by Shawna Seed
“Oh, that’s even better,” Thomas said. “I’ll call you back in an hour.”
Even better than what? Genevieve wondered.
A little more than an hour later, she admitted Thomas to her room, though if he hadn’t called ahead, she would have been reluctant to unchain the door.
Thomas, one of the most stylish dressers she’d ever known, was wearing a gray cotton work shirt and matching pants. A black baseball cap was perched on his head. He carried a plastic shopping bag.
“Did you just come from a costume party?” Genevieve looked into the hall, checking to see whether Philip was there in a SpongeBob suit.
“On a scale of one to 10, how mad are you at the Hilliard?”
Genevieve considered his question. “I don’t know. Seven?”
“Well, if someone there did this to Philip, I’m at 11,” he said, thrusting the bag toward her.
Genevieve looked inside. It contained an outfit like his.
“You need to make a quick decision. We don’t have much time.”
Clutching the bag, Genevieve backed up and sat on the bed. “What am I deciding?”
“Do you remember Jerrold?”
“The guard with the freckles, served in Iraq? Sure,” Genevieve said.
“He was a medic,” Thomas said.
“OK.” Genevieve wasn’t sure where this was going.
“He’s the one who found Bill. He doesn’t think Bill fell and hit his head. He thinks somebody hit Bill in the head. He found him in the hall outside the room where they keep the files.”
Genevieve took in this information. “So Bill interrupted someone taking the file on the drawing?”
“Jerrold has a new job, and tonight’s his last night. They’re having cake for him, and you know, the cameras might not be monitored so closely for a little bit. And if some temp guards were to wander over to the East Gallery...”
“You are not suggesting stealing Study for Tristan and Iseult.”
“Of course not. We’re just going to look at it.”
“There are cameras everywhere. You think uniforms will fool anyone? You work there. I worked there.”
“You know how it is – to most white folks, all black men look the same,” Thomas said. “Now, for you, my redheaded friend...” He reached into the bag, under the uniform, and produced a curly, platinum blonde wig.
“No.”
“You can put it in a ponytail,” Thomas said. “What can I say? I had a drag phase.”
They found a parking place four blocks from the museum and waited on the loading dock. Thomas handed Genevieve a pair of latex gloves. “Try to keep your hands in your pockets,” he said. “Keep your head down so the bill of your cap shields your face.”
Genevieve had no idea how long they waited – she had no watch, and Thomas insisted that she leave her phone at the hotel.
Finally, a door creaked open, and a hand beckoned them in.
Thomas and Genevieve stepped inside a small receiving area. Jerrold closed the outside door behind them and led them down a short flight of stairs.
“Congratulations on your new job,” Genevieve said. “Where are you headed?”
“Costco,” the guard said over his shoulder. “Better health plan. I got kids.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Jerrold swiped a card in front of an electronic eye. He opened the door for them, then turned and left.
Genevieve looked around, trying to get her bearings. They were in a hallway that ran behind the galleries. Its utilitarian appearance – concrete floor, cinderblock walls – gave no hint of the treasures on the other side.
“Thomas,” she hissed, “this is a secure area! I wasn’t even allowed down here when I was on the payroll!”
She heard a noise ahead and froze. Footsteps sounded on the hard floor, coming toward them.
Genevieve looked around for someplace to hide. Behind her was a locked door. Ahead was almost certainly a security guard.
Suddenly a beam of light focused on Thomas.
Genevieve thought she might faint. Would Julien bail her out? Hadn’t he said he’d do anything for her?
A security guard strode into view, flashlight trained on them.
“Hi, Victor.”
“Hi, Thomas.” Victor nodded at Genevieve as he swiped his card and opened the door. The three of them walked quickly through the darkened East Gallery until they came to Study for Tristan and Iseult.
“The lock’s disabled,” Victor said, donning a pair of cotton gloves. “You got, like, five minutes. That’s it.”
“Well, let’s have a look,” Thomas said.
With a man on each corner, they carefully removed the drawing and held it a few feet away from the wall. Genevieve circled behind them.
The back of the drawing was blank – no surprise. She clicked on a small flashlight Thomas had given her and bent down for a closer look.
Suddenly, Victor’s radio crackled to life.
“Vic, what’s your location?”
“Ned. Dammit,” Victor said. “Thomas, can you hold this thing?
“Nervous Ned? Gen, take that corner,” Thomas said.
Genevieve stuffed the flashlight in her pocket and took a corner of the drawing while Victor keyed the “talk” button on his radio. “Ned, what’s up?”
Ned’s voice came back. “Is anybody supposed to be in the East Gallery? On Camera 12, I just saw a pair of feet go by.”
“Shit,” Thomas said.
Victor held out his hands and made a calming gesture. He depressed the “talk” button again. “Probably one of the temps, lost and looking for the john.”
“Had weird shoes on,” Ned said.
Victor, Thomas and Genevieve all looked down at her black ballet flats. She’d had nothing in her hotel room that remotely resembled security-guard footwear.
“We need to get you guys out of here,” Victor said. “Nervous Ned wasn’t supposed to be on the camera booth.”
