Page 146 of The Chase
“They’re all real? Right?”
“Yes. Our guy stole a Titian. Worth in the region of eight million pounds.”
I slid my finger along. “That’s a Paul Cezanne, right there. It’s hanging five feet away from where the Titian hung. Take a guess at how much it’s worth.”
He shrugged. “Ten million?”
“This is one of a series of depictions Cezanne painted in the 1890s.”
An oil on canvas of two men sitting opposite and leaning over a table and playing cards, a bottle of wine between them. An elegant prelude to Cezanne’s final years.
“Only fiveCard Playersexist,” I added. “The last one was sold to the nation of Qatar for two hundred and fifty million dollars.”
“What the fuck!”
“Exactly, so why did our thief go to all that trouble for a Titian?”
“Maybe he panicked when the bird flew in?”
“Yet the raven never set off the alarm. They found it happily perched on the van Gogh. He’s cool enough to reevaluate the situation.” I caressed my brow, something wasn’t adding up.
“Maybe this time he cracked under pressure.”
I grabbed that stick of licorice out of Danny’s hand and took a bite. “What does all this tell us about his motive?”
“Icon’s selective about what he steals?” Danny shrugged. “Maybe he’s great at technology but an ignoramus when it comes to art.”
“What do you do before you break into a house?”
“Case the joint.” He smiled at that.
“Research.” I looked at the photo. “He knew the Burells’ rotunda floor was set to detect weight and movement. His scrap with the bird proves that.”
“The loss of feathers.”
“All the art is a private collection. Not publicized. So if he doesn’t know what he’s going for before he goes in, you’d think he’d learn a bit about art so his time and his risk are not wasted?”
“See something worth more—”
“Take that one, as well. Or at least instead of the other one.”
He frowned at the photo. “Maybe he’s working for a private collector?”
“The kind that’s okay with him stealing a Titian—”
“But not a Cezanne.” Danny frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Exactly.” I looked over at the computer. “Get back to work.” I raised my invisible whip and struck him with it.
He feigned defending himself from my attack and laughed all the way back to his workstation.
He turned serious. “Zara? Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think Ouless’sSt. Joan of Arcthat was stolen from Christie’s once belonged to your dad?”
“Does Adleyknow?” Everything tightened in my stomach.
