Chapter 38

At the station house, the detectives' squad room had been…redecorated slightly in order to accommodate all of the evidence gathered this morning, from points all over the San Diego metropolitan area.

Three of the detective's desks had been shoved to one side of the room until they were flush against one of the walls. This made room for two large folding tables that someone had found in the storage room, and which were now set up in the middle of the space, forcing people to have to walk around them in order to navigate in and out of the room.

On the tables were ten canvases. Ten versions of The Young Shepherdess.

Looking at them all, Emily shook her head—in consternation, frustration, and even awe.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she muttered.

After receiving the third call about another Shepherdess being discovered in Seaport Village, Tom's phone had rung with a fourth call about a Shepherdess being discovered in the Manchester Grand Hyatt hotel. At that point, Tom made the decision to tell Dispatch to send uniformed units to the locations of any additional calls about the painting being found, and to have them bring them all back to the station house.

But nobody had guessed that there would be ten calls in total.

"Okay," Emily said to Tom and Andie, who were flanking her as they stood before the two tables. "The good news is that based solely—solely—on an eyeball examination, one of these might actually be the real painting."

This was true. There were no obvious signs that one of the canvases was a fake.

"What's the bad news?" Andie asked.

"The bad news is that based solely—solely—on an eyeball examination, one of these might actually be the real painting," Emily answered dryly.

"What the hell does that mean?" Tom snapped.

"It means that it's going to take time to figure this out!" Emily told him. "And I won't be able to do it alone. To begin with, I don't have the right equipment here. Secondly, I'm not a Bouguereau authentication expert. On this side of the planet, that guy is in Toronto!"

"So there's nothing you can do?" Tom asked.

"In a lab, yes!" Emily told her. "But I need a lab!" She gestured to the canvases. "Whoever did this—"

"You mean Priscilla Kroyn," Tom cut in.

"Whoever did this," Emily started again, "was phenomenal!" It was really the only adjective she could come up with. "Each of these paintings and their canvases look so authentic that you cannot point at them and say they're fake. I mean, look…"

With gloved hands, she arbitrarily chose one of the canvases that was still rolled, lifted it, and pointed to the edges.

"They've even been cut from a frame—just like the thief cut the real one from its frame in the museum," she said.

"There's our answer!" Tom exclaimed. "We can have Forensics examine the knife marks on what's left of the painting in the museum, and compare them to the knife marks on all of these!"

Emily nodded, impressed. She hadn't thought of that, but then again, she wasn't a cop.

"How long would that take?" she asked.

"Forever," Andie stated glumly.

Emily heard Tom swear under his breath.

"She's right," he sighed. "There's no way even one person from the forensics lab is going to be pulled to look at this shit. They have more important cases to work on." He looked at Emily. "We're on our own. So, call whoever you have to so we can find out which one of these is the real one."

Emily nodded. She was already thumbing through her mental Rolodex, coming up with the names of people she needed to contact.

However, she decided that before calling any of those individuals, she was going to call a certain tall redhead. The one who had gotten them all into this mess.

She waggled her phone at Tom as she started walking out of the squad room.

"I'll make those calls now," she told him.

***

She decided to leave the station house entirely to make her call to Priscilla, not wanting any of the cops to overhear her conversation. Outside of the building, she even crossed the street to ensure more privacy.

She called Priscilla's private number—the one that bypassed her legion of assistants.

However…

"Kroyn Industries," an unfamiliar male voice answered.

Emily blinked.

"Um…I need to speak with Priscilla Kroyn, please," she told him. "Tell her it's Emily Bacon."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bacon," the man said, "but Ms. Kroyn is unavailable."

Emily's blood began to boil, and she clenched her teeth.

"I thought this was a direct line," she seethed.

"Normally, yes," the man said, "but today, she has forwarded it to my desk. I do, however, have a message for you from Ms. Kroyn."

"What message?" Emily demanded curtly.

"Ms. Kroyn wonders if you would join her tomorrow at the San Diego Museum of Art," the man said. "At eleven a.m."

"That's it?" Emily asked.

"No," the man replied. "She also says that you can feel free to bring your friends from the police department with you."

Emily's eyes widened with surprise.

"Did she give a reas—" she began.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bacon," the man said, cutting her off, "but I have other calls to take. Please be aware that this line will continue to be forwarded to me until further notice. Have a wonderful day. Goodbye."

And the call ended just like that.

Emily stared at her phone, her mouth open.

What the ever-living fuck!

***

In the station house, Tom's phone rang.

"Yeah?" he answered.

He listened to the information the caller told him.

"You sure?" he asked, and then nodded when he was told that, yes, the caller was sure.

He ended the call without saying anything else.

