Vivian and Sterling stepped into the small gallery space as if they were nothing more than casual visitors. The floor was hardwood (not too dissimilar from the floor back in Peter Hart's office) and the place had the smell of old wood polish. The front doors opened onto a small lobby of sorts. There was a welcome desk, but it was currently vacant. Two different plastic stands on the welcome desk held pamphlets for the gallery and a stack of business cards. Vivian plucked one of the business cards up and saw that it was the gallery's contact information, but the name in the center was that of Calvin Marks.
“Pretty quiet in here,” Sterling said.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Vivian said, tucking the business card into her jacket pocket.
They passed through the lobby, stepped through a short and darkened corridor, and then passed into the gallery. Calvin Marks’s gallery emanated a warmth that contradicted the typical sterile ambiance of such establishments. It was intimate, the lighting soft and inviting, coaxing even the most reluctant observer to linger before each piece. It was a welcoming sort of place—a trait that even Vivian knew was hard to pull off when you were featuring expensive artwork. Even during her time as a thief, she’d gotten feelings of superiority or stuffiness from far too many galleries.
She caught Sterling’s eye as they navigated the space. Currently, there were only four other visitors, two of which appeared to be a father and son. The air carried a mingling scent of oil paint and antique wood, reminiscent of a time when art wasn’t just seen but profoundly felt. Vivian knew that feeling well; she could still recall how the occasional piece she had stolen would almost pulse beneath her fingertips, heavy with history and human emotion.
Vivian carefully observed the space, the high walls and cavernous ceiling, To the right, located in a slightly concave section of the wall, she saw a large picture window. It was tinted, making it hard to see inside.
“You think that might be his office?” she asked Sterling.
“Could be.” He pointed to a door that was situated to the left of the gallery, down a small hallway that was so short it could barely even be considered a hallway at all. “Let’s see if we can find out.”
They walked to the door and found that it was marked Employés seulement.
“Employees only, right?” Vivian said.
“Hey, you’re getting the hang of it,” Sterling replied with just a bit of playful condescension.
Sterling tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. He opened it and revealed a set of stairs leading up. A single light was at the top of the stairs, illuminating a hallway to the right. With a shared look, they both shrugged and made their way up the stairs.
At the top, they turned into the hallway and found yet another short one. It ended after just a few strides, bringing them to a door. It was a simple wooden door with a window in the center, slightly high. Sterling knocked, and the response was immediate.
A man's voice replied from the other side. He sounded both curious and angry. "Quoi? Qui est là?”
Sterling frowned and responded in his mostly accurate French. Vivian listened closely, able to pick up that he was simply introducing themselves. She was also able to pick out the word Interpol, because that really didn’t require any translation.
The man on the other side—presumably Calvin Marks—called out again. Sterling nodded and then looked at Vivian. “He says to come in.”
Sterling opened the door and they both stepped inside. It was a large room with two desks taking up a great deal of space—one in the center of the room and the other crammed near the back wall, littered with file folders and books.
“Calvin Marks?” Sterling asked.
“Oui.”
“Parle vous Englais?”
“Non. Un…un peu.”
Vivian knew enough to understand that this meant he spoke only a little English. Sterling looked at her briefly and she nodded, giving him full control over the conversation. She was still learning the language and there was no way she could conduct a full line of questioning with her limited knowledge.
She was able to follow most of the conversation, though. She also realized that while Sterling was able to question him thoroughly, it left all her attention to focus on Calvin himself. She watched his posture and mannerisms as he was questioned, taking note of his expressions during certain questions.
"Mr. Marks," Sterling began without preamble. "I’ll be brief and to the point here. Did you know Peter Hart?"
Calvin settled into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He steepled his fingers, eyes flickering between the two agents. "Yes, I knew him," he said, a hint of nostalgia threading through his tone.
“Would you say you were friends, or was it a professional relationship?”
“Professional. Peter would come by now and then. We’d share a drink, discuss the latest trends, dive deep into the classics. Just two enthusiasts having a chat."
Vivian was pretty sure he said much more than this, but this was the bit she could pick up on. It was absolutely maddening not to be able to follow every word. She vowed then and there to have this damned language mastered as soon as possible.
As the man spoke, Vivian held Calvin’s gaze, searching for the crack in the facade, the tremor of guilt. But all she saw was the reflection of a man who spoke of art as one might speak of a lost love—fondly, wistfully, with a trace of regret.
She took a moment to turn toward the tinted window that looked down into the gallery. It was a perfect view of pretty much the entirety of the space. When Sterling began speaking again, she turned to pay attention, wanting to make sure she could gather as much as she could without Sterling having to fill her in afterwards.
"Evelyn Hart mentioned you were quite persistent in discussing a certain painting with Peter," Sterling said, voice low and even. "The very one that was taken from his home on the night he was killed. Le Compagnon de Chagrin."
Calvin's fingers twitched atop his desk, the only betrayal of unease. He chuckled, a hollow sound that did little to mask the shift in his demeanor. "Persistent? Hardly," he countered. "It was banter between collectors, nothing more. I wouldn't have laid out such a sum for that piece. Even if Peter had been willing to part with it."
"Really?" Sterling interjected, eyebrow raised. "Evelyn painted quite a different picture for us…if you’ll excuse the joke.”
"Art isn't just always about profit," Calvin shot back, a flicker of indignation crossing his features. "It's about passion, something I suspect you know little about. Though I own a gallery, I am perfectly content for others to own and cherish works of art. Unlike people like the recently deceased Peter Hart, not everyone has to physically own such things.”
The man was speaking very quickly, but Vivian was rather proud of herself for following along. She didn’t get every single word and she had to assume certain contexts, but she was actually understanding the gist of what the man was saying, even if she did have to fill in some blanks here and there.
