Chapter 6

Amanda Zane felt shellshocked.

It was an hour after the attempted robbery, and Amanda was still trying to come to terms with what had happened—during her watch.

"Tell me everything," Lydia Gennaro said via Amanda's cellphone. Lydia was the Director of the San Diego Museum of Art. She was currently in Portugal, as a featured panelist during a 2-day symposium about tribal iconography used in 19th century artworks. It was already nighttime in Lisbon, but still early.

"It's bad," Amanda told her, holding the phone to her right ear. "Thank god they were caught, but still…"

She was in Gallery 16, trying to make sense of what had happened.

She described the scene to Lydia. The artwork that had been taken off the walls. The empty frames that had been placed almost carefully aside, as if they were simply waiting to be put away. The uniformed police officers that were standing watch. The two detectives that were examining the crime scene. The forensics people doing whatever it is that forensics people do.

"Forensics?" Lydia asked. "What do they need forensics for? They caught the guys!"

Amanda sighed.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Lydia," she said. "Looks like they were trying to steal The Penitent Magdalene when they got caught. She's still in her frame. Mostly."

She heard Lydia let out a breath.

"I'm on the next flight home," Lydia told her. "It's a redeye."

"Gotcha," Amanda replied.

"So…checking the list you gave me," Lydia began, "they almost got away with five paintings from Sixteen, plusThe Young Shepherdess?"

Amanda felt a pang in her heart at the mention of that last painting.

"Oh god, I would have felt so fucking bad if they had managed to get away with the Shepherdess!" she exclaimed. That was her favorite painting in the museum. Something about the girl depicted in it reminded Amanda of her daughter.

"Me too," Lydia said.

Amanda knew that was true. Lydia held Bouguereau's painting in high regard. She had even given a talk about it at the New School in New York.

"Okay, look…" Lydia continued, "I need to get to the airport. By the way, someone named Emily Bacon is going to be reaching out to you. I've given her your cellphone number."

Amanda's brow furrowed.

"Who is she?" she asked. The name was unfamiliar. For some reason, she couldn't help but wonder if this Emily Bacon was a psychologist or something, specializing in helping people who were victims of a crime. Lydia was kind-of New Age like that. "And when will she be reaching out?"

"Insurance," Lydia answered. "And if I know her…soon."

"But nothing was actually stolen," Amanda said. "The paintings are still here."

"I know, but there was damage done," Lydia told her."You and I both know the artworks are going to need to be examined carefully. Also the insurance company is going to want to know everything about how this happened. No surprise. It's a requirement on the policy. When something like this happens, they get to be part of the investigation."

Amanda supposed that made sense.

"Needless to say, we give the authorities all the cooperation we can provide, and the museum is closed until further notice," Lydia went on.

"Understood," Amanda said.

"You're doing a good job," Lydia told her. "And you realize this wasn't your fault, right?"

Amanda nodded. Rationally, she knew that. Of course she knew that. But it had still happened on her watch.

"Yeah, thanks," she said glumly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

With the call ended, she went back to surveying the work the police were doing…

The two lead detectives who had been assigned to the case were standing over the stolen…

No…almost stolen, Amanda told herself.

…the almost stolen canvases, which had been removed from the duffel bags the thieves had stashed them in, and were now on the floor, on a brown burlap sheet which Amanda had her staff bring upstairs. The detectives appeared to be deep in conversation about something, consulting their notes, and frequently looking down at the artworks on the floor.

Finally, one of the detectives looked up at her, and he and his partner approached.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to ask earlier…is it Ms. or Mrs.?" the male half of the partnership asked her. His name was Sadowski, Amanda recalled, and he was about forty, with a wiry build and black hair that was starting to go gray. His face was already lined with creases that Amanda was willing to wager had been caused by the stress of his job.

His partner was a woman…Fuller, Amanda remembered. She was younger than Sadowski by several years, and Amanda got the impression from her that she was trying very hard to appear competent, but was also worried about screwing up. Perhaps she had only recently been promoted to detective, Amanda figured, and this was her first big case.

"Mrs." she answered.

"Thank you," Sadowski said. "So, Mrs. Zane, I just need you to clear something up for me, please." He was looking at his notepad.

"Of course," Amanda replied.

"Based on what we've seen in here," Sadowski said, "the thieves were after five paintings."

"Yes," Amanda agreed.

Sadowski pointed with his cheap ballpoint pen in the direction of the rotunda.

