Page 16 of Caper Crush
“Whoever made that statement has never had a photo of them crying on the front page of a paper.” I shiver. “Maybe if you want to be famous.”
The elevator arrives and we get in. It’s one of those small, old-fashioned, wood-paneled ones with a metal grate that has to be manually opened and closed. As a child growing up in New York City, I loved the old grandeur of these types of elevators. Another tenant joins us in the elevator, and William moves closer to me. At the next floor, an elderly lady hobbles in with her cart. William gets knocked slightly and puts his arm out to keep from falling into me. His hand is on the wall next to my shoulder. Our glances meet for a moment. I look back down—at his broad chest. We’re very close, much closer than we’ve ever been. He swallows. I can’t take my eyes off his throat and the indent of his Adam’s apple. He removes his hand.
I admire the floor.
We exit the elevator and say goodbye to the doorman. A jazz band plays on the corner of Columbus Avenue, the trumpet’s notes soaring through the air. I drop a dollar in their bucket. As we walk uptown, the cafés are filled with people eating outside, desperate to enjoy the sun peeking through the clouds after a long, cold winter, even if it means eating with coats on.
“Don’t you want to be a famous artist?” He glances at me.
“I want my art to be famous, not me. I thought about going under a pseudonym too, but that felt too divorced from myself. Like why should I not get to publicly celebrate my creations? I don’t want trolls and weird guys to prevent me from celebrating my work.” I cross my arms. “What did you find out from your research?”
“She’s had this business for six years. According to her website, she started it as a way to make money from home when her kids were babies and she’d just gotten divorced. Tons of positive reviews. She still has a mortgage on her apartment, per public property records. The maintenance has increased lately, per recent sales in the building. Her schedule looks booked.”
“You found out a lot. If her business is doing well, then maybe she doesn’t have a financial motive.” A coolness whispers through the air. I zip up my sweatshirt. I should have grabbed a jacket. William’s wearing a jacket.
“Do you really think you’re going to come up with more after talking to her?”
“Yes,” I say. “Don’t you think you can learn a lot about a person from talking to them?”
“Always, but not their propensity for thievery,” he says.
Full, pastel skirts for spring swirl in one shop’s window. A card shop announces that Easter and Passover are coming up. William keeps pace with me. At a red light, we both peer down the side street, checking for oncoming cars, and cross in tandem.
“Are you still dating Rex?” he asks.
“No, we broke up about six months ago.”
“You’re close with your ex, then?” he asks.
“Yes. We’re still in our band, The Tempest, together. And we’ve been friends since we dated in high school. We started the band together, although at that time, our band was called Miranda Warning.”
“Clever.”
I smile. “And ‘You Have the Right to Remain Silent’ is one of our most popular songs.” I glance at him. “Aren’t you still friends with your exes?”
“Friends?” William says, “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“We’re just not.”
“How can you not stay friends with someone you once loved?”
“She started dating someone else pretty seriously shortly after we broke up, and that wasn’t exactly conducive to staying friends. Then she got engaged.”
“Really? I think that might help you stay friends because then it’s clear it’s over.”
“Not if it’s not for you,” he says.
I glance at him. He faces forward as if he’s revealed too much. I say, “Ah. There is that.”
We stop to let a waiter carrying dishes pass in front of us; he then pauses at the curb as a delivery guy cycles by on the bicycle path that cuts between the restaurant’s outdoor shed and the street. Birds tweet.
“Kimberly might still have a motive if she thought her business would be doing better or it’s more work than she expected,” I say. “At least you look really respectable and like you’re actually going to be a customer.” He’s wearing this button-down shirt, slightly open at the neck. I look away. My yoga pants and oversize T-shirt are a sharp contrast. My attempt to dress my outfit up with a flowery scarf from Tony’s closet is probably a hard fail. At least my shirt doesn’t have paint stains.
He says, “I don’t want to hire them. Not if we think they stole your painting.”
“Well, think you do. You’ve got to believe the lie to be believable. You can’t come along if you’re going to blow our cover.”
