Give the Slip
Archie
gold with their search into Tom Conti’s financials and his former security staff. Enough so, we were able to secure a warrant for their arrests, and have six people in custody. We still don’t know the artists who were creating the forgeries, but after her hours of interrogation, Lancaster is confident Georgia was not one of them. I didn’t need hours of interrogation to prove that.
From what we’ve gathered so far, Conti originally approached his appraiser, Guillaume, because he wanted to sell a few paintings. He was on the verge of bankruptcy and at risk of losing his eight-million-dollar home.
Guillaume was the puppeteer and has operations running in New York, Los Angeles, and London. He’s what you call “a big fish.” The conniving Frenchman convinced Conti to fund the operation by selling one of his less expensive pieces. That allowed them to pay for new identities and equipment they needed and gave his former employees incentive to go along with the plan.
With a team on board with security knowledge, they positioned themselves in new security gigs at different locations. Conti cased the places, pretending to be interested in buying pieces from galleries or donating to museums. Guillaume used his contacts to learn about which pieces gave them the best chances at a payday, and the rest of them put their skills to use, making it appear as if they were never there.
Apparently, their paydays weren’t as much as they were expecting and they got greedy, so they “stole” Conti’s paintings to collect the insurance money. He needed to infuse some legitimate cash into his business, and that was the quickest way to do it.
As one would expect with criminals, there’s no loyalty. They roll on each other faster than a ground ball up center field at Wrigley.
The only thing missing is the artwork. When our team raided Conti’s shipping containers in a New York port, they only recovered four—and two were paintings we didn’t know they had stolen.
I know it won’t mean much, but I want to find them for Georgia. To preserve the art that she loves and protect that bit of history she’s convinced holds the power to change people. It’s the least I can do, even if I’ll never tell her about that either.
“We did it.” Sanders walks up next to me behind the two-way mirror, places his arm around my shoulders, and squeezes the breath out of me.
“Almost,” I cough out, trying to hint at him to relax.
Mercifully, he does. “What’s left? You want to find the artists?”
“No. I want to find the art.”
My friend and new roommate seems to understand what I’m getting at. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”
I scoff. “Would you forgive me?”
“If I loved you as much as you love her, probably. Once I understood how it all went down.” He drops his arm, then spins around to lean on the glass overlooking the empty interrogation room. “You didn’t set out trying to deceive her. Talk to her and she’ll understand.”
I smile at the big oaf who has been letting me crash on his couch for over a week. “How ’bout we find that missing art first, hmm?”
“Give Conti’s sweaty hide one day in jail and he’ll be dishing his deepest secrets. We’ll find it.” He pushes off from the window and walks to the door, stopping a few feet shy. “But we’ve had a long day. Drinks are on me.”
Just as Sanders predicted, three days later, Conti gave up every last piece of art his crew was part of. As a bonus, to earn himself some favor and a cushy white-collar prison sentence, he even gave us a few names to look into in the three other cities Guillaume operated in. That’s beyond our scope, though. As far as we’re concerned, the Chicago case is closed.
Tactical teams raided the warehouses where Conti had the artwork stored in a synchronized bust yesterday. Now everything is secured in an FBI evidence locker until it can be processed, logged, then returned to its rightful owners.
Sanders and I have the privilege of touring the city to inform the galleries and museums that their art has been recovered and give them an estimated timeline for its return. The only decent thing Conti has done is confess to everything, so it will spare the taxpayers a long legal battle and ensure the return of the art a lot sooner.
We’ve been to five stops already, and now we’re pulling into the parking garage for Smith Goldstein & Co. Knowing that Georgia is supposed to have an exhibit here is making me nervous about going inside. She could be here. Or at the very least, her art might be.
My partner and I walk into the gallery, and I scan the room for anything that screams Georgia. I can’t see any of her art, but my eyes stop their survey of the space once they land on a copy of the press release announcing her exhibit one week from today. I read the official announcement twice before I’m interrupted by a clearing throat.
Sanders pulls my attention just as a familiar woman approaches.
“Hello, gentleman. How can I help you?”
“G’day, Sephora. Is Mrs. Robbins in?” Sanders asks.