Andie looked at him.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Emily just made a call to Priscilla Kroyn's cellphone," he told her. "She's outside. Go bring her back, please."

***

Emily couldn't believe this.

When Andie had come to find her outside the station house, to tell her that Tom needed to talk to her urgently, she had figured the conversation would be taking place up in the squad room.

As usual.

Instead, Andie had led her to one of the interrogation rooms at the station house. At first, Emily thought maybe Andie and Tom had simply wanted to ensure that what they discussed wouldn't be overheard by others. She still believed that, but she also now believed that something more sinister was afoot.

She, Tom, and Andie were all standing, but the detectives were on the opposite side of the scarred metal table where people who were being interrogated were made to sit. The police officers—but particularly Tom—were looking at her in such a manner that told Emily that this wasn't going to be a friendly chat.

She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip. She wasn't going to be the one to break the silence.

"You just called Priscilla Kroyn's cellphone," Tom said.

Emily swallowed. She hadn't been expecting that.

"And it wasn't just any old cellphone she has," Tom went on. "It was her personal cellphone. The one which…what? Probably less than twenty people in the world have the number to?"

Fuck!

Emily licked her lips.

So the police had been tracking her calls! She had to admit that it made sense. What bothered her was that she hadn't anticipated it or prepared for that eventuality. She actually had another cellphone that she could have started using to speak to Priscilla with. It was a five-year-old Android model that she had kept…just in case.

"It's not what you think," Emily told him. She looked only at him. He was the one she had to convince, not Andie.

Tom scoffed.

"Really?" he asked. "Because what I think is that you're feeding Priscilla Kroyn details about our investigation."

"No!" Emily hurriedly said. "I haven't done that at any point during this case!"

"Then why did you call her when you left the building?" Tom pressed. "You were supposed to be calling your art expert friends, but the first call you made was to Priscilla Kroyn! What? Were you gonna get her to tell us which one of those paintings in the other room is the real one?"

Fuck!

She really wanted to kick herself for not anticipating that her calls would be tracked!

She decided to tackle this defensively.

"And what was wrong with that idea, Detective?" she challenged Tom. "I call her, I get her to tell us which painting is the real one, and then this whole thing is over with!"

Tom studied her.

"And you think she would have told you?" he asked.

Emily shrugged cavalierly.

"Like I said…she trusts me," Emily said.

Tom blew out a frustrated breath.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Emily!" he almost shouted. "She's fucking playing you! Everyone but you sees that!" He pointed in the direction of the closed door of the room. "I'm willing to bet my month's salary that none of those paintings we collected today is the real one! That this is just another one of her games!"

"And your best way of quickly finding that out is through me!" Emily challenged.

"So what did she say?" Tom asked, crossing his arms.

Emily wanted to curse. She knew how the next part of her story would sound to a jaded cop.

She sighed.

"I never spoke to her," she said.

"On her personal cellphone?" Tom prodded, incredulously. "Who'd you speak to? Her cat?"

"She doesn't have a cat," Emily said sourly. "The call was forwarded to one of her assistants. I spoke to him."

"And what did he say?" Tom asked.

"That she was…" She stopped and sighed again. "He was vague, okay? He never explained why she was unavailable."

Tom chuckled dryly.

"Probably planning her next heist," he muttered. "Someone call the…whatever the hell the name of that big museum in Paris is."

"The Louvre," Emily supplied.

"Yeah, someone call the Louvre and tell them to tighten security," Tom said. "What else did that assistant say?"

Emily knew she had no choice. If the police were tracking her calls, that meant they were tracking her—even when she wasn't with Priscilla. They were going to know where she was going to be tomorrow at eleven a.m.

"He gave me a message from Priscilla, asking me to meet her at the museum tomorrow morning at eleven," she admitted.

"At the museum?" Tom yelped.

Emily nodded.

"Why?" Tom asked.

"I have no idea!" Emily said through clenched teeth.

"Guess!" Tom shouted.

"I don't know!" Emily shouted back.

The two of them stared at each other for several moments.

Finally…

Tom held his right hand several inches above his head.

"You're in it up to here!" he said. "You're wearing a wire when you meet her tomorrow."

Emily closed her eyes and nodded slowly. She had no other choice. She was defeated in this particular contest. At this point, refusing to wear a wire would get her arrested for obstruction.

She needed time to think. Her instincts were telling her that this whole affair with the painting was just about over. For all she knew, the real Shepherdess was in this building, having been picked up by the police somewhere in San Diego today. She had no idea why Priscilla wanted to meet her at the museum tomorrow, but now she had to contend with wearing a wire while speaking to her—when she had been hoping that when this case ended, Priscilla could walk away free.

And that she could walk away with her…