Even after lunch and time spent staring at the case files once again on the train, there were no new answers to the case. And in that time, afternoon had somehow slipped away, the daylight slowly fading to allow the evening to set in. As it did, Vivian leaned over the sprawling desk in her office, her fingers brushing across glossy photographs of the crime scenes as if she could coax secrets from them through touch.
Interpol HQ, an architectural nexus of glass and steel, hummed with the quiet fervor of agents and officers, unraveling international mysteries. Her office was a pocket of calm amid that storm, already personalized with a touch of her own. A minimalist feel with little pops of color here and there in the form of fake flowers, books, and art prints.
"You know, it’s pretty remarkable," Michael Sterling said, not looking up from his own stack of files, "how you've made this space your own in no time." He gestured vaguely towards the artwork she'd hung on the walls—reproductions, of course. "Feels almost homey."
"Home is where you hang your stolen art," Vivian quipped without missing a beat, a smirk playing on her lips as she returned her gaze to the crime scene photos. Her eyes were sharp, dissecting every inch for anomalies—a misplaced shadow, a reflection that didn't belong.
Sterling chuckled. "My office looks like a paper bomb exploded. Doom and gloom incarnate."
"Perhaps it matches your personality?" She glanced at him sideways, a challenge dancing in her eyes.
"Cheeky," he shot back, but his smile faded as Vivian’s expression shifted. She squared her shoulders, the banter draining away as swiftly as it had appeared. “What’s up? Something on your mind?”
"Yeah, actually,” she began abruptly, her tone serious now. “I’m curious…in this job, do you often have to just sort of overlook some of the worst parts of humans and how they live if it’s not directly related to the case?”
“Huh…good question. Sometimes, I guess. Why?”
"I was just wondering how you could be so cavalier about Calvin and his lover? They're cheating on their spouses, and we just ignore it?"
Sterling studied her for a moment, his blue eyes considering. "It's messy, no doubt," he admitted. "But it's their private mess. We're here for the art and the murders, not to police morality. If it doesn’t connect to our case, it's not our concern. And what we saw today…that was on the low end of some of the things I’ve seen.”
"Isn't everything connected, though?" Vivian pressed, tapping a finger against one of the images. She couldn't shake the feeling that personal vices often dressed the stage for grander sins. She’d always believed this but was starting to truly see it up close and personal now that she was working with Interpol. "The way people live, the secrets they keep—they color everything they do."
"Maybe," Sterling conceded, his voice low. "But until there’s a direct line between their bedroom antics and our killer, it’s just another complication. We have enough of those. And trust me, spending too much time thinking about things like that send you down some really bumpy philosophical rabbit holes."
“Monogamy is a philosophical point for you?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s just that, to me, the idea that one person can fulfill someone else's needs for an entire lifetime seems overly optimistic. I have parents and grandparents that are living proof of this."
Vivian nodded, reluctantly shelving her distaste for infidelity. It didn’t make her think less of Sterling at all. She knew that lots of people these days tended to view marriage as something of a prison sentence. She was just surprised that Sterling was among them. Besides, this wasn't about her moral compass—it was about catching a killer who was pretty much taunting them by also stealing paintings. With a deep breath, she turned back to the photos, hoping to find something new.
And then, while looking at the crime scene photos from Nina’s apartment, her cell phone rang. She instantly felt a pang of guilt and fear. She instinctually thought it might be Nils with more information about Olivia. But then she remembered that Nils had already done his job and located her. And she also remembered that she’d told Sterling all there was no know. There were no more secrets; she had no more reasons to hide anything from Sterling.
She looked at her phone, sitting at the edge of her desk. The number of the call display was one she wasn’t familiar with but she could tell that it was coming out of Lyon. Curious, she answered it.
“This is Vivian Fox,” she said.
“Ms. Fox, it’s Julia…we met earlier today at the coffee shop, remember?”
“Of course. Nina Caldwell’s friend. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine. But I wanted to let you know that I looked back through some of the old text threads I had with Nina and found the name of that painting.”
“Excellent. What is it?”
It felt like a break, even though she had no real idea what this knowledge would do for them. For reasons she couldn't quite grasp, though, it felt big.
“His Memory, Etched in Gold. The artist is apparently an American named Stephen Mintz. When we end this call, I can text you the picture of it she sent me.”
“That would be perfect, Julia. Thank you.”
“Of course. I…I guess there haven’t been any breaks yet?”
“No. None. I’m so very sorry. But we’re doing our very best.”
“I know you are. Thank you.”
They ended the call as Vivian jotted down the name of the painting on a nearby scrap of paper. She said it out loud as she wrote. “His Memory, Etched in Gold. That’s the name of the painting that was taken from Nina’s apartment.”
As soon as she'd said this, Julia sent her text, as promised. Vivian opened the text message and tapped on the picture. Right away, she could see the beauty in it. It depicted four workers in a field…a hay field, Vivian was pretty sure. One man stood close to the viewer, but the other three were much farther away. The overwhelming color was yellow, but there were shades of orange and red woven expertly, making it look like the field was on fire from certain angles, and like it was being embraced by the evening sun from another angle.
“Okay…so what does this tell us?” Sterling asked. He wasn’t asking as a test. He seemed genuinely stumped.
“Maybe nothing. Comparing this one to Le Compagnon de Chagrin, it’s pretty clear that they have nothing in common.”
“That’s not true,” Sterling argued. “They’re both very expensive.”
“True.” She sighed, trying to make it make sense. “Peter Hart's painting... hanging in Nina's home. It makes me all but certain Nina’s is going to end up somewhere it has no business being.”
“Maybe Nina and Peter knew one another,” Sterling suggested. “Maybe the killer is someone they both knew and…and maybe he felt they wronged him? I’m just making guesses here.”
“Yeah, but those are good guesses. Although, Calvin Marks claimed to not know Nina. I feel like if he knew Nina, then maybe Peter did.”
“Possibly,” Sterling said.
“I’ll call Evelyn Hart and ask,” Vivian said. “And then we can reach back out to Nina’s friends and ask the same question, though if they didn’t even know the name of her painting right away, I doubt they’d be much help.”
She reached for her phone, intending to call Evelyn Hart, when Sterling's phone chirped abruptly.
"Damn," he muttered, glancing at the caller ID before answering. "Sterling here."
Vivian watched him closely, noting the slight stiffening of his posture, the way his hand unconsciously clenched tighter around the device. She had no idea who was on the other end. Not Garnett because she was still in the building somewhere and would have just come to the office. But she could tell from his posture and the hardening of his face that the news on the other end of the phone was not good.
She listened to him speaking in French—a lot of short, to-the-point statement. Lots of oui.
The call lasted less than thirty seconds, and when he ended it, his eyes found Vivian's. They were cold and worried.
"Another murder," Sterling said. And then, as if it was somehow even worse than the murder, he added, “And another stolen painting.”