Page 100 of Make Me Scream

“Fair enough. Let me know if I can help in the future.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and hail a cab to a self-storage facility where we keep some of our “art supplies.” Crowbars, lock picks, spraypaint, bolt cutters, fishing line, sledge hammers, burner phones, miniature cameras, thumb drives, road flares, a variety of work clothes and uniforms — even a full firefighter suit and gear.

The only weapon we have is mace. No knives or guns, which would be an easy way skip a citation or misdemeanor and go straight to felony.

Most of our stash has never been used. We usually take the time to figure out how to get into where we’re going by walking in the front door, but every once in a while we need to go outside the lines a little. Cut through a chain-link fence, freeze off a padlock, hot-wire an electric gate — nothing fancy.

Of course, Rory’s the one who knows how to do most of that. I’ve picked up a little watching him work and taught myself basic lock-picking, but I’m not gonna reprogram a key fob or clone a smartphone.

I’ll have to make do.

Donning a denim button-down work shirt, overalls, boots, a Yankees cap and a tool belt, I catch the subway back uptown. I get off at Grand Central and walk the rest of the way to Mundell Academy.

Peering through the entrance, I see an empty reception desk; everyone’s gone home for the day. There’s a keypad at the door, so I punch in the shared employee code. Faculty, staff, custodians — we all use the same one. Thankfully, it hasn’t been changed.

Motion-activated lights flip on as I tread through the halls. I shiver at the near-silence, broken only by the muffled heating system. I’ve been inside the building late at night countless times; I’m used to the odd tranquility of being alone here, but I never imagined I’d be here as a trespasser.

I keep my head down and fight the urge to look up at the security cameras as I make my way to the maintenance closet. If I’m careful, no one will have reason to examine the tapes. If they do, they’ll figure out it’s me, even with the baseball cap covering most of my face. Not too many men with my body type can be found at the art school, especially after hours.

The closet door is locked, and I was never given a key, so I get out my picks and work the tumblers until it all clicks. Thankfully, hanging on a peg just inside is a ring of keys to the building. That’s what I needed, but for appearances I find a mop bucket, fill it with soapy water from the closet’s hose, then push the whole thing to the elevator.

I head straight to the top floor. Mundell’s private office and studio.

The lights turn on, and my ears burn. I’ve been in here more times than I can count, but never alone. This was Rush’s sanctum. He let people in all the time, but on his terms. Part of me regrets breaking this trust, even if he is a bastard.

Unlike his home, Rush’s office could serve as a proper tribute to the accomplishments of his academy. Paintings and sculptures fill half the vast studio, which occupies the entire floor of the building. Years of brilliance hearkening back to Post-impressionism, modern takes on Neo-expressionism, inscrutably symbolic surrealism — even a few exceptional abstract works. Some come from artists who inspired Rush, but most of it was made by his own students. Even his desk was ornately carved and stained; it could have belonged to a medieval king.

On the other side of the building, his surprisingly modern studio: horizontal and vertical monitors sit on a standing desk positioned next to his easel and stool. He says this allows him to evaluate applications through text-to-speech software while painting. I tap a screen, bringing up a password prompt.

I try Vermeer.

Wrong.

Cassatt.

Wrong again.

There are way, way too many options to get lucky, but thankfully the prompt offers a hint: Ce——-62.

If I’m right that Rush picked among his favorite artists for the password, he’s probably referring to Paul Cézanne. The 62 is likely for his birth year.

The combination fits, and the desktop appears. I pull a thumb drive from my pocket and start copying files. Then I open his e-mail and browsers. Would Rush be brazen enough to save potentially incriminating messages? I hope so.

There’s so much to look through — thousands of correspondences. Searching could be more fruitful than browsing, so I start with the cases I know about.

I find nothing in his e-mail related to Gwen that would matter — just normal communication about her application, classes and portfolio. There are similar e-mail chains to Chloe and Anne, but nothing in them unusual.

Rush does prefer to talk on the phone or in person, doesn’t he?

I find the option to download his e-mails en masse and get that started, then keep looking around the room. There’s a stack of mail in a wire mesh bin. I flip through it, but there’s nothing special: utility bills, museum postcards from friends abroad, donation appeals from various charities. A few have stamps on them from the postal service, redirect notices that they’ve been transferred to the school after being initially addressed to his summer home in the Catskills.

Mundell has mentioned having a place up there, but I’ve never been invited. If I don’t find anything here, that will be my next stop. I rip a page off a notepad, scribble down the address and jam it in my pocket.

Next, I head over to a dark, baroque armoire, but find it locked. Unlike the office itself, I doubt the custodian would have a key to whatever is inside, so I take a few minutes and pick it open. The wide and deep interior holds a display rack full of framed paintings.

Oh wow.

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