"And based on what we saw out there," he went on, "they had grabbed a sixth painting…"

"The Young Shepherdess, yes," Amanda said, nodding.

Sadowski looked at his notebook for several moments, and then looked over his shoulder, to where the recovered canvases were laid out on the floor.

"Here's the problem, ma'am," he said. "If you take a look at the number of canvases we got on the floor over there…plus the one they didn't manage to get out of the frame…" He pointed at The Penitent Magdalene. "That only adds up to five."

It wasn't that Amanda didn't believe in the detective's ability to add, but she couldn't help herself from looking past him and to the canvases on the floor.

Four.

Including—thank god—the Rembrandt.

She then looked over at The Penitent Magdalene.

Aaaaaand…five.

Her brow furrowed as she realized what Sadowski was getting at. A fact which, in all of the recent confusion, she hadn't noticed until this very moment.

Five was not six.

She felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

"Five is not six," she muttered.

"Five is not six," Sadowski agreed.

"Where is she?" she asked the detectives.

"The…uh…Young Shepherdess?" Sadowski asked, looking at his notes. "Well, that's what we need to find out."

"She's not in here?" Amanda asked, hearing how her voice was almost at screech level.

"No, she's not, ma'am," Sadowski told her. "She wasn't in any of the bags the perpetrators had. We figure they might have stashed her somewhere until they finished the job, in which case she might turn up if we really tear this place apart, or one of the perps tells us where she is. That's the first theory."

Amanda narrowed her eyes.

"What's the second theory?" she prodded, knowing instinctively that she wasn't going to like it.

Sadowski looked at Fuller.

"It's possible," Fuller said, "that there was another person or other persons in their crew, and that they somehow made it out of the museum with that painting."

Amanda felt sick. She knew it would sound silly if she voiced what she was thinking, but…

She had worked for the museum for fifteen years. And for fifteen years, she had seen The Young Shepherdess every day she was here in the building. The girl in that painting had become like a friend to her. A constant, reliable friend. Amanda would visit her several times a week. She would come up to the second floor rotunda landing whenever she needed time away from her office, and stand in front of the painting and just…visit her. There were even moments in her life—stressful moments—when being with the Shepherdess had helped calm her, and helped make her feel as though everything would be alright.

And now she was gone.

It was like losing a friend.

***

Tom Sadowski studied this Amanda Zane—the assistant director of the museum. He was worried she was going to faint, and he kept his body primed in case he needed to reach out and catch her. He was also watching her to assure himself that Mrs. Zane had nothing to do with what had happened here today…that she wasn't the mastermind of some kind of inside job. It was a valid suspicion; in fact, everyone currently in the building needed to be regarded as a suspect until they were cleared otherwise. That was Police Work 101, as much of a pain in the ass as it was. He knew—every damn cop in the museum now knew—that chances were none of the museum staff had anything to do with this heist…but all of those people still needed to be interviewed, their statements taken down, and input into the computers.

Especially the security staff.

At least that was a somewhat promising angle, and Tom intended on going at them hard. After all, if anyone wanted to pull off robbing a museum—in broad daylight, no less—and it was an inside job, who better to do so than the guys who have all the keys?

But…his instincts were telling him that even that was a dead end. From the brief conversation he'd already had with…

He tried to remember the guy's name.

Erwin.

From the brief conversation he'd already had with Erwin—who was the head security guy in this joint—it seemed to Tom that Erwin and his staff had simply been outfoxed by a cunning crew.

Still though…he, Fuller, and the other detectives assigned to this case would go at the security people hard. Maybe they'd get lucky and find out one of them was in on the job. If that happened, maybe that Shepherdess picture could be recovered quickly, and Tom could go back to focusing on real crimes. The kind where actual people got hurt.

In any case, he was sure Mrs. Zane wasn't in on it. It wouldn't hold up in court, but the way she looked as though she was about to throw up ruled her out as a suspect in his mind.

"Hey, Tom!"

Vinnie Catelli's voice made him turn around.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Zane," he said. "Whaddya got, Vinnie?"

Vinnie was another detective in his squad. He was 55-years-old, making him fifteen years older than Tom. Tom only hoped he didn't look like Vinnie did now when the next fifteen years passed on his odometer. 55 on Vinnie looked like 75 on most every other guy. He was out of shape, and constantly looked as though his heart would literally burst out of his chest. Good thing he was only three months from his thirty, and being able to retire with a full pension.

