last spoke to Georgia, and I’m lost in a sea of confusion. Sanders is now my full-time partner, rather than just a floating backup for whoever needed him, but I can’t talk to him about all the elements of this case. Sure, I can discuss the things I’ve written in my reports and analyze evidence, but if I confessed anything else, I’d have to excuse myself. And I’d likely end up on probation.
I’m less concerned about what that means for my career at this point and more worried about what that would mean for Georgia if another agent follows the same trail I did.
This latest heist at Smith Goldstein & Co. resulted in one of their mainstays being stolen. This time, it wasn’t even replaced with a forgery. That’s how the story broke so quickly. With the other thefts, we’ve managed to keep things quiet and out of the news.
The security service the gallery employs has two guards on a rotating schedule between three other neighboring businesses. One guard on duty ate some bad seafood and spent half of his shift in the bathroom at the art gallery. When I initially interviewed him, he said—and I quote—“I thought I was going to melt the paint off of every piece of art in the place.” Charming fellow. While he was in the midst of his extreme intestinal distress, the thieves broke into the gallery. At first, the guard, Casper, thought it was his co-worker, so after a few minutes he shouted out to him to ask for some Pepto-Bismol. Luckily for Casper, he had locked the bathroom door, which we assume the criminals didn’t want to waste time on, so they cut and run. Literally cutting the painting from the frame and took off before the man could call for backup.
What was even weirder, though, is how Georgia received notification of the theft before I did. She also seemed bothered by the situation. Whether that’s because of her love for art or because she knew what they were aiming for and fell short, I can’t be sure. I want to be confident that she’s not involved, but these seeds of doubt keep planting themselves, and now they’ve taken over more than my houseplants.
“The curator at the gallery called. They confirmed that they only lost the one painting, but we should go back down there and call the appraiser to be sure.” Sanders drops into a vacant chair beside my desk and wheels it closer. “Any luck on your end?”
“Not really. The guard has recovered from his bout of food poisoning, so I’m going to talk to him again shortly. And I hope I can connect with my CI to see if he has any new leads.”
“Need me to come with?”
I smile at my eager partner, grateful to have him on my team—even if I am keeping things from him. Seems that’s a reality with a few people in my life. “Nah, I’m good, thanks. My CI is skittish.”
“Understood. I’ll keep rolling through the rest of the footage we didn’t send to the AV lab and let you know if I come up with anything useful.” With that, he stands and walks back to his cubicle thirty feet away.
The second I get a response from Casper that he’s available to talk, I inform Sanders I’m leaving, grab my coat, and head to a cafe near the gallery.
Casper is waiting in a booth, looking every bit the friendly ghost his name implies. He’s pale and looks like he’s just come back to life. He waves me over like we’re long-lost friends.
“Mr. Gibson, thanks for meeting me,” I state, dropping into the booth opposite him.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever I can do to help. I feel awful about the whole thing.”
It’s funny, because his near interaction with the thieves is the closest anyone has come to them for months. If only he wasn’t confined to the toilet at the time.
“These things happen. Now it’s just my job to make sure it doesn’t happen again. What can you tell me about your regular routine?”
“We rotate through the gallery, the plastic surgeon’s office, and two realtor offices opposite each other. No place is left unchecked for more than ten minutes. But we alternate checking inside and outside with each pass. I had just come out of the doctor’s office and was making my way to the gallery to restart my loop when… well, you know.” He grimaces, fiddling with a crumpled up paper napkin.
“Unfortunately, yes. So you went into the gallery. Did anything appear off when you entered?” I know I’ve already asked this, but sometimes witnesses recall new information after a few days. Especially since our initial interview took place with Casper on the other side of a bathroom stall and me struggling to talk without breathing.
“Now that I think of it, I didn’t have to shut off the alarm.”
Interesting.
“What time was this at?”
He tenses his face as if thinking is really uncomfortable for him. “I guess around midnight? My shift started at ten and I had done three loops. About 10 minutes at each stop. Forty minutes per loop. Two hours total.”
“That’s helpful; thank you.”
He smiles and releases the napkin, letting it drop on the ignored menu. A server comes over to ask us for our orders. I request a coffee, but Casper understandably asks for ginger ale.
“So you didn’t turn off the alarm. Did you unlock the door?”
“That’s the weird thing. You saw the bars on the doors and windows. Those were all locked. How did these guys get in?”
“How do you think? Any vulnerable spots that would give easier access?”
Casper’s thinking face returns for long enough, our server brings our drinks. “No. That place is sealed up tight.”
I force my posture to stay rigid so I don’t let on how disappointing that is. We talk for a few more minutes, downing our drinks, and discussing the finer points of Casper’s job. By the end of our conversation, I’ve got no more helpful information.
Still, I thank him for his time, pay for our drinks, and walk toward the door. Before I exit the building, I get a text.
Sanders: Techs found video of black BMW in parking garage nearby. No plates. Going to comb footage and hope we can find it again.
Of course they’d choose the most common, generic car in the downtown area. Every banker, realtor, and doctor has a black BMW of some sort. Still, it’s a better lead than I generated from my chat with Casper.
Prewitt: Good work. Going to meet CI now. Casper didn’t have much to add.
I feel defeated as I drive south on La Salle, toward where I’m supposed to meet Bobby. This case doesn’t seem to be coming together. At all. I’m not sure if it’s the sophistication of the criminals, my ineptitude, or my distraction. I want answers. But now, not to prove myself to my superiors and launch myself into a promotion. I want them so I can confess to Georgia who I am. So I can clear her name.
Hopefully, the answers I find ensure that happens.
As per usual, I park and watch the entrance to the alleyway where I’m supposed to meet Bobby for thirty minutes before he appears. He’s wearing a new designer coat and a shiny watch peeking from his sleeve. I have my doubts he’s obtained either from a regular nine-to-five.
I step out of my SUV and stroll past the alley opening in one last scan of the area. The fact my