The next morning, Remi drove down to Quantico, Virginia, to meet Daniel at the FBI headquarters. She spent the first half of the one-hour drive fuming over Cyril’s behavior. How could he belittle the most terrifying, most rewarding experience of her life? And who was he to think that he could tell her what to do?
If he was this controlling now, how would he be once they were married?
That question had bothered her all last night, and she had woken up still angry.
And yet she couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty too. Cyril had wanted to discuss wedding arrangements, and the first thing she did was put him off with a proposed research trip. Then, a moment later, she left in a huff without even staying for dinner.
While he had been too overbearing, she had overreacted. She’d call him later, once she knew more about this case. It could be that they only wanted her to look over a few files and that she would be back for her afternoon lecture, as Daniel had suggested.
That would be a disappointment. She wanted a challenging case, something exciting. Perhaps not a knife-wielding religious maniac with a strange fixation for her, one of those was quite enough for one lifetime, but at least something to pull her out of her dull daily life.
She spent the second half of the drive considering her options. On the last case, Daniel had told her about the Antiquities Division. It covered much the same ground as her research area and, being a new and underfunded division, it was somewhat understaffed. She sensed Daniel felt he had been demoted when they transferred him there. That made her wonder what sort of cases he had been handling in the Behavioral Affairs Unit.
He had made no mention of the Antiquities Division having a historian on staff. While they weren’t going to hire her to be an FBI agent, and she didn’t want to give up academia, it would be wonderful to have some sort of permanent status as a consultant. They had paid fairly well for the last case, and perhaps being on the FBI payroll would allow her both the money and the visa to stay after her visiting lectureship ended in nine months.
That would take the pressure off in so many ways. The Sorbonne would be amenable to her staying on in the United States for a while (some of the old men running the department were happy to have her on the other side of the Atlantic) and there wouldn’t be a ticking clock for her and Cyril’s marriage plans.
That had been going too fast. If she could get a job as a consultant for the new division, their relationship could proceed at its proper pace.
If she could get the job. She didn’t even know if it was possible.
And what would that mean for her academic career? If she didn’t keep going to conferences, didn’t keep up a regular pace of publishing, she’d sink into obscurity. After a while, it would be impossible to get back into the system. Did she really want to give all that up?
She didn’t have an answer to that. The priority at the moment was finding out more about this case.
As she pulled into the parking lot location that Daniel had sent to her GPS, she found him standing there. She waved, pulled into a free space, and eagerly stepped out of her car.
Daniel Walker looked the same as she remembered—a tall man about her age with broad shoulders who would have looked athletic if it wasn’t for a sizeable gut. He wore his usual black suit and tie. She had never seen him wear anything else. A handsome face with short brown hair and intelligent brown eyes looked more rested than when she had last seen him.
His face cracked into a smile. Daniel looked much better when he smiled. He didn’t do it very often.
They shook hands warmly.
“Glad to have you on board,” he said. “How have things been at Georgetown?”
“Good. I’ve been following some interesting research.”
To put it mildly.
Remi hadn’t told Daniel that she had sneaked a peek inside the cryptex. Since it had been museum property, her handling it was technically illegal. While Daniel often bent the rules, she had decided not to bring it up.
“Sounds nice,” Daniel said, leading her toward a large office building. “Let’s go to my office and look over the material I have. I need to fly to New York City today to grill the art dealers. Also need to talk to the victim’s attorney. I’d love your input before I go.”
“Wait, if the murder was on Long Island, why didn’t you go straight to New York City?”
“Because I needed to speak with you. Better in person than on the phone. And the boss needed to talk with me about the case too. One thing I had to get used to in the FBI was flying back and forth all the time.”
While she felt good that part of the reason he had come back was to speak with her, Remi felt a tug of regret to hear she hadn’t been invited to go to New York. She had hoped to be swept up into another exciting chase like last time. She had even packed a suitcase just in case.
Subdued, she passed through security, was given a temporary visitor’s pass, and Daniel escorted her to a tiny office with his name on the door. There was little room for anything other than a couple of chairs, a desk, and a computer. A small window looked out on the bare concrete wall of the neighboring building.
“Home sweet home,” Daniel said with an abashed smile.
“So tell me what you know so far,” she said, eager to get started.
Daniel ran through the particulars of the murder of Montgomery Dyson, a billionaire art collector she had never heard of. He showed her security footage of a man dressed like death breaking into the property then coming out shortly thereafter and washing his scythe in the pool. Remi felt a prickle of disgust and, she had to admit, excitement.
Next, he showed her photos of the crime scene, a private gallery in the billionaire’s home.
“This is horrible! Shocking!” Remi cried.
“What?” Daniel said, looking at the gallery of photos. “I thought I took out all the photos of the victim.”
