by Fiona Quinn
Lacey had been afraid that knowing about her past would make Deep see her as others had – as a nuisance to contend with. An object to be shuffled around. But telling Deep her story didn’t seem to change how he looked at her at all. She pinched her cheeks and tried on a smile in the mirror before she headed down the stairs. Since they had missed breakfast, they were going to grab some lunch out. Then they were headed over to the warehouse where the mystery people, the ones who were planning the gallery’s art show, stored the paintings. Deep said that he wanted to get a peek inside and see if they could pick up any information that might help them get a clearer picture of what was going on.
Deep had done what he called his “due diligence.” He knew the security systems and the schematics of the place. He said he’d go by himself, but he needed her there to sign in with a security guard.
Deep parked the car in the garage, and they walked the two blocks to the warehouse hand in hand. Lacey was pretty nervous as she moved past the steps that she had seen time and again in the pictures on the flash drive. Deep reached out to hold the door for her, and Lacey set her shoulders as she hustled through, and turned left the way Deep had instructed so she could sign the book.
She was a little taken aback when the guard called her by name.
He laughed and winked. “Good thing we have that privacy clause in our contracts. I saw you on the news again this morning. The police are still looking for you.”
Lacey’s eyes stretched wide.
“I ain’t gonna call nobody. The boss would fire me if I did. And I couldn’t care less that you killed that guy. You probably had a good reason, huh? He treat you bad?”
Lacey didn’t know what to do so she just turned on her heels and walked away.
She and Deep hung out around the corner for a few minutes while Deep used the camera on his phone to watch the guy. The guard kicked back at the desk and was eating a sandwich.
Deep took her by the elbow, and they moved through the spider web of corridors of the climate-controlled warehouse until they reached the unit that was supposedly hers.
Deep left her standing outside the massive metal door while he carefully paced the hall. She had no idea what he was looking for, but his eyes seemed to cover every inch of the space. Arriving back by her side, he unbuttoned one of the pockets that lined the legs of his grey cargo pants. He handed her a pair of blue nitrile gloves, then pulled out a second pair that he tugged onto his hands. Lacey followed suit.
“Okay, Lacey, are you ready?”
Lacey turned her wide-eyed stare toward Deep. Ready for what?
“Here’s the plan. I want you to put your hand on the wall right here.” He moved her over to the wall and stuck her hand where he wanted it. “Don’t move from here. I’m going to turn off the lights in the hall, and it’s going to be pitch black. Don’t be afraid, everything’s going to be fine. I just need you to hold still.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s probably some kind of security system inside the unit that was put in place by the FBI, if they know about this place, or maybe there’s internal security put in here by the criminals,” Deep whispered in her ear. “Someone’s bound to be protecting the interior. I’m going to put on my night-vision goggles from my backpack, go in and look around, and if I find a system, I’ll neutralize it. If it’s a camera, it might be triggered by movement or heat. Either way, I don’t want them to see us. So you’re going to hang tight. I’m going to make it safe to go in with the lights on without giving us away. Okay?”
Lacey nodded.
“Now when we go in there, we need to work fast. If someone sees we’ve taken out their system, they’ll probably head right over to get eyes on the problem. We’re going to look around quick, and then we’re going to leave. I don’t want you to say a word until we’re out of here, in case they’ve got bugs planted. I don’t have the equipment with me to find those. So take mental notes, and we’ll compare our observations when we get safe. Okay?”
Lacey nodded, her eyes growing wider and rounder.
Deep pressed her hand against the wall, then moved down the hall to the switch plate, covered over with a plastic box and locking system. Deep pulled his wallet from the cargo pocket on his leg and picked out what looked like two thin sticks. With a couple of movements at his wrist, the box popped open, and Lacey was plunged into a stygian lake of nothingness.
“You okay?” Deep whispered near her ear, causing her to buck to the side.
How did he get up the hall without her hearing footfalls? “Yes,” she breathed out.
“I’m tumbling the lock.”
A sharp squeak told Lacey that Deep had gone inside, and she was standing in the hall alone. Standing. Standing. Lacey felt a bubble of hysteria work its way up her throat. This was more than she had bargained for. She put both of her hands on the wall, trying to keep her emotions under control. She couldn’t believe the relief that flooded her body as the unit light clicked on and Deep appeared in the doorway.
He gestured her in and reminded her of the plan to be silent by putting his finger to his lips.
She walked into a room that was a mostly empty twenty-foot cube.
Photography lights were set up facing a painting that she recognized right away as Grover Whitlock’s Nude, with Anthurium. Since Whitlock was still alive, this was one of the moderately priced paintings on the acquisitions list, and was set to sell for forty-four thousand dollars. That’s what happens to the value of an artist’s work when Forbes puts one of their paintings in his pool house. Lacey didn’t actually believe Anthurium was worth that price. She didn’t even like this piece. It was vulgar, in her opinion.
Deep tapped her shoulder and handed her a tiny video camera. She could see the red record light was already illuminated.
