by Mia Faith
Greg nodded but hesitated before he left. “Do you think he really managed it?” Greg asked quietly, glancing at Dale and Melissa each in turn.
Shelly appreciated that he’d asked the question in a low enough voice that the others likely hadn’t heard, but it still set her on edge. Mostly because she had a very bad feeling that yes, the Maitre had somehow gotten through her infallible system.
“I don’t know,” she told him after a moment. “But if he did, then we need to get on top of it. I need that information about what happened at the museum and I need to know how he did it. Find me something, Greg. Anything.”
Greg nodded. “Will do, boss.”
He turned away and headed to his desk then. He started up his computer and quickly went to work.
They had a long day ahead of them.
…
As it turned out, I didn’t have to have Dale call the Scottsdale Museum, because right after I sent Greg off to find what he could on the Maitre, I got a call from the curator in Scottsdale. His name was Alexander Montrose. He was a man in his sixties and right now he was furious.
“The Hartness System was supposed to be infallible!” he yelled at Shelly over the phone.
She winced, not thrilled with dealing with the backlash already. “I understand that you’re upset,” Shelly began, trying to be soothing but admitting her lacking in that area. She was a technical designer, the developer of the Hartness System. She dealt with computers and thieves and very little else. When it came to people, she was notoriously ill-equipped and when it came to angry people, she was hopeless.
“Upset?” demanded Mr. Montrose. “My dear girl, I’m not upset. I’m completely and utterly livid! I took a chance on you and my reward is to be swindled beneath my very nose! The embarrassment! The humiliation!”
Shelly gritted her teeth at the “dear girl” comment, though she made a point of keeping her mouth shut.
In a sense, Mr. Montrose was right. Shelly was young, not even thirty yet, and was a woman to boot. Although she’d gone to a good college and earned high enough marks to get some quick recognition, there was no denying that in this world of security and technology, she had been considered a novice at best. At worst, she was nothing but a pretty face who wanted to play with the boys.
But then she’d developed the Hartness System. A digital awareness system that allowed real-time monitoring of wherever it was implemented. A type of artificial intelligence, it was designed to take real world scenarios and learn from them. Shelly fed it information on every heist on record so that it could easily decide countermeasures to take to prevent them. Then she added in hypothetical scenarios, replaying them over and over until the Hartness System had figured out how to prevent her—and anyone else—from breaking through security. It had advanced warning, high-risk targets, automatic routine maintenance, and was even connected to the internet, set up to constantly search out new scenarios having to do with heists and applying them to its database.
It was infallible. Unstoppable.
Shelly had created the ultimate preventative measure and as a result, the overall number of break-ins and successful thefts had gone down dramatically. As her system was proven, again and again, more companies and museums implemented it. Now, it was the standard system in most places. The ones that could afford it anyway.
But Mr. Montrose had been one of the very first to try out the Hartness System. That was almost five years ago. Now, he felt betrayed because that system had failed him.
Shelly had to resist the urge to point out that it had taken five years to fail and his “taking a risk on her” had made him a trendsetter as well as a successful curator of a very well maintained and safe museum. Because all of that didn’t matter. In the end, she had promised him invulnerable and that promise had fallen through.
“Sir, I understand, but—”
“I don’t want your understanding, girl, I want it fixed. Now.”
The line went dead before Shelly had a chance to say another word. For a long moment, she stared at the phone in her hand like it might come alive and bite her. Then she slammed it back down into the cradle. “Damnit!”
“Boss, I got the information on the Maitre that you asked for,” Greg told her, carrying a stack of folders. “This is what I found in the archives. The rest I emailed you. I’ll keep digging, but most of the information out there on him is about his professional life as a thief. Heists only. There are a few conspiracy theories out there about his identity, but they seem pretty bogus. I sent links to the sites.”
Shelly sighed as he dropped the heavy stack on my desk. Great. Just what I wanted to do today. To Greg, she said, “Thanks. Keep looking. And see if Dale is having any luck getting the damn video from Scottsdale, those pricks.”
Greg nodded.
All of the Hartness Systems were linked up, meaning that Shelly could check the data from anywhere so long as she had the access codes—which, of course, she did. But the video feed was tied up in red tape and if she wanted all of it, instead of just partials, she’d have to get the original copies from the actual museum.
When Greg left, she sat back in her chair and tried to have a zen moment before diving into the pile of information on her desk.
I can do this. It’s not the end of the world.
When Shelly felt like she’d calmed down enough to tackle the mountain in front of her, she sat up straight and reached for the first folder. Before she got the chance, her phone went off. She jumped a little, not expecting that, then realized that it was her cell. She pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
It was her mother.
Groaning, Shelled ignored the call and then threw it into the bottom drawer, deciding to leave it there until further notice. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with her repressive mother on top of everything else.
You should settle down, Shelly, honey.
You should take a cooking class, or maybe home economics. No one wants a wife that can run a computer.