“It’s not that; it’s the setup of this gallery. Look, a window overlooking the sea, and it’s even open. A salty breeze is blowing on these paintings all day. They’ve survived centuries thanks to proper care and now they’ll be ruined within a few decades. Sacre bleu! The Degas is even warped a bit on the corner closest to the window. This man is a criminal! Grossier! Classe inférieure!”
“Go easy. The guy got hacked to death in his own home with a scythe.”
“Well, I suppose he didn’t deserve that, but what he did to these works of art is unforgiveable.”
Daniel burst out laughing.
“What?” Remi asked, confused.
Daniel wiped his eyes, still laughing.
“What?”
The FBI agent shook his head. “Oh, I’ve missed you. You’re hilarious.”
Remi smiled. “I’ve … missed this too.”
Daniel paused for the briefest of moments. Remi tensed.
“So what do you think?” he asked. “Besides the fact that Dyson was an American peasant who should have never owned any art.”
“He most certainly was a peasant. Perhaps the wealthiest peasant in the world. It’s interesting that a rare book on astronomy was stolen.”
“Are you familiar with that book?”
“No. It’s a bit late for my period of study, although of course I’ve studied medieval and Renaissance ideas of cosmology.”
“Of course, who hasn’t?”
Remi suspected that was sarcasm and decided to ignore it. She was too intrigued by the subject to care.
“So you say the painting was a figure of death riding in the sky over a village, with a manor house in the lower righthand corner?”
“That’s what the butler said. The trophy girl was more vague but gave the same general description.”
“Night sky?”
“Yeah. Does Death ever ride into town during the day?”
“Not generally, no. And there were no other paintings of the Four Horsemen in the house?”
“No. Oh wait, there was an engraving by Dürer, the famous one of the four horsemen. In the same room. Do you know the painting that got stolen?”
“I might,” Remi mused. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was a common theme, but we can narrow it down thanks to the dimensions, approximate period, and the fact that it was in private hands.”
“I already checked the stolen art international database,” Daniel said. “It’s not on it.”
“When do records start for that database?”
“What? Oh, I see what you mean. The database was set up around thirty years ago. There are some older records on there, especially for art stolen by the Nazis. But if it was stolen before the 21st century, there’s a decent chance it isn’t on there.”
“Hmmm.”
Remi pulled out her phone and started to type.
Daniel tut-tutted. “Just like your students. Can’t concentrate for more than fifteen minutes before needing to text your friends.”
“I am texting a friend,” Remi said with a smile. “Her name is Eleah Smets, an art curator in Brussels. She has consulted with the European Union on stolen artwork.”
“Is she single?”
“Don’t be gauche. You have a wife.”
“Not anymore.”
Remi looked up, shocked.
“I-I’m sorry.”
Daniel waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not. Continue with your email.”
Remi didn’t believe his cavalier attitude to getting divorced. It was so typical of this man to shrug off any feelings and not discuss them. She had caught him several times, when he thought he was unobserved, brooding over something. As soon as he noticed someone else nearby, he’d put on a neutral mask.
This divorce must have really eaten at him. But she knew he wouldn’t speak of it. After all, they weren’t even friends, just temporary colleagues.
Getting back to the case, she explained the situation to Eleah Smets and asked if she knew of any such painting in private hands. Eleah had her finger on the pulse of the art trade, both legitimate and illegal. If anyone would know, it would be her.
“Hopefully she’ll get back to me soon,” Remi said, putting her phone away.
“She sounds like a useful informant. Thanks for that. You’ll have to give me her contact info.”
“She’s too busy to work for the FBI.”
“Don’t worry,” Daniel said. “If I hire anyone, I’ll hire you.”
That felt satisfying. Even more than that, it felt right, like she belonged.
Remi took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’ve been thinking … the Antiquities Division is a new branch of the FBI, and you don’t have anyone who is a specialist in antiquities. You have a great deal of knowledge yourself—” Daniel’s face hardened. Why? Why the resistance to the past? “—but you could use someone who is deeper into the material. I think it would be more useful for the division to have a civilian expert retained as a consultant on a more permanent basis.”
“You want to work for the FBI?” Daniel looked surprised.
“Not as an employee per se. I don’t think they’d hire me.”
“They wouldn’t. You have to go through the academy.”
“I understand. But I’ve been hired as a civilian consultant before. And for at least today I have been hired again. Why not make that something more long term?”
“Getting tired of teaching bored undergrads?”
“That’s part of it,” Remi admitted.
Daniel thought a moment. Remi sat on the edge of her seat.
“It’s possible,” he said at last. “It’s been done before. But I’m not the one to make that call. You’ll need to see my boss.”
“Can we go now?”
“We need to get going on this case,” Daniel said, sounding impatient.
“This will help,” Remi said. A slow smile spread across her face. “It will help with the next case too.”
Daniel broke into a smile.
“All right, we’ll try. Don’t get your hopes up, though.”