He keyed his radio again. “Yeah, Ned, I don’t know where they’re getting these temps. Buncha amateurs. Keisha said one girl last week showed up in FMPs.”
Victor looked at Genevieve and shrugged apologetically.
Ned’s voice came back. “Think I ought to send Luis up?”
Victor spoke into his radio. “It’s just one of the dumbass temps took a wrong turn. Tell you what, I’ll come and relieve you on the cameras, and you can go have a piece of Jerrold’s cake. I’ll be there in two minutes. Sit tight.”
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Victor said to Thomas and Genevieve. “We’re going to hang that thing back up.”
“We didn’t get what we need,” Thomas said.
“Too late,” Victor said. “You two are going to mill around here for a couple minutes, looking lost, give me time to get to the camera booth. Then you are going to walk out that way, past that big picture of the naked lady.” He pointed toward the West Gallery. “You know the one I mean?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. Genevieve was too frightened to speak.
“There’s a door there the guards leave unarmed so they can take smoke breaks. Anybody asks, you’re going out to smoke.”
Thomas began to protest. “Not unlocked, just unarmed, so you can push it open from the inside without setting off the alarm,” Victor said.
A door clanged somewhere in the distance, and Genevieve jumped.
“Anybody catches you, I got no clue how you got in here, you understand?”
“Just one thing,” Genevieve said.
“No, I’m serious, you get caught, I don’t know you,” Victor said.
Genevieve pointed to the breast pocket of Victor’s uniform. “If we’re going on a smoke break, we need smokes.”
Victor and Thomas rehung the drawing, then the guard handed Thomas a pack of Marlboros and a lighter and hustled away.
Another door clanged, even closer this time.
Genevieve began to walk toward the West Gallery, but Thomas held her back. “We’re supposed to wait,” he sai
d.
A radio crackled somewhere in one of the upper galleries, its noise drifting down the big central staircase. Thomas and Genevieve exchanged a look.
“OK, walk,” he muttered under his breath. “But not too fast.”
He shook a cigarette from Victor’s pack and put it in his mouth, unlit.
The radio seemed to be getting closer. “Gloves,” Genevieve muttered.
She peeled her own gloves off and stuffed them in her pants pocket as she and Thomas passed under the atrium between the East and West galleries.
“Hey!” a man’s voice called out. “Where you guys going?”
Thomas waved the pack of Marlboros behind him. “Smoke break.” Genevieve had never heard his North Carolina accent so pronounced.
“Wait up,” the man called.
“Walk faster,” Thomas whispered.
They passed through the big doors into the West Gallery, and Genevieve could see the red exit sign, the only thing illuminated in the dark room. She focused on the sign.
She and Thomas were practically running now, swerving past a big sculpture, heading for the exit, hoping that Victor was right and the door wasn’t armed.
The gallery doors behind them opened.
“Hey, I said wait up,” the man behind them called.
They reached the exit door, and Thomas pushed it open with his elbow. “I don’t think we can just keep walking,” he whispered to Genevieve. “We’ll smoke a cigarette and try to figure out how to get rid of this guy.”
Genevieve passed through the doorway and Thomas followed her out onto a 6 x 6 concrete platform. It was screened from the street by a hedge and held nothing but a plastic garden hose caddy and an overturned trash can.
“I don’t know how to smoke,” she said.
“Seriously?”
Cupping his hands against the breeze, Thomas lit the cigarette in his mouth and handed it to Genevieve. “Just hold that,” he said, “and don’t say anything.”
He pulled another from the pack and lit it for himself. Genevieve watched as he inhaled deeply. Clearly, Thomas knew how to smoke.
She heard a radio crackle on the other side of the door. Genevieve sat on the overturned trash can and turned away from the door. She concentrated on holding the cigarette, willing her hand not to shake.
A man stepped out. “Hey, I was calling you guys,” he said.
Inspired by the way Thomas had summoned his North Carolina accent, Genevieve channeled Lisa Ann Lewis, the meanest of the mean girls in her high school. “EXCUSE me,” she said. “We get a 10-minute break, OK? So we’re taking our break, OK? If you got a problem, go find whoever’s in charge and talk to them, OK?”
“You don’t have to get all pissy,” the man said. “I was just going to tell you there’s cake in the break room.”
The door clanged shut.
Thomas took another deep drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out against the building and stuck it in his shirt pocket. He gestured for Genevieve to hand hers over, and he repeated the procedure.
They squeezed through the hedge, hopped onto the lawn and walked back to the car. They were quiet until they were safely buckled in and driving away.
“Did you know the cheap coffee place is closing? The counter guy told Julien,” Genevieve said.
“I’m losing all my lunch places,” Thomas said. “Could you see anything? On the drawing?”
“No,” Genevieve said.
“Maybe with an infrared camera,” he said.
“I’m not going back for that,” Genevieve said. “We’re going to be all over the security cameras, aren’t we?”
“Maybe. Maybe no one will look. Maybe I should just waltz in tomorrow in broad daylight and take the provenance file for the drawing.” Thomas drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change.
“Thomas, no. I’ll find some other way.”
“It’s probably gone anyway.”