Between those none too subtle suggestions and her father’s insistence that she would never make it in a man’s field, Shelly had heard enough to last her a lifetime from her parents. Unfortunately, with this scandal on her hands, Shelly had a bad feeling that she was likely going to be hearing a lot more from her parents.
More determined than ever to figure out what went wrong, Shelly pulled the first folder to her and began flipping through it.
Original Rembrandt stolen from the British Museum in London, England. On the night of August the sixth, a man known only as the Maitre, broke into the British Museum undetected. Taken was a collection of sketches and original drawings done by Rembrandt. The theft wasn’t noticed until the following morning. Only a single note with a plain black script was left behind, quoted as saying only, “Exquisite.”
Shelly set the report aside and pulled the next.
Break in at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy. May twenty-thirteen, notorious thief the Maitre, allegedly stole an original Vermeer…
She set that one aside, too.
The next one was about the break-in in Amsterdam. The one after that, Saint Petersburg. One famous museum after the other had suffered break-ins from the Maitre—or at least, allegedly. Most contained plain, black and white scripted notes suggesting the Maitre’s involvement. He never outright claimed responsibility for them except for the very first heist at the National Gallery of Art here in the United States. But the MO was the same across the board.
Shelly sighed, throwing the last folder aside. Each had given details of what had been stolen, where it had been stolen from, and the note that had been left as the Maitre’s personal calling card.
From what Shelly could glean, the Maitre liked to pick the biggest, most well-known museums to rob and he left a scripted, basic, unsigned calling card. But otherwise, he was a bit of a wildcard. There was no pattern to where he would strike—from the US to England to Russia—and there was no telling what he would steal. A
lthough he seemed to enjoy original paintings and sketches, he also stole diamonds, Fabrice eggs, ancient tapestries, anything and everything he could get his hands on. There were even reports of missing rare books.
And that was an issue.
“This doesn’t give me enough,” Shelly murmured to an empty office. Dale was still working on getting ahold of those videos, Greg was dealing with crackpot conspiracy theorists, and Melissa was handling the curator of their museum. Although Shelly wanted to assure her that the Maitre would never infiltrate the Metropolitan, she couldn’t. There was no guarantee anymore.
Feeling fully depressed and like she had nothing to show for a long, hard day, she packed up the information on the Maitre and got ready to leave.
Glancing at her watch, she found that it was later than she anticipated and found that it was already dark outside. “Damnit, I’m going to miss my flight.”
It a little over three hours, she was supposed to be on a plane that would be taking her to the other side of the country. It was one of maybe three times in five years that she’d wished she took her damn car.
Hurrying down the street, she made it home with a little time to spare. If she packed in under ten minutes, she could make it with two hours to spare. Hopefully enough to get through security.
Unlocking the door to her apartment, Shelly’s spirits instantly dropped even further.
“Oh, yes! Harder! Harder!”
Shelly groaned. That would be Daniella, her roommate. Two months ago, Daniella had started dating a super sexy young man from Greece. He said he was a model, though Shelly mostly suspected he was a freeloader. But that wasn’t why she disliked him.
No, it was the constant sex they seemed to be having since getting together.
Isn’t there any respect for a recently brokenhearted young lady? Shelly thought ruefully.
When they started banging against the wall, she decided not. Grabbing her bag, she packed in record time, not only to catch her flight but because she couldn’t stand to listen to them for another second. Maybe she hadn’t been in love with Ryan, but he’d been someone to hold on cold nights and to help deal with the sexual frustrations that came with being a human being.
She promised that when she got back from her trip, she was going to find a new man. Or at least a really good toy.
Scribbling a note for her roommate, she left it on the kitchen counter, then headed out to catch a cab.
Looks like I’ll actually make my flight.
CHAPTER THREE
Shelly arrived in LA with enough time to take a quick nap before getting ready for that evening. She was scheduled for an awards ceremony and it was leaving a bundle of knots to twist in her stomach.
The award was for her supposedly infallible Hartness System. Five years without a single successful break in. And then that bastard the Maitre waltzed into Scottsdale like he owned the damn place.
Shaking her head, Shelly stepped into the shower. Yesterday had been a long day and although she’d gotten a quick nap in after her flight, she still felt gritty and exhausted. Not exactly the glamorous class she wanted to display at an awards ceremony. So she took an extra minute to wash her hair twice and shaved everywhere, even though the only person who would be close enough to tell was going to be her.
When she stepped out, she felt a little better. Wiping away the steam from the mirror, she stared at her own reflection. Cool blue eyes. Damp blonde hair that went halfway down her back. A small mouth with plump lips and high cheek bones. As a kid, she’d looked a little like Betty Boop, especially with the baby fat. She’d lost that now and the extreme features gave her an almost classy beauty—one that didn’t seem to ever be doing her any favors.
“Lay of the gay men,” she commanded her reflection. “And act like you own the world. You can do this.”
With her little pep talk given, she finished drying off and threw her towel over the door to dry. Then she went for her dress. It was long, floor length, with a slit that went halfway up her thigh on the left to make her legs look even longer. It was a dark blue color that gave her eyes a little more warmth than they were want to have, though it made her hair paler than normal.