"The security people took me and Bernie down to the basement," Vinnie said, nodding to his partner, who standing next to him. He scoffed. "Man, those mopes had the entire security system in their control. Wired up with high-tech gadgets…shit I've never seen before!"

Tom nodded. This was a break.

"Well, if it's real exotic hardware," he began, "we might be able to trace where it came from."

Maybe they could close this entire stupid case in a few days.

"There's something else," Vinnie went on. "Maintenance guy says he found some kind of canister attached to the air distribution unit which handles the air up here on the second floor. He says he has no idea what it is, but that none of his guys would have put it there. "

Tom nodded. Earlier, when he had spoken to Erwin, there had been mention of a foul odor which had caused the staff to close the second floor. No doubt, the mysterious canister had something to do with that.

"Yeah, alright, Vinnie, good work," he said. "We're gonna need all of the maintenance staff down at the station also." He blew out a breath. "It's gonna be a long day. Good thing I suck at relationships, otherwise I might have a wife to yell at me tonight for getting home so late."

"Wanna borrow my wife?" Vinnie asked.

Tom barely kept a sarcastic comment from escaping his lips. He'd met Vinnie's wife. The only thing he would want to borrow her for would be if he opened a bar and needed a bouncer.

"I'll pass, Vinnie, thanks," he muttered. "Okay, what we gotta do now is have the uniforms scour this place and try to find that sixth painting. If it's not here, we need to get back to the station and get those assholes to give up who their missing accomplice is, and where that painting might be now."

"Something about all of this doesn't quite make sense, Detective," a woman's voice said from the direction of the entryway into the gallery.

Tom looked up.

Fuck me…

That was his standard exclamation—either spoken aloud or kept in his head—whenever something really caught his eye…

Spotting a cherry ‘65 Mustang on the highway: "Fuck me…"

Walking into a particularly heinous crime scene: "Fuck me!"

Seeing how much his electric bill was each month: "Double fuck me!"

In this instance, however, he figured that his standard exclamation could also be used as a silent plea. As in, Please, fuck me!

The woman was stunning. His eyes—trained to get as much visual information from a person as possible—began assessing her…

Between forty and forty-five—although he would tell her she looked no more than thirty-five. Preferably over dinner and drinks.

Five-six, maybe five-seven—provided she was out of the high heels she was wearing, which were adding three inches to her height.

Not Caucasian—at least, not a plain-vanilla American white woman. There was something exotic about her looks. If he had to describe her the way he would a perp, he would suggest European—maybe Slavic. But that wasn't enough. There was something else in her bloodline as well.

Dark hair—not a trace of gray, though, so she definitely had it dyed.

Slender figure. He guessed her weight to be no more than 130 pounds—and that was only because she was tall for a woman, and a little bosomy.

He wondered if she was a museum employee his team had missed, though he doubted it. Though Mrs. Amanda Zane was dressed very nicely—being one of the bigwigs in this joint—she wasn't dressed as nicely as this woman was. Tom's cop's eyes had learned to spot expensive clothing, and he wouldn't be surprised if this woman was wearing his salary.

The woman approached Tom, her high heels clicking on the wooden floors. Tom usually wasn't one to wax poetic, but he couldn't help thinking that watching this woman walk was like watching liquid move.

"And you are…?" Tom asked when she was standing in front of him.

The woman smiled.

"Emily Bacon, Detective," she said, extending her hand.

Tom shook her hand. Silky smooth skin. This lady had probably never done anything more manually intensive than unlock her jewelry box.

"Tom Sadowski," he said. He indicated Fuller. "My partner, Andie Fuller."

Emily shook hands with Fuller.

"Well, Detective Sadowski," Emily went on sweetly. "I couldn't help but overhear you a little while ago, and…I'm not exactly sure you're on the right trail…"

Tom clenched his jaw. This Emily Bacon—whoever the hell she was—may be sexy as fuck, but he was a good detective with a high clearance rate, and he didn't need any well-dressed socialite telling him he wasn't on the right trail.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry…" he began. "Exactly how are you connected to this?"

Emily smiled again.

"I apologize!" she said. "I'm with Geneva Excess Limited."

Tom sighed.

"Insurance," he muttered, not bothering to hide his disdain. "Fabulous…"

And not just any insurance…rich people insurance. That meant he was going to be stuck with her throughout this investigation.

His phone, which was clipped to his belt, rang.

Emily pointed at it.

"That will be your lieutenant," she said.

Tom unclipped the phone from his belt and looked at the screen. Then he looked back at his partner, Fuller.

It was their lieutenant.