The GPS on Vivian’s phone pulled up the directions to the antiques shop owned by Erica Blaine. Two of the cops back at Lynette’s apartment knew of the place and had given them the name: Timeless. On the phone, Gabriel Moreno had told them that it was just outside of the city, and he’d been quite accurate. Timeless was located on a small lot by itself, bookended by equally small shops—one a small bookstore, and the other a wine retailer.
They also had her home address, which was another twenty minutes away from the shop. But as Sterling pulled the car into the small lot in front of Timeless, it appeared that they wouldn’t have to make that stop. Though the car’s dashboard clock read 10:47, the interior shop lights were on. Not only that, but there were also two cars parked along the side, on the edge of a little road that seemed to run along behind the shop.
“Well, it looks like someone is here,” Vivian said as Sterling parked.
“Maybe it’s like a stock thing…invoicing or something,” Sterling said. “Because the sign says closed.”
Vivian spotted it, the little CLOSED sign dangling from the door on the inside. But the lights beaming through the windows seemed to disagree with that notion.
They stepped out of the car together; the parking lot was quiet, almost as if the very ground itself was expecting something to happen. Approaching the door, Vivian raised her hand and knocked, her knuckles rapping sharply against the wood. It was a sound that seemed too loud in the night, almost intrusive.
The door creaked open moments later, and a woman of roughly sixty or so looked out. She somehow looked both elegant and disheveled.
“I’m closed,” she said, stating it as if they were complete idiots. “Surely you don’t expect an antique store to be open at such an hour.”
“Well, we saw the lights, and—” Vivian started.
“We’re closed.”
Just as the woman began to close the door, Vivian noticed that her eyes looked hazy. She was also slightly slouched and her words, a very sloppy sort of French that Vivian barely understood at all, were slurred.
If this was Erica Blaine, she was drunk. Peering over the woman’s shoulder, Vivian saw quite a bit to support this idea. A few guests, equally flush with drink, sat around an antique table that could've been a centerpiece in a museum exhibit. Cards fanned out in hands, laughter frozen mid-escape, glasses poised in a silent toast to whatever fortunes the evening had promised.
"Ms. Blaine," Sterling began, his voice betraying none of the surprise at the scene before them. "We need a moment of your time. We’re officers with Interpol.”
"Interpol?" she slurred, her mind laboring to assemble coherence. "At this ungodly hour?" Now, miraculously, the woman was speaking English—which was just as slurred as her French.
"Unfortunately, crime isn't considerate enough to keep to business hours," Vivian added, her gaze locking onto Erica's, trying to penetrate the fog of inebriation for any sign of guilt or recognition.
“I’ve committed no crimes. We’re just having a bit of fun with card games and wine. No crimes here.”
“You are Erica Blaine?” Sterling said.
“I am indeed.”
“Good. We are working on a case that we—”
“I’m sorry, we’re closed.”
She closed the door almost the rest of the way, but Sterling had placed his foot in the doorway. “Ma’am,” he said, “we’re working on a case that so far has three murders and also involves art theft. Your name came up as part of the investigation.”
"Murders? Art thefts?" Erica repeated, leaning against the door frame for support, her eyes narrowing as if trying to focus on some distant memory or hidden truth. "And you think I can help?"
"Your name has come up in connection with a certain painting," Sterling continued, unfazed by the late-night carousing. "One that used to hang in Lynette Moreno's apartment."
"Ah. You know, that's not her apartment. Or her last name. Ha! That will always be Gabriel's place, as far as I'm concerned. But…wait. Has something happened to Lynette?"
“I’m afraid so,” Vivian said. “She was killed tonight.”
Erica's expression flickered, a brief dance of emotions across her face — shock, confusion, fear — before settling back into a mask of indifference. “And a painting was taken from her apartment?”
“Yes,” Sterling said. “And it’s one we’ve been told you once showed a great deal of interest in.”
“Me? I’ve never wanted a damn thing Gabriel Moreno put his grubby little hands on.”
Vivian's eyes locked onto Erica Blaine's, searching for any crack in the façade. The news of Lynette Moreno's death seemed to hit her like a physical blow, but she was quick to regain composure. A slight shimmer of anxiety betrayed her otherwise steady voice.
"Look, I've got guests," Erica said, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder where shadows moved and laughter had been silenced. "You'll have to come back tomorrow."
"Ms. Blaine, people are dead," Vivian pressed, her words sharp as shattered glass. "We can't wait until it's convenient."
"Can't help you now," Erica replied with finality. She pushed hard against the door and Vivian was surprised to hear Sterling hiss in pain as he jumped back. He uttered a curse under his breath, which was underscored by the click of the door closing and the deadbolt sliding into place.
Vivian turned to Sterling with a look of urgency. Without a word, he nodded, understanding the silent communication perfectly after their time together on this case. He also frowned and looked down at his foot—a moment that Vivian did her very best not to laugh at.
Leaning close to the door, Vivian listened. Her ears, fine-tuned from years of avoiding capture, picked up the rapid shuffle of feet against the wooden floor and the low hum of whispered urgency. Glasses clinked, chairs scraped — they were moving, fast. Someone cursed a little too loud and was reprimanded for it.
"Something's not right," Vivian murmured, her breath fogging a tiny circle on the glass pane.
Sterling stepped forward and listened in as well. “Yeah…I agree. They’re running away like rats from a sinking ship.”
Vivian's mind raced. She knew that if Erica Blaine and her company were involved in the art thefts or the murders, any hint of Interpol sniffing around would be enough to scatter them. And scatter they did, leaving behind the joy and fun of their game and wine to dash into the uncertainty of the night.
“There must be a back way out,” Sterling said.
