises slightly. “We call it Interrogation Two, but yes, this is the Box.”
I wonder how long it would take for her to get me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. Judging by the hard glint in Detective Kendle’s eyes, I’m guessing not long.
“I know this might sound kind of juvenile, but . . . cool.”
She gives me a trace of a smile. We sit across from each other, and she opens her file. It’s thick with official-looking forms and witness statements. A photograph of the painting is stapled onto the left side of the folder.
“Why are you here exactly?” she asks.
“I’m investigating the claim before we pay out. It’s standard procedure with claims of this size.”
“Why don’t you just invoke one of those loopholes you lawyers always put in the contracts?”
“We haven’t been able to find one that applies,” I say dryly. “What have you found out?”
Her eyes are full of displeasure. “We don’t usually share the details of our investigation with civilians, but the museum authorized us to disclose whatever we could.”
“They have a lot of money on the line.”
“Naturally. I imagine your client’s going to have to pay, though.”
“Not if the museum is at fault.”
“I don’t know about that. Seems to me they had all the usual measures in place.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for one, all the staff hired for the event were checked by a private security company.”
“So no one with a criminal record, et cetera?”
“Exactly.”
“What about the catering company?”
“They’ve been in business for over twenty years and have done a lot of high-profile events, several of them for Mr. Bushnell.”
“Where did the party take place exactly?”
She flips through the file and pulls out a folded piece of paper. It’s a floor plan of the museum, which is a large, circular building. A series of five interlocking circles make up the separate galleries inside.
“The party was here,” she says, pointing to the innermost circle, which looks small on paper but is actually a space the size of a gymnasium.
“What time did it start?”
“Seven. They closed the museum at five. Security swept the building and set the alarms in all the galleries except the center one. The catering staff arrived at three and were confined to the main gallery, the kitchen, and prep rooms that are located here and here.” She indicates a series of square spaces tucked between the right side of the inner gallery and the next circle out.
“Where was the painting?”
“In this gallery here.” She taps the left side of the third circle.
“Not where the party was?”
“No. The Bushnell Gallery isn’t big enough to hold that many guests, and there are no kitchen services.”
“But wasn’t the whole point of the party to celebrate the gallery opening?”
She shrugs. “Mr. Bushnell wanted to invite five hundred people and serve canapés. This was the only space large enough to accommodate them.”
“The guests didn’t see the paintings at all?”
“No, they did. Two security guards escorted groups to the gallery for viewings throughout the night.”
“Were the guests vetted?”
“As much as they could be. Bushnell’s people provided a final list forty-eight hours before the event, and Security ran basic checks. Of course, there were at least thirty people at the party who weren’t on the list.”
“Are any of them suspects?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She locates a list of names in the file and hands it to me. “These are the uninvited guests.”
I read it. My eyebrows are raised by the third name. Most of them could afford to buy a Manet if they wanted one. All of them are names I recognize. It’s highly unlikely any of them would be involved in art theft.
“I can see why they were let in.”
She blinks slowly, her voice devoid of expression. “Yes. That kind of person will not be denied.”
I smile. “How do you know all these people were there if they weren’t on the list?”
“There are security cameras located at the entrance.” Her index finger trails along the floor plan to the front doors. Her nails are blunt, unvarnished. “We’ve been going through the tapes, matching them up to the guest list.”
“Who did it, then?”
“We have no idea.”
“Do you at least know how they did it?”
She frowns. “We haven’t figured that out either.”
“But you must have a theory?”
“Sure. I’ve got lots of theories. Some of them even involve magic tricks.”
I smile again.
“You think I’m joking?” She leans toward me. “The recordings from the security cameras for the Bushnell Gallery show nothing except for guests being led in and out all night. We don’t know what time the painting was stolen, except that it must’ve been after the last group was taken through at about nine thirty. The problem with that, though, is that the alarms were put back on once the gallery was empty. The painting was discovered missing when the guards did their first sweep the next morning. The frame was on the wall; the canvas had been cut out of it.” She leans back in her chair, placing her hands flat on the table. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
“Where are the cameras positioned?”
“Outside the gallery entrance.”
“There aren’t any cameras in the gallery?”
“They hadn’t been installed yet. Construction only just got done in time.”
“Who knew about that?”
“Way too many people for that information to be useful.”
“Well, what about the cameras outside the gallery? Nothing shows up there?”
