THE BUILDING IN which Collins lived was thirty stories tall. The outside was smooth mirrored glass. Nothing to hold on to and no way to climb.
At the front door I buzzed apartment 3001. A voice on the intercom said, “Hello?”
Above the speaker was a small monitor and camera. Collins could see me, and I could see him.
“I’m here to look at the photos,” I said.
“Miss Ajax, right? I’ll let you in. Take the elevator on the left.”
I heard a buzz and click as the door unlocked. Inside was a long, bright foyer with a high ceiling and a marble floor. Paintings of horses and castles hung on the walls.
The leftmost elevator was open and waiting. I stepped inside. The buttons only went up to floor twenty-five. To get to the top floors, you needed a key or someone to buzz you up. Another camera stared at me from above the panel. The doors closed once I was inside, and the elevator started moving. We were on floor thirty in less than fifteen seconds.
As I stepped out of the elevator, I looked for a staircase or fire escape. To the right was a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT. It was locked.
So Ty Collins’s building was unclimbable. To get to his apartment he’d have to see me at the door and in the elevator. He had total control over who came to his floor.
I didn’t have to knock on Collins’s door. A tall Asian woman with a blond streak in her hair opened it. This must be Becky Sylvester. She smiled and said, “Ty is in the study.”
I’d never been in a home with a study before. (Well, that wasn’t really true. I mean I’d never been invited into one.) The ceilings were high, and the furniture was dark, rich wood. The entire far wall was glass, looking out over beach and water.
The study had one shelf of books, another of trophies. A TV was mounted over the fireplace. Ty Collins was sitting in a brown leather chair. A silver tea set sat on a glass table.
Becky sat down in a chair next to Ty. “We were just having tea,” she said. “Want some?”
I accepted a cup. As Becky poured, I asked Ty Collins about the photos.
“They’re amazing,” he said. “My mom was a great fan of Jane Brick.”
“How did you know the photos were real?”
“It was a bit of a gamble,” he said. “I was 90 percent sure. When the pawnshop lady raised the price, I became 99 percent sure. But I liked the pictures a lot. If they hadn’t turned out to be Jane Brick originals, I’d still be happy to display them.”
“They must be very valuable,” I said.
“Of course.”
“Has anyone offered to buy them?”
“A company wanted to pay me $300,000 for the set,” he said. “Another company offered $150,000 for one of them.”
“But you won’t sell?”
“They don’t belong to me,” Collins said. “They belong to everybody. I was just lucky to find them.”
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Collins.”
“We like it very much, thank you.”
“Tell us about yourself,” Becky said. “How long have you been a journalist?”
I had thought about the life of Lisa Ajax on the ride over. The question wasn’t a surprise. “Seven years,” I said. “I started in college. I’ve only been working for the magazine for a little while.”
We made small talk for a few minutes, until Becky stood up. “I have to go pick up my dress for tomorrow,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Ajax.”
“You too,” I said.
Once she had left I asked Ty, “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Oh, just a little ceremony. Becky and I are getting an award for fundraising.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. It’s a little embarrassing. Getting an award for giving.” He seemed uncomfortable. “Let’s look at those photos, shall we?”
He led me across the apartment to a small room with a locked door. Attached to the handle was a keypad.
“Would you please look away for a sec?” he said.
I stared at the glass wall, trying to catch a reflection. Collins was careful. He cupped his left hand around the keypad as his right hand punched in the code.
The lock hissed and spun. The door opened.
The room was smaller than the study but still larger than Dean’s whole apartment. It had no windows. The walls were painted white. There were two comfortable chairs inside. No other furniture.
The Jane Brick photos took up one wall. They showed a street corner, small houses and 1960s cars, with snowy mountains in the background. The light was different in each picture. Some glowed a bright summer yellow. Others a stormy gray. Still others were a warm peach color or a soft rose.
“Jane would photograph the same place at different times,” Ty said. “She could make an ordinary street look like paradise. Or the opposite. Or anything in between.”
“They’re amazing,” I said. And I meant it. The photos were beautiful. Even the creases and fade marks added to their beauty.
Ty explained how he’d had the photos matted and framed to make sure they were protected from direct sunlight, acid, water and human hands. He had spent several thousand dollars to protect them. “The art gallery will make sure they’re preserved,” he said. “They’ll scan the photos and make copies and digitally restore them. But for now these are one of a kind.”
“You really don’t want to just keep them all to yourself?” I asked. “Even one?”
He shook his head. “I grew up poor. My mother and I could only go to the art gallery on Tuesdays, when admission was half price. There are a lot of great artists whose work we never got to see. I want to make sure folks like my mom can enjoy these photos too.”
“That’s very generous.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just don’t want the responsibility. They’re nice to have, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being worried.”
“About what?”
“About whether or not the photos will be stolen.”
Collins smiled.
“They’re safe for now,” he said. “But I’d rather let somebody else worry about them.”