Can’t win them all, she thought with a shrug.
Donning a black strapless bra first, she wiggled into the form fitting dress grateful for the extra walks she took as well as the gym membership she made use of. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she did a quick check that she was covered in all the important places. She’d debated a pair of panties, but the silky, shapeless fabric wasn’t too keen on that. The lines were too visible, so she went without.
Finally grabbing her heels—a modest two inches and basic black—she headed out, making sure she had a clutch with her ID, wallet, and room key.
Downstairs, there was already a car waiting for her. She was getting the star treatment since she was, well, the star. This whole night was about her and it made her feel awful.
I’m the creator of the Titanic, she thought miserably as she sat in the back, letting the driver maneuver his way through downtown LA. Thank god. The traffic was insane. I boasted an unsinkable system and now the Maitre is my iceberg.
Slumping in her seat, she let out a sigh. The evening was going to be long. All she could hope for was getting through it.
As they arrived outside the LA Center for the Arts, a charity hall that rented out the space for charity events and business dinners alike. Tonight the place was decked out in twinkling white lights that were strung over bushes to illuminate the tiny white flowers there. The fountain was running, a beautiful marble woman pouring from her vase the water that flowed into the pool below. There were pathways that wound through the gardens that surrounded the main building itself. Indoor, there was a theater and amphitheater, but because tonight was so warm and lovely out, the awards ceremony was set up in the large venue outside in the back.
Shelly carefully slid out of the backseat, mindful of her dress and what she wasn’t wearing beneath it. The driver offered his hand and helped her out. She accepted it gratefully. “Thanks.”
“Of course, ma’am,” he said with a little half bow of his head. “I’ll be waiting here for you when you’re ready to leave.”
Shelly thanked him again, then headed down the lit pathway towards the large covered patio where the ceremony was set up. There were dozens of tables and chairs set up in front of a raised platform with a podium and microphone. Behind it was a white screen which was currently covered by a projection of different art pieces from varying museums. Shelly knew without paying too close of attention to the flickering pictures that each museum had the Hartness System installed.
She felt even worse about her life.
The place was already pretty full. People in fancy dresses and suits with bow ties were mingling, drinking champagne and enjoying tiny appetizers that did little to curb their hunger but made them feel classier than a cheeseburger.
I wish I’d eaten before I got here, Shelly thought when her stomach gave a small growl. Of course, she was also supposed to be on stage in only minutes, so her nerves hinted that it might have been a good idea to skip dinner.
That being said, when a waiter stopped by to offer her a glass of champagne, she didn’t refuse. “Thank you.”
She sipped at it as she threw herself into the fray of standing guests.
“Ms. Hartness!”
Shelly turned to find a middle-aged gentleman come her way, smiling broadly. He had incredibly white teeth that were so straight and uniform she thought they were probably fake or at least shaped. The salt and pepper in his hair made him look distinguished and she wondered about the reality of that, too.
This is LA. Maybe none of this is real.
“Mr. Schumacher,” she greeted finally putting the face with a name as he came over and took up her hand. She smiled politely as he kissed the back of her hand.
“How are you? You look so lovely tonight, I didn’t even realize I was staring at you until I saw those
heels. Only the head of security of the Metropolitan Museum of Art would wear heels under three inches to a swanky function like this.” He laughed, winking at her as though he’d told a marvelous joke.
She chuckled politely, though honestly, she felt a little awkward about herself as a result of it. Did his comment mean she was boring? Or that she was surprisingly not so? “Thank you, I think,” she told him in a light voice.
“Of course. I’m not the only man who’s been staring tonight,” he said, winking again. Then he laughed.
She suspected that he’d already had more than the one glass of champagne in his hand. “Well, thank you for the compliment. But I really need to go over my speech.”
“Of course, of course,” he said with a nod and a little wave of his hand.
Shelly smiled and excused herself then, feeling his eyes on her mostly bare back. It was weird to have a slightly older man giving her so much attention, but she admitted it was nice. Then she instantly felt weird. Jeez, am I so desperate for attention that I’ll take it from anyone?
Not that Mr. Schumacher was a bad looking man, but he was married and the last thing that Shelly wanted or needed was an older, disloyal man in her life.
Opening up her clutch, she shuffled through its contents. She found the short stack of notecards where she’d scribbled her speech for the night. She’d been over them a dozen times already, but she was nervous. Public speaking, in general, was slightly terrifying to her, but add her anxiety over the Scottsdale break in and she was two shakes away from losing it.
After drinking only half of her glass of champagne, she found a place to set it down, then headed towards the podium. People were settling down at their assigned tables and Mr. Kale was already behind the podium, tapping on the microphone. It screeched, then settled.
“Oh, wow, that was loud,” he said with a smile. Several people laughed. “Sorry about that. Now, welcome. Thank you all for coming.”
Shelly headed over to the side of the stage, waiting to be introduced. She went over her notecards again and again, barely even listening to Mr. Kale.