She shakes her head. “No, those cameras aren’t fixed. They rove between that entrance and the one for the next gallery over. If you were careful, you could avoid being seen.”
Well, that might be something to work with.
“When did the guests leave?”
“They were coming and going all night, but the event ended at eleven.”
“Were they checked as they left?”
A flash of annoyance crosses her face. “No. You have to go through a metal detector to get in, but not on the way out. Seems no one thought that anyone would want to steal something from a museum, what with the million-dollar paintings and sculptures and all.”
“But each painting must have some kind of security system on it?”
“A few of them do, yes. But generally, they rely on the fact that you can’t just take a painting off the wall in the middle of the day,
and the place really is in lockdown overnight. Laser sensors, heat sensors—you name it, they’ve got it.”
“How big was the painting, unframed?”
“About four feet by four.”
I think about it. “It would be four feet long if it was rolled up?”
She nods. “We’ve thought about that. It could be hidden inside someone’s clothing, if they were tall enough.”
“Are there cameras at the museum entrance?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve looked to see if anyone was walking funny when they left?”
She looks unamused. “Of course we have, but we didn’t find anything.”
“Sorry. It sounds like you’ve been very thorough.”
“Thank you.”
I look through my notes, making sure I haven’t skipped anything. “What’s the video quality like?”
“It’s pretty good. They use HD recorders that tape twenty-four-hour loops.”
“So every twenty-four hours it starts to tape over what happened twenty-four hours earlier?”
“That’s right.”
“Isn’t that a bit risky? What if it takes them longer to discover a painting’s missing?”
“That’s nearly impossible. Each gallery is checked several times a day. The guards would notice if something was missing.”
“Would it be possible to get a copy of that video and the guest list?”
“I’ll have to ask.”
I take a business card out of my purse and hand it to her. “If you can, just call that number and I’ll have someone come pick it up.”
“Is that it?”
“For now. May I call you if I have more questions?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
She gathers her file together and we leave the room. The air in the bullpen is full of the smell of too many bodies, but after being in the Box, it still smells like freedom.
I turn toward Detective Kendle to say goodbye. She’s staring at my business card with a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re the one who was in Africa.”
“Detective Nield didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, yes. That’s me. Thanks again for your help.”
“Good luck finding a loophole.”
I nod. “There’s usually one somewhere.”
Chapter 18: Oh, the Memories
Two weeks after my last visit to the village-that-might-have-a-working-satellite-phone, I was back on my Schwinn, waiting for Karen to join me. It was early, and the day’s noise hadn’t yet drowned out the egrets’ calls. The sun was still low on the horizon, a round orb that lit the path I was waiting to take to the satellite phone that surely must be fixed by now.
I heard footfalls behind me and turned to see Karen, her hair hidden by a blue baseball cap, walking toward me with her hands in her pockets.
“Here you are,” she said as she stopped at my side.
“Of course. Aren’t you coming?”
“Not today.”
I tried to hide my disappointment. “Oh. Well, we can go tomorrow, though it’s my turn to cook. Maybe the next day would be better?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Should I just go on my own, then?” I didn’t relish this possibility, but I was willing to do it. “Tabansi’s probably waiting for me . . .”
“The phone’s not going to be fixed, Emma.”
“What? You don’t know that.”
“Actually, I do.”
“How?”
“Because if it were fixed, everyone here would be there waiting to use it.”
“But just yesterday Nyako was saying that once I confirmed it was fixed, he’d arrange to take a group over.”
She smiled. “If it were fixed, Nyako would be the first to know.”
“How?”
“That’s why he is who he is.”
“Then how come he didn’t tell me?”
“He probably didn’t want to disappoint you.”
Clearly, Karen didn’t suffer from that impediment.
“It’s really not fixed?”
“No.”
I climbed off my bike, letting its weight rest against my side. One of the pedals fell, squeaking loudly. “Will it ever be fixed?”
Will any of this ever be fixed?
“Of course it will, Emma. You just need to be patient.”
“I’m not very good at that.”
“I had a feeling.”
“So I’m just going to be stuck here . . . indefinitely?”
“It won’t be that long, I’m sure. But in the meantime, the waiting might be easier if you . . . did a bit more around here.”
My heart filled with guilt. While I’d been helping Karen with some of the small tasks—working in the kitchen they’d set up, making sure they didn’t run out of supplies—I knew I’d been staying on the periphery of village life. I was leaving soon; what was the point of getting invested? But I wasn’t leaving, and Karen clearly thought it was time to stop pretending I was.