Vivian's instincts screamed that something pivotal was unfolding behind the closed doors of Erica Blaine's antique shop. The locked door, the scurrying of feet, the abrupt end to their conversation—all of it hinted at guilt or, at the very least, fear. She exchanged a glance with Sterling before he gave her a curt nod, his decision made without words.
"Stay here. Cover the front," he said. "I'll circle 'round. You stop anyone who tries to double back and come out through the front."
The night air was cool on Vivian's cheeks as she watched Sterling stride purposefully away from the glow of the shop's windows. She pressed her back against the cool brick façade next to the door, her senses heightened. The street was eerily quiet, just far enough away from the heartbeat of the city to appear still. The tension of the moment was palpable, a living thing coiled and ready to spring.
Minutes ticked by, measured only by the rhythmic beat of her heart. Then came the scream—a shrill sound that pierced the silence and sent a jolt of adrenaline through Vivian's veins. It was followed by a commotion, a muted chorus of thuds and shouts that suggested a chase was underway behind the shop.
Without a second thought, Vivian pivoted and sprinted toward the alley that ran alongside the building. She passed by the two cars that were parked there, noting that no one had come running toward them yet. Her footsteps were swift and silent on the pavement, a skill honed from years of navigating less-than-legal pathways. As she rounded the corner, the back door of the antique shop swung wide open, revealing two of Blaine's guests pressed against the wall, their faces pale moons in the lamplight. Their eyes were wide, darting between the chaos inside and the relative safety of the alley.
Sterling was already inside, his figure a blur of motion as he pursued someone through the labyrinth of antiques. Vivian didn't hesitate; she crossed the threshold, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior where every shadow could be a hiding place, every glint of light off polished wood a potential threat. For just a moment—not even quite an entire breath—she wondered if she was making a mistake. While Sterling was not her boss, he did have much more experience. He’d asked her to stay outside and now, having come inside, she wondered if she’d made a mistake by leaving Blaine’s guests outside and unattended.
But by then, it was too late to turn around. She was in the shop now, and the sounds of movement pulled her forward.
"Blaine!" Sterling's voice came from somewhere in the maze of items and inventory. Tables, chairs, enormous lamps, paintings, even an old wagon wheel, the place was crammed with all sorts of treasures. Sterling’s shout was both a command and a challenge, echoing off the walls lined with relics of the past. Vivian could hear the desperation in the clatter of items being knocked aside, the heavy breaths of someone running.
She moved with practiced agility, weaving between a row of grandfather clocks and a collection of ornate mirrors that threw back distorted, eerie reflections. Each step brought her closer to the commotion, the primal part of her brain taking over, guiding her movements with precision and purpose. And because the only true light was coming from the front of the store and the thin, natural light of the night through the back door, every shadow seemed like a potential threat—not that Vivian thought a drunken sixty-year-old woman was much of a threat.
"Stop!" Sterling's shout was followed by the sound of something large and heavy crashing to the ground. Glass broke, something rolled. A cloud of dust billowed into the air, carrying with it the musty scent of old leather and aged paper.
Vivian emerged from the maze of treasures just in time to see Sterling grab hold of Erica Blaine, who was desperately trying to shake him off. They were eagerly struggling in front of an old roll-top desk, Erica trying to grab the edge of it to pull free. Vivian almost felt bad for Sterling, trying to restrain and cuff her without being too rough.
“What in the hell?” Sterling asked, frustrated as he finally got the cuffs on her. The metallic click was ridiculously loud in the quiet shop “Why’d you run?”
“You have no right!” Erica yelled. “I’ve done nothing!”
“Then you should have no problem answering our questions,” Sterling said.
Vivian was interested to see what happened next. Would this little foot chase have Sterling wanting to take Erica to Interpol HQ, or would he be content to simply question her here? She figured that because the woman was clearly inebriated, doing it here might be in their best interest. In the comfort of her own shop, she may be more prone to speaking.
"Let’s head back to your card game," Sterling ordered, the edge in his voice leaving no room for argument. He gave Vivian a small nod of acknowledgement and then, together, they guided her to the front of the store. She wasn’t resisting, shuffling her feet forward under the guided pressure of Sterling.
They came to the table, and Vivian saw two empty bottles of wine on the floor. A third was sitting on the table, mostly empty. Cards were scattered here and there—a game of Bridge, from the looks of it.
"Sit," Sterling commanded, his tone leaving no room for an argument.
Blaine complied with a huff, sinking into the chair closest to her. She put on a pouty face that was so comical Vivian had to look away. It was made even funnier by the fact that she searched for one of the glasses of wine that had been left behind.
“Probably not the best idea,” Vivian said.
Sterling looked at her and tilted his head slightly. "Where are the guests?"
The tone of his voice wasn’t angry, but there was something unpleasant there. Disappointment, maybe?
“I left them out back.”
“Shit. You should have stayed with them.”
“I know. I just heard things happening in here and—”
"It's okay," he snapped. Vivian was pretty sure it was the first time she'd ever seen him upset with her. Any other time, she may have snapped right back at him, but she knew he was right. Also, she didn't think now was the time to have the conversation.
"Let me go check,” she said. She hated to admit it, but she felt significantly lighter when she moved back toward the rear of the building again. She didn’t like the tension that had instantly started to grow between her and Sterling as her mistake had been mentioned.
She moved quickly, retracing her steps, her mind racing with the possibilities. She wasn’t even sure the guests would matter in the long run…not unless they were all working together and one of them was the killer. But given how drunk Erica was, she found it hard to imagine her having been to the center of the city to kill someone sometime within the past three hours or so.
When Vivian reached the back door and opened it, she knew what she would find. But even when she was proven right, it did nothing to help.
Erica’s guests were gone.
Vivian sighed, let out a whispered curse, and headed back into Erica Blaine’s shop like a dog with her tail tucked between her legs.