CHAPTER 42

“Aya, I was on duty that night,” said the security guard named Bob, who was kind of ancient.

If someone stole a painting while he was on duty today, I wouldn’t count on Bob to catch the guy. Especially if there was any running involved.

“March eighteenth, nineteen-ninety,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Worst day of my life. It was early in the morning. My partner and I buzzed in two police officers responding to a disturbance call. Well, we thought they were police officers. Turns out, they were crooks!”

Bob’s face turned clown-nose red. He wheezed a little.

“Take it easy,” urged Uncle Richie.

“Sorry. Where were we?” He looked around, confused.

“The morning of March eighteenth,” said Storm. “Nineteen-ninety.”

“That’s when the museum was robbed!” shouted Bob, his face going even redder. His head looked like a radish.

“We know,” I said.

“Those two thieving robbers tied me and my partner up and spent an hour taking paintings off the walls. Good stuff, too. The Concert by Vermeer. Three different Rembrandts! Masterpieces by Manet and Degas. An ancient Chinese gu!”

“They stole some goo?” I said. “And it was Chinese goo?

“Like in moo goo gai pan?” asked Tommy.

“A ‘gu’ is a ritualistic bronze vessel or vase from the Shang or Zhou dynasties,” said Beck.

When it comes to art, my scribbling sibling can out-Storm Storm.

“The museum is offering a five-million-dollar reward for the return of everything,” said Bob.

We all nodded. None of us mentioned the fact that the Enlightened Ones were offering us twenty million dollars to find just one of the paintings.

“If you find all that art, will you give me a call?” said Bob, handing Uncle Richie a business card with a shiny silver sheriff’s star embossed on it. “They’re brand-new business cards. A gift from a friend. I feel so bad about what happened. Why, I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep in nearly thirty years.”

“Have you tried herbal tea?” suggested Storm.

Bob nodded. “Didn’t work. Nothing will work until all that art is safely home here in Boston.”

“Is anyone still working the case?” asked Uncle Richie.

“Aya. The FBI’s Boston field office. Special Agent Joel McKenna is in charge. He and I talk sometimes. Mostly about natural sleep remedies…”

“Joel McKenna?” said Uncle Richie. “Did he ever work in New York City?”

“Aya,” said Bob. “You know him?”

“Indeed, I do. I helped him out on a major case, back in the day. Thank you for your invaluable assistance, Robert.”

Apparently, Bob uses his full name on the business cards with the shiny silver star.

We headed out to the parking lot.

“Uncle Richie?” I asked. “Do you really think an FBI special agent will drop everything he’s working on to talk to us?”

“Joel McKenna will. As I said, I helped him close a major case several years ago.”

“What kind of case?” asked Tommy.

“An international episode involving kidnapping and ransom.”

“Really?” said Beck. “Where?”

Uncle Richie took a moment before he answered. “My portion of the mission took place in Australia, if you must know. The land down under.”

“Isn’t Australia where you—” Storm blurted before Beck and I cut her off with frantic “zip it, sis” gestures.

You know how the art heist at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was the worst day in Bob the security guard’s life?

I have a feeling that whatever happened in Australia (with the fake art objects he had to take back from the museum he’d donated them to) might’ve been the worst day in Uncle Richie’s.