Lacey focused the lens on the artwork, then swung around, where a like-sized canvas was posted on a tripod. She noticed that an artist had already applied a thin coating of gesso to the linen canvas and had begun layering on the colors for the background. They were obviously replicating Whitlock’s nude.
Lacey’s gaze moved along the floor, where fans oscillated gently and a large dehumidifier hummed. She crept along the wall, where canvas after canvas stood in various stages of drying. The lighting in the room was bright and the heat was turned up high enough that Lacey wanted to ditch her outerwear. She knew Deep wouldn’t approve, though. She needed to stay wrapped up and unrecognizable in case anyone came through the door. But the wool from her hat and scarf made her itch as perspiration formed on her head and neck.
Walking back to the workspace, Lacey picked up a clean rag, which she dipped into the can of Ace Artist’s White Spirits, then moved over to the enormous expanse of the Chambray-like work. Gently, she rubbed the painting’s surface, pulling off some of the pigment. She folded the cloth and put it in her pocket just as Deep’s hand landed on her arm.
Lacey turned to him and saw his night vision goggles were positioned on his forehead. He put a finger to his lips, reached for her hand and steered her toward the light switch. With a flick, Lacey was back in complete darkness. She was wholly dependent on Deep’s guiding touch as he moved her to the back of the room, toward the stack of boxes she’d seen piled there. Deep pressed on her shoulders, and Lacey folded her body down until she was bunched into as small a package as she could make herself.
Whistling moved up the hall with the steady heel taps of an unhurried gait. The door pushed open, the lights snapped on, and rustling movements filled the space.
Lacey turned her head toward Deep. He was crouched between her and anyone who might move this way; the toes of his work boots were curled under and his weight rested on one knee. Lacey felt her lips sticking to her teeth, and she moved her tongue around to encourage her mouth to produce more saliva.
As the noises from the other side of the boxes settled down to a rhythm, Deep slowly reached his hand out and just as slowly pulled his hand back in. He tapped the screen, then
showed Lacey the video of a man painting. She got her best view of the artist when he scrutinized the Whitlock. Deep raised his brows as if asking did she know him. She shook her head in response.
That’s when the guy’s phone rang.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lacey
Monday
“Yeah?” The man’s voice conveyed his distraction.
“I’m checking on your progress,” a voice on the other end of the phone echoed out of the speaker.
“Good. Good. I’m a little behind because I had the flu, but I’m well enough now that I can finish. I’ll have all of the canvases ready for the show. Not dry, but ready. When do you want to start moving them?”
“Thursday morning.”
“So soon? Why not on Friday? Friday would be better.”
“It has to be Thursday. They need to be hung in time for Friday’s reception. Everything has to be ready for the agents and photographers. There can be no mess ups. No missing works.”
Deep had taken his phone back from Lacey and was recording the call.
“You will make sure you can get the paintings done in time. Understood?” the caller said.
“I’m finishing up the last one today. It won’t be dry, obviously. You’ll have to move it with great care and place it in the dimmest part of your room. But ready nonetheless.”
“You’re sure?” When the man asked, his voice changed precipitously. Now, menace rose from the phone.
“I’m a professional. I meet my commitments,” the artist growled from the other side of the boxes.
“My friend, you and I both know what Lacey Stuart is like when she doesn’t get her way. I’ve been there when things haven’t followed her plans. I’ve seen what she’s capable of, and I’m telling you, I want no part of her temper. For your well-being, as well as mine, I need to make sure Ms. Stuart stays happy.”
“Don’t worry about the show. Everything will be ready, I swear.”
Lacey was freaking out as her name projected into the air. The perspiration that had dotted her brow now made her clothes humid. Her tongue sat on her lip as she panted for air.
Deep twisted in his crouched position, reached out, and swept his hand along her cheek. His fingers held her chin, tipping her face until he held her focus. Suddenly, there was nothing for her in the room but his brown eyes, so intensely brown that they were almost black and the defining line between his pupils and irises was not visible. They were intelligent and steady. They were solid and capable. They were home – she could live there in his gaze. If all this crap could fade away, and she could be allowed to live there in his gaze, everything would be okay.
After a moment, she pulled her tongue back in to lay in the bed between her lower teeth. Her lips sealed and her breathing came softly through her nostrils. The claustrophobia that drowned her in her sweat-drenched clothing abated. And her heart, though it still beat thickly, became small enough in its protective cage to allow her veins to carry blood, unimpeded, to her still-tingling extremities.
Deep’s eyes clearly asked if she was okay and if he could trust her to keep it together.
Lacey wanted more than anything to be able to impress him with how courageous she could be. I’m fine. I’ve got this, Lacey tried to telegraph back to him.
With Deep poised between her and the old man at the easel, she’d get out of the warehouse today. But the phone call reminded her that her name and likeness was being used in something bigger. Something 2.8 million dollars big, if she multiplied the worth of the original show to match the doubling of the artwork. What would someone do to protect an almost three-million-dollar payday? One of her professors during her undergrad days had been shot leaving campus over the three dollars he had in his wallet. Dead for three dollars. So would anyone’s life be safe if they stood in the way of a million times that amount?
