Page 48 of Caper Crush
“I just can’t give up hope yet that we won’t find the paintings.”
He nods. “There is that.”
“You’ve weathered some pretty traumatic events,” I say. His mother died when he was a baby, and he was raised by an older, distant father.
“When Annabelle told me that she was going to marry David, I couldn’t get out of bed.”
He did look like crap at Annabelle’s engagement party. “But you did.”
“I remembered how many marriages end in divorce and decided not to give up hope either,” he says. “But then I think the statistics for the return of stolen paintings are not as high.”
“Are you trying to bring me down?” I ask.
“No, actually,” he says. “Anyway, I’m dating someone new now. I found a woman who appreciates me.”
I stare at him. He’s dating someone?Is he over Annabelle?Then maybe he doesn’t have a motive.
A sudden wave of air swooshes through the station, signaling the L train is arriving. We board, shuffling in toward the middle, each holding on to the bar.
At the next stop, the people seated in front of us leave and we grab their seats. Across from us is a dusty construction worker, his eyes closed as he leans back to rest against the seat.
Edmund opens his suit jacket and places the briefcase on his lap. I sincerely hope he’s not carrying a briefcase stuffed with five hundred dollars in cash like in the cartoons.
He whispers to me, “I’ve got the cash in my briefcase. In unmarked bills. The thousand-dollar payment.”
Shit.
“I said five hundred.”
“He said a thousand. It’s not as much money as your painting and the Kimimoto are worth on the open market,” he says. “You can pay me back when you sell them.”
“But then we’re not actually buying the paintings back now,” I say. “We’re only getting information, which may or may not be correct. I’d definitely prefer not to pay that kind of money now. Have you ever met these people before?”
“No, but I’ve met the guy who set us up. He wanted to sell me a painting once before, but I was worried about the provenance. Ultimately, I decided not to purchase it.”
“Because you doubted its provenance?” I ask. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Because I wasn’t in love with it.”
Just when I think I don’t like Edmund, he says something that wins me over. You have to be in love with a painting to buy it. A painting should make you feel something when you look at it. But that was a high standard to meet. And if people want to buy my art as an investment, I fully support that approach too.
“How’s your painting going?” Edmund asks solicitously.
“Not so well. I’ve lost my mojo. But I’ll get it back.”
“Because of the loss of the exhibit?” His expression is concerned.
“And my painting.” I didn’t like knowing that my painting was gone—potentially forever. It was one thing to sell it to someone who valued it, and another to think of it being destroyed out of spite or left to gather dust as collateral.
Edmund used to gloat openly when I got into trouble. My eyes narrow. This solicitous Edmund is a red flag.
“Why were you with Takashi’s nephew?” he asks. “I could have driven you up to Vinnie’s. You just had to ask.”
“He wants to find his uncle’s painting. I didn’t know you knew Vinnie so well. It would have been a bit much for me to ask you to drive me.”
“I would go just for you.”
“Because I’m Annabelle’s sister?” I ask slowly.
