Chapter 29
May 13
It takes me three days to work up the courage to go back to the station. I need Bovano to listen to me, and I’m hoping he’s cooled down by now. Jonah agrees it’s a good idea— although he’s still really sick and spaced out from the cold medication he’s taking, so he may not be thinking clearly.
In hindsight, I should have just stayed in bed. Today is Friday the thirteenth. Never do anything on that day.
All day in class I pump myself up to have the guts to enter the station after school, all for nothing. Frank Bovano isn’t here; his office is dark and abandoned.
I need to try one more time to reach him. Maybe if I leave him a voice message, he’ll actually listen. He needs to know Matilda Swayne’s address. I don’t think it was legible on the map I left for him. If I give him the information, then my conscience is clean. He’ll be the one at fault if something goes down.
“Hi, Marilyn,” I say, approaching her desk. She gives me a tentative nod, hand nervously fiddling with the glasses that hang on a chain around her neck. I’m sure she knows what happened a few days ago in his office. Bovano’s voice almost shattered the windows.
“Can you call Detective Bovano for me and tell him I need to speak to him? I have new information about the case. I fear for his safety.”
I give her my winning I’m-just-an-innocent-kid smile. Like my mom, she falls for it hook, line, and sinker.
I pretend to be very interested in the gray spotted tile beneath my feet, and then sneak a quick peek as her pink polished fingernails move over the phone pad.
She leaves a message for him. Voice mail.
“Thanks, Marilyn,” I say, shaking her hand. “It’s been nice working with you.”
“Keep in touch, Eddie. Come back and visit us.” She sniffles a little. Sweet, dependable Marilyn.
Mentally digesting the ten-digit number I saw her press, I head out to the street and call him from my cell phone.
“Detective Bovano, it’s me, Edmund . . . Eddie. Please don’t delete this message. Don’t get mad at Marilyn, either. She didn’t give me your phone number. I figured it out myself. I’m sorry that I snooped in your office. I just wanted to help. But there are some Picasso paintings and an old lady who might be in danger.”
I tell him Matilda’s name and address. “I’m going there right now. I need to speak with her, get her to hear me. Maybe she’ll move the paintings to a storehouse or something. Go and stay with her kids for a while.”
I hesitate. What else do I have to say to this man?
“If my theory is correct, then Alisha is in on it. I’m sorry, Detective. I know you don’t want to hear that. And I hope it’s not true.”
More pausing.
“Thanks . . . and I’m sorry.”
I hang up. It’s his move.
I trudge over to Lexington, worry weighing down each step I take. What if I’m wrong? What if her Picassos are completely safe and I have violated her privacy and Bovano’s as well? What will Bovano do? Will he tell my parents? Of course he will, and at high volume. How can I look them in the eye after that? Will he arrest me? Make me do community service?
I should have kept my big mouth shut and just been a camera like he wanted.
A strange twitch in my neck causes me to look up as I approach Matilda’s building. A pang of warning. Marco—the real Marco this time—is jogging up the stairs dressed as a painter in white overalls, his stringy hair tied back in a braid. Followed by Jackie Vincent and the bald man. And last but not least, the elusive Lars Heinrich. It’s the Picasso Gang, in living color. Dressed in painter’s gear.
Quickly I duck into an alley, undetected.
Into an alley.