Sephora gives Sanders a broad smile. “She’s stepped out, but she should be back in about ten minutes. Can I interest you in a tour while you wait? I know last time you were here, you didn’t get a chance to experience the artwork.”
Her phrasing experience the artwork reminds me of Georgia. It’s also an incentive to get a tour of the gallery to see if her work is already here.
“We’d love that. Thanks.”
She tours us through the various displays, which are sectioned off into curated exhibits. There is a variety of different work, but none of it appeals to me more than something nice to look at. It doesn’t evoke the same emotions as The Captive Slave or the few pieces of Georgia’s art I’ve seen.
“What do you think? Anything stand out to you?” Sephora asks, wrapping up our brief tour.
I’m not sure how to answer without being rude. Thankfully, Sanders goes off on a tangent about a sculpture we saw in the far corner, so he occupies his time speaking to Sephora about it.
That leaves me to stare at Georgia’s press release photo and read the information they’ve shared about her education, her talent, and her promising future. A future I likely have no place in.
“We’re very excited to be hosting Miss Dewan next week,” a voice says behind me.
I spin around to find Sandra Robbins removing her heavy winter coat. I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed, so I attempt to sidestep her comment. “Happy to hear your business hasn’t been too heavily impacted by recent events. That’s actually why we’re here.”
Sanders and Sephora walk over to join us, but neither of them speak.
“Oh, with good news, I hope.” Sandra’s face eases into a terse smile.
“Good news indeed. We’ve recovered your painting.” Again, I look over at Georgia’s photo, because I wish I could see her face when she finds out the artwork is all safe and being returned to where it belongs. That knowledge would make her smile, and for the hundredth time in the fourteen days since I’ve seen it, I realize how much I miss it. I miss seeing her in any way. Her ridiculous puns. Her goofy pajamas. Her non-stop rambling about sports and art.
“SA Prewitt?” Sanders’ voice cuts my thoughts short.
I look at Sandra and Sephora’s expectant faces, alight with excitement. “Right, sorry. We have a few pieces of paperwork for you to sign, if you don’t mind.”
“Absolutely. Come to my office.” Mrs. Robbins waves at me to follow her.
Sanders stays in place to speak with Sephora, but doesn’t neglect to give me a knowing look that tells me I need to keep my head on straight.
“Thank you for finding this piece, Agent Prewitt. You can’t imagine the embarrassment over the situation. I spent three days on the phone with artists—who are very protective of their work—assuring them their art was safe. I had two clients cancel upcoming exhibits. It has been such a mess, so I thank you for your diligence.” Sandra rounds her ornate stainless steel and glass desk, dropping into a chair that looks like it was designed for style, not comfort.
I want to tell her that it was really Georgia who set us on the right path that resulted in answers. She was the real hero in this. But I can’t admit that and risk exposing her as someone involved in the case. If word got out she was seen as a suspect, it could have catastrophic effects on her career. So I accept the praise I don’t deserve myself. “Just doing our job, ma’am.”
Sandra signs the paperwork that she’ll need to have the artwork returned once it’s processed, and slides it across her spotless desktop toward me. “Thanks again, Agent Prewitt. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay the favor, just say the word.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d never consider accepting that offer. But my predicament with Georgia isn’t normal circumstances. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”
Sanders and I return to the office after our tour of the city’s victimized galleries and find Lancaster smiling at my desk. It’s concerning.
“You know, I didn’t think you could do it, Prewitt. You’ve got real promise.”
Again, I don’t feel like that praise is mine to accept. At least with Lancaster, I can be honest. “It wasn’t my doing, ma’am. Miss Dewan was the one who set us in the right direction.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She was a suspect. If you hadn’t played her the way you did, she wouldn’t have given us anything.”
My stomach turns at the truth in that phrase. I did play her, and it makes me sick.
“I’d say your days in an undercover capacity are over, though. You’re being asked to hold a press conference tomorrow.”
“A press conference?”
“Don’t tell me you can take down a criminal enterprise, but you can’t understand a simple sentence, Prewitt. Yes, a press conference.” Lancaster stands from my chair, never breaking eye contact. “Tomorrow, 1p.m. in the media room. I expect you both to be there.” With no further discussion, she walks away.
I guess tomorrow afternoon is when the rest of my life starts.