“I can’t believe I did that,” Genevieve said. “I can’t believe you did that.” She twisted in her seat. “Why did you do that?”
“The same reason you did,” he said. “Love.”
Thomas wanted to walk her up to her room, but Genevieve told him she’d be fine – the elevator wouldn’t move without a room key to activate it. She handed over the cap and wig at a stoplight a block from the hotel, gave him a half-hug in the driveway, and told him she’d call him.
The lobby was deserted, but Genevieve followed Melvin’s instructions to be aware of her surroundings. No one followed her to the elevator.
She looked both ways when she left the elevator, but the floor was empty. Just before she put her room key in the door, she checked again to make sure no one was behind her. The coast was clear.
Genevieve inserted the key in the lock, heard the electronic whirr, saw the light go green, and clicked the handle open. She walked into the room and shut the door. She reached for the light. Home free.
A hand grabbed her arm, and a man growled close to her ear.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Genevieve fell back against the door and blinked as Julien turned on the light. “Jesus Christ! You scared me to death! What are you doing in my room?”
“What am I doing in your room? What the fuck are you doing out there?”
“Don’t you swear at me!” Genevieve snatched her arm away.
“What did I tell you?” Julien stabbed his finger at the door behind her, his face inches from hers. “Don’t open the door. Don’t leave this room.”
“I’m not a prisoner. I...” Genevieve inhaled. Why did he have to smell so good?
“You what?”
Genevieve closed her eyes, inhaled again, opened them. “I can’t think with you two inches from my face.”
She pointed to the chairs overlooking the balcony. “Go sit over there.”
Julien didn’t move for what felt like a very long time. Finally, he backed up a few steps, shaking his head.
“You. Are. Something.” He retreated across the room and sat. “This far enough away?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Genevieve said. “How did you get in here?”
“Henry’s friend had the manager give me a key. I tried calling you after the game, and when you never picked up, I got pretty worried. Then I saw your purse and phone here...” Julien’s voice trailed off. “I was just about to call Melvin and tell him we needed to go into search-and-rescue mode.”
Genevieve ran her hands over her head and shook out her hair. The wig had been hot and itchy.
“Could you please not do that?”
“What?”
“That thing with your hair,” Julien said.
She dropped her hands to her sides. “I had no idea you were going to call me. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Julien looked her up and down as though seeing her for the first time. “What are you wearing?”
“A security guard uniform. It’s really not very comfortable, and it’s kind of a long story,” Genevieve said. “Can you wait two minutes while I change?”
“I’ll wait,” Julien said. “But please don’t come out in that tank top you had on the other night.”
In the bathroom, Genevieve changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. She brushed her hair but resisted the temptation to touch up her makeup.
When she emerged, Julien had opened the doors to the balcony and was leaning on the rail, looking out at the Pacific. Genevieve watched him for a moment, wondering what might have happened if they’d stayed two people who met randomly at a coffee shop. Would they have made a connection? Would it have worked?
“Hey,” she said.
Julien turned away from the view and came inside. He shut the heavy glass doors and locked them, then sat.
Genevieve took the other chair. Julien waited, his hands on his knees.
“The drawing had restoration work done in 2000, and there should be a file on that, but th
ere’s not,” Genevieve said. “Thomas looked. It’s missing.”
“I hope this story isn’t going where I think it’s going,” Julien said.
“Right after I started working on this, one of the Hilliard guards was found injured. They thought he had a stroke and hit his head. Tonight, Thomas told me the guard who found him was a medic in Iraq, and he thinks someone hit Bill in the head.”
“Do not tell me you were at the museum tonight.”
Genevieve tried to keep her voice as normal as possible. “There was a going-away cake for one of the guards, and Thomas had it all arranged.”
“Good God, Genevieve! If anybody saw you, do you have any idea how much trouble you could be in?” Julien got up and stalked across the room.
“The only people who saw us were two guards who knew we were coming,” Genevieve said. “Well, one other guy saw us.”
“What is wrong with you?” Julien whirled to face her. “You could get arrested! Why would you risk that?”
“Because I need to do something!”
“And you thought breaking into the museum was a good idea?”
“We weren’t breaking in. You’re not listening to me,” Genevieve said. “All we did was look at the back of the drawing. We were inside less than 10 minutes.”
Julien rolled his eyes. “Ten minutes or two hours – you think that’s really going to make any difference, legally?”
Genevieve slumped back in the chair. “No. But I had to try something. The restoration file is gone for a reason. If we’d had a little more time, or an infrared camera...”
Julien shook his head wearily. “What are you talking about?”
“I think the drawing’s like the painting at Henry’s. I think there’s probably an erasure on the back where the Nazis coded it, and that was documented when the restoration work was done. Which is why somebody made the file disappear. You could see it if you took infrared photos.”
“Even if we had these infrared photos,” Julien said, “would that prove it was ours?”
“It would prove it was looted,” Genevieve said. “That would be progress.”
Julien sat and pulled his chair toward Genevieve so that their knees were touching.
“I appreciate your dedication to your job, Genevieve. I do. And I’m sure Henry does, too. But neither of us wants you to get arrested, or worse. Do you understand?”