"Tell me, then," Sterling pushed on. "Can you think of anyone else who might have envied Peter's collection? Maybe someone with their eye on that particular painting?"
Calvin's gaze drifted towards the office window overlooking the gallery below. His lips pressed into a thin line before he shook his head resolutely. "No. Of course, in our circle, envy is as common as admiration. But nothing that would lead to... this. I am proud to say that I know all my donors and artists quite well. If there is anyone in the artist circles capable of such a thing, I don’t know them."
For the first time, Vivian spoke up. She, spoke to Sterling rather than Calvin. “Ask him if he happens to know Nina.”
Sterling nodded and asked the man the question in French. Vivian once again found herself a bit impressed with herself for her ability to mostly follow Calvin’s response.
For a moment, the man seemed to search his memory, then settled back into his chair with an air of finality. “Nina Caldwell? No, I don’t believe so. Lyon's a bit outside my usual scope.”
The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the distant hum of conversation from the gallery floor. Sterling shifted in his seat, ready to press further.
"Calvin," Sterling said, his posture stiffening a bit. Vivian knew this was an indicator that some harder questions were about to come. "Where were you the night Peter Hart was killed?"
The question hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension threading through the silence that followed. Calvin's eyes widened, and his lips drew back into a tight line. The genial atmosphere of the quaint gallery seemed to recede, replaced by an undercurrent of suspicion.
"Are you insinuating that I had something to do with Peter's death?" Calvin's voice was incredulous, tinged with a raw edge. "This is preposterous!”
Vivian watched him carefully, noting the flush creeping up his neck, the way his hands gripped the arms of his chair. She remained calm, undeterred by his outburst. It was not guilt but fear that flickered across his face; it was so obvious that she didn’t need years of experience under her belt to notice it.
"Nobody's accusing you, Calvin," Sterling interjected smoothly, though his eyes remained sharp and assessing. "But surely you know that we have to do our job. And there are certain questions we have to ask, certain things we need to verify."
"Verify?" Calvin spat the word out like it was poison. He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I demand that you leave my gallery at once!"
Vivian rose as well, eyes locked with Calvin's. His chest heaved with barely contained indignation, and she knew they were treading on delicate ground. Yet, backing down wasn't an option. And even if it was, there wasn’t much about Calvin Marks that was especially intimidating.
"Calvin, we're just trying to piece everything together," Sterling said. "If you have nothing to hide, then there's no harm in telling us your whereabouts."
"This is outrageous!" Calvin's bellow echoed off the walls of the office, likely audible in the gallery below. "Your insinuations are insulting. I would never—"
"Then give us something to work with," Sterling pressed, his own patience waning. "An alibi, Calvin. That's all we're asking for."
For a moment, Calvin seemed to deflate, his anger giving way to something more vulnerable. Fear crept into the corners of his eyes, and his stance became less confrontational, more defensive. He shook his head, a gesture almost pleading in its desperation.
"I won't answer any more questions," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper now. There was a tremor in his voice, a clear sign that their inquiries had hit a nerve. "I'm not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer."
Vivian exchanged a glance with Sterling, a silent conversation passing between them. They had pushed Calvin to his limit, and while they had not obtained the alibi they sought, they had gleaned something perhaps just as valuable—the unmistakable scent of fear.
She knew fear didn’t automatically mean guilt but there was clearly something very much off with Calvin Marks.
“You’re making this much more difficult and time-consuming than it needs to be,” Sterling said.
"And you are accusing me!” Calvin's voice, now stripped of its earlier civility, cracked against the stillness. His finger jabbed the air towards Sterling, an invisible line drawn in the sand between them.
"We’re just looking for the truth," Sterling replied, his voice still even but now tinged with a sense of authority.
The gallery owner lunged forward, the distance closed in a heartbeat. His hands, those of an artist turned suspect, shoved at Sterling's chest with an accusation of their own. "You have no right—"
Sterling stepped back, unfazed, his training manifesting in the grace of a dancer sidestepping a misstep. Vivian's hand rested on the butt of her gun but instantly realized that it was a bit of an overreaction. Sterling already had the situation in hand, quite literally, as he grasped Calvin's wrist and twisted it behind his back with the ease of flipping through a well-known book.
"Enough!" Sterling's command was calm, assertive, not even a hint of struggle in his frame.
"Let go of me!" Calvin spat the words out, thrashing in Sterling's unyielding grip. Chairs scraped across the floor, papers fluttered from the desk like startled birds taking flight. He uttered a few words that Vivian did not understand; she thought they may have been expletives.
"Mr. Marks, you're under arrest," Sterling announced, the words stark against the clamor.
Vivian moved forward, her steps measured, her mind cataloging the scene—the desperation in Calvin's eyes, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the gallery below oblivious to the drama unfolding above.
"Assaulting an officer, refusing to cooperate with an investigation," Sterling said. “Please don’t make me add more to the list.”
"Get your hands off me!" Calvin's shout was tinged with panic, his body bucking against Sterling's restraint.
"Should've thought about that before you decided to get physical," Sterling retorted, his grip unwavering.
"Call my lawyer!" Calvin demanded, his voice breaking as Sterling read him his rights.
In a brisk sort of dance, Sterling guided Calvin out of the office and down the darkened stairway. Calvin's protests echoed off the gallery walls, a weird sort of thunder in the stairwell that emptied out more like a drone down in the gallery.
"Think he's our guy?" Vivian asked quietly as they descended the stairs, Calvin stumbling slightly between them.
"Maybe," Sterling replied, his English a warm sound to her ears. “That sure was a very big reaction to such an innocent question.”
She agreed. And as they escorted Calvin through his gallery, the few people in attendance watched on with great interest, the painting and artwork around them all but forgotten.