Page 9 of Caper Crush
“No. I know you guys have plans,” I say.
“They’ll find it,” Penelope says.
“They rarely find them,” I say.
“But what about that case you worked on a few years ago where the cops found the paintings in two days?” Tessa asks.
“That was a lucky break, and that cop is retired now,” I say flatly. After college, I worked for Christie’s provenance research department.
“It wasn’t a lucky break. Your boss even said you were an amazing art detective that she was sorry to lose on your departure.” Tessa folds her arms. “You worked around the clock. You were the one who doubted the provenance of that painting and saved Christie’s from selling a fake. You figured out the dealer who was forging the paintings. And coordinated with the police. Take the credit, Miranda.”
I hug her. Sometimes I get so used to my family-defined emotional artist box that I forget I’m more than that. I was a good investigator.
“But I had the resources of Christie’s behind me.” I close the door. Plus, provenance isn’t the issue here. Provenance is about tracing ownership. I know who the owner ofPlaying Around 1:30is.Me and my uncle.
I run down the stairs and out the door, around the block to my uncle’s apartment building on Columbus Avenue. Taking in deep breaths of air, sneakers hitting the pavement, darting around the pedestrians, running—it all makes me feel a bit better, like I’m doing something. The doorman lets me in. How did the paintings get past the doorman?
I knock and unlock Uncle Tony’s front door with my copy of his key. Sometimes I walk Cleo, his Labrador-mix dog. Once I’m in the foyer, Cleo scampers in, barking, tail wagging, and immediately jumps on me to give me kisses as I remove my sneakers. I bury my face in her fur, and her doggy smell is comforting.
“How’s my best dog?” I ask Cleo in a baby voice, rubbing her. She twirls around in joy. And pees. Every time Cleo gets excited about a visitor, she pees. I grab the wipes that are ever-present in the hallway for that purpose and clean the rubber mat that now covers the front foyer. Uncle Tony surmises that this was the reason Cleo was abandoned at the pound.
William comes in and says, “I’ll do that.” He takes more wipes and crouches down next to me to mop up the rest. “Are you okay?” His brown eyes are soft and sympathetic.
“Not really.”Don’t cry.
I stand quickly, throwing my dirty wipes into the little, sealed trash can in the hallway. The thief even got the paintings past Cleo. Granted, she’s not much of a guard dog, but the peeing should have been a deterrent.
I step around William and open the door into their living room. Think the opposite of minimalist. Their living room is like a peacock strutting its feathers. So many colors and so many moments of their lives are stuffed into one room. And yet it works to make an extremely warm and inviting atmosphere.
Uncle Tony and Takashi sit lumped on their violet couch, both looking pale and drawn and much older than I usually think of them. Uncle Tony looks a lot like my dad with his grayish-blond hair and blue eyes. He’s six feet tall, while Takashi is around five eight. Takashi’s grayish-black hair is standing up at the top like he’s been running his hands through it. They both have the warmest smiles, but not now.
Uncle Tony stands and hugs me. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”
I collapse abruptly on their light-blue, velvet chaise lounge. “But how?”
“I don’t know,” Uncle Tony says, ending in a near wail.
We stare at each other; the sheer distress in his face must mirror my own.
“Glad you could come immediately,” William says as he returns to the living room.
“You just discovered them gone?” I ask.
“Yes, we called the police as soon as we realized,” Takashi says. “Then we called you.”
“And what did the police say?”
“That it could take years to find the paintings. That it’s an unusual theft, and that it most likely was an inside job,” William says. “There’s no sign of forced entry, and although the Kimimoto is valuable, it’s not the most well-known painting. Yours is less valuable—sorry to be blunt.”
Not yet anyway. And maybe not ever, if my painting is gone. My participation in the Vertex Art Exhibit hinges onthispainting—the transitional one where I turned from portraits to abstract color fields.
Uncle Tony’s eyes look weepy. “Yours could have been recognized from the Vertex show posters on the subway.”
“He’s dealing with another painting theft downtown, but in that one, valuables were stolen and the place was trashed. So it seems like a different modus operandi. And although the Kimimoto or yours might inspire an art theft, it’s not public knowledge that Tony and Uncle Takashi own it,” William says. “The theft most likely occurred at the party.”
The party on Friday night to celebrate their anniversary.
“But you didn’t notice it until now?” I ask.