“You mean, help you build the schoolhouse?”
“We could use an extra hand.”
“I have no idea what to do.”
She put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out.”
I walk home after my meeting with Detective Kendle, tired and pensive. I can’t help but think back to that first night home, when I skidded toward Stephanie’s in a blind panic. I may be wearing thick boots and a warm coat tonight, but the ground doesn’t feel any more solid, and my heart is cold.
I let myself into the apartment, momentarily overwhelmed by the loneliness it seems to emit. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly I became used to Dominic being here, cooking things for me and making me laugh. Even when his moods were as black as mine, there was a certain camaraderie in that blackness.
I hang up my coat, walk to the living room, and sit on the couch. I lean back and stare at the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree I haven’t bothered to dismantle. My eyes travel toward the banker’s box that still sits under it. Me from zero to eighteen, the box Dominic found in the storage locker. I haven’t had the courage to look through it yet.
I don’t know what I’m scared of, really. I’ve already lived through everything in the box. It’s what’s outside the box that I’m having trouble with.
I turn on the fire and sit on the floor next to the tree. The heat plays against my face. A faint smell of pine lingers in the air. I pry off the dusty cover and lay it next to me. Inside is a row of multicolored hanging file folders. Their white, stiff labels have yellowed over time, and they emit a musty smell. PHOTOS, PERSONAL, ELEMENTARY, IMP. PAPERS, and MISCELLANEOUS, implying more order than I remember imposing when I made this box in the short weeks between college and law school.
I reach first for PHOTOS, and there my mother is, young and smiling at me like I was the most wonderful surprise. The date on the back, written in my father’s spiked handwriting, identifies me as six weeks old.
The photos underneath, small, washed out, framed with a white border, fall backward from then. Me at five weeks, four, two, newborn, hidden in my mother’s distended belly beneath her soft hands and an acre of fabric that looks like the drapes Maria makes clothes out of in The Sound of Music. The only evidence of my father is in the precise dates on the back, and the consistency of the point of view. It feels like there’s love in these photos, but I can’t measure its quantity or gauge its direction.
The one photograph I do remember is here too—a shot of me on my third birthday sitting on my father’s knee, soon before he left us for good. My father’s wearing a business suit, his brown hair cut short. His hand is patting the top of my head like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and he has a hesitant smile on his face. I’m wea
ring a white party dress, and my hair falls in Shirley Temple ringlets. This is the most perfect picture of me as a child. After, my dresses were never as nice, and my curls gave way to frizz, then disappeared altogether.
I have only one memory of my father living with us. It’s a bad one, and I’m not even sure it’s real. In my mind, it’s right before he left, maybe even the day he did, and he was angry. “I don’t want this,” he kept saying to my mother, loud enough for me to hear upstairs in my crib. I couldn’t make out her replies, but her devastated tone of voice scared me. I called for her, and when she didn’t come, I climbed over the bars and thumped to the floor. My wail brought her to me, my father a shadow behind her in the doorway. “It’ll be okay, baby,” my mom said, holding me to her and stroking my hair, but somehow I knew it wouldn’t be.
I put the pictures back into the folder and close the box. I don’t know what I was looking for exactly, but I didn’t find it.
A loud slam! from above breaks me out of my revelry. Tara must be back from L.A., and it sounds like she’s brought an entourage home with her.
Clomp, clomp, clomp, ha, ha, ha!
They must be having a great time up there. A loud time, but great nonetheless. Maybe I should go up and welcome her home? Join the festivities?
Before I talk myself out of it, I put on some shoes, throw my coat over my shoulders, and slip out the front door. I follow two sets of snowy footsteps up the windy staircase, carefully holding on to the cold metal railing so I don’t slip and fall at some other man’s feet.
I give a tentative push on her doorbell. It rings loudly. I can see Tara approaching through the glass cutout of the front door. She’s wearing a pair of black stiletto heels and tight black jeans that emphasize her emaciated frame. Her long blond hair is carefully waved, and her skin has that same fake golden tone as Jenny’s. The hair and the tan are new, but her face remains the same—brown eyes a little too close together, a small bump at the top of her nose.
She opens the door. “Oh my God. Hi!” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. She smells more expensive than I remember. “How are you?”
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