***
“It makes sense to me that the FBI would be involved if they thought that there was a crime involving art,” Deep said. “They’re the ones you called when you thought that someone had stolen the Iniquus pieces from your warehouse last November, so I know you know that art theft falls in their laps.”
Deep was navigating through the streets in a less than pleasant part of town. Lacey would have avoided this section if she were driving alone. After the fear she experienced hunkered down behind the boxes, she was almost okay with the street corner thugs that looked speculatively into her window.
The artist had painted for about an hour, and when he went to take a break, they’d used the opportunity to get out of there. They had clomped down the front stairs and started down the street when suddenly Deep had reversed directions and walked her away from where they had parked. “He’s on the corner, smoking a cigarette,” Deep explained. So they shared a piece of cheesecake at Cutie Pies, sitting in the window where Deep could keep an eye on the guy. Now they were on the road, and Deep was making absurd U-turns and quick lane changes to make absolutely sure they hadn’t picked up a tail.
“Not a huge amount of new information. Most of what the guy was saying is already available in the files on the flash drive Bardman gave you.”
Lacey sat silently as they drove past an empty park. Icicles hung from the monkey bars and the swings wavered in the wind.
“I’ve run a search online,” Deep said, “and in every case I can find, there are only two choices when it comes to art theft – art is stolen, or art is replicated and sold fraudulently. You saw what I did in the warehouse, Lacey, you’ve seen the computer files, and you heard the guys’ phone conversation. From your background, what do you think could be happening?”
Lacey leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. “Art thieves are usually motivated to take art because, for the size and weight, it can be very valuable. Some art pieces are worth millions of dollars. It’s easy to transport — simply detach the canvas from the frame, roll it up, and stick it in a tube. You could mail it anywhere without raising suspicion. People send mailing tubes all the time with drawings and schematics.”
“Wouldn’t that damage the painting, though?”
“Yes, but depending on the price of the painting, someone might be willing to inflict damage. For example, have you ever heard of the theft from the Gardner Museum in Boston?”
He shot her a quick look, then did another mirror scan. “Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Two guys, dressed like cops, showed up at the museum saying they were responding to a call. The museum had two guards on duty. The guard watching the front went ahead and let the uniformed men in through the security door. Then the fake cops had the security guard call the other guy on duty, telling him to come to the front desk. The robbers took the legitimate security guards down to the basement, where they cuffed the poor men to the pipes, and duct taped their heads. The security guards weren’t found until the next morning when their relief came in. Meanwhile, the fake cops cut twelve paintings from their frames. They took a box cutter or some such sharp tool and dragged it along the canvases to cut them off the frames. Some of those works were priceless. Nothing was ever located—either the paintings nor the thieves who stole the works.”
“What happens to stolen art?” Deep asked. “Seems a hard thing to fence.”
“There are a lot of private collectors. People who have secret vaults with their special collections.”
“You said that with a sneer.”
“Absolutely. A lot of the things in those private collections are there because they’re illegal. For example, they might be stolen pieces of national treasure – things that were discovered in archaeological digs and are owned by the people of the nation – pieces of antiquity that should be housed and curated by a museum. Other times, it’s art made from the body parts of endangered species—rhino horns and the like. Some of the things might have been stolen during a war – the Nazis, for example, took whatever they wanted from wherever they wanted it. Stolen pieces have been handed down in families. Quietly.”
“None of that fits here.”
“No, but sometimes, people like a piece of art – they simply don’t want to spend the kind of money on it that’s being asked on an open market. Or maybe it’s not even available on the open market. Megalomaniacs who think their every desire should be fulfilled don’t care about such things. Then those people might hire a thief to go in and get it for them.”
“How about insurance fraud? Could the pieces be stolen so the owner could collect the money?”
They were back on the highway, and Lacey was starting to recognize the exit signs again. Deep must have deemed it safe to head back to Lynx’s house. “Not very likely. High-profile museums have extremely tight security. The Louvre, for example. But for the most part, multi-million-dollar art collections have disproportionately poor security measures in place – there’s really very little security protecting art, and that includes the Bartholomew Winslow Gallery, too. Poor security but also very little in the way of insurance.
“What does your security entail at the gallery?” Deep asked. Lacey could tell his mind was buzzing with ideas, and she was impressed that he was still able to listen to her and ask systematic questions. Self-control. She found it very sexy.
“We have a security guard 24/7. But that’s really for show. If someone wanted one of our displayed pieces, a retired police officer isn’t going to stop them, I’d imagine. We rely on electronics, and the paintings are attached to the wall with a lock.”
“But someone could cut them free from their frames like at the Gardner?”
“We have infra-red detection. If someone steps too close, moves a body part past the velvet ropes, then a silent alarm sounds and our off-location security monitors can manipulate the cameras to do a close-up of the action and the person who got too near. The off-site security would notify police, and we can track the bad guy as far as the corner of our block. So we’d have copies of their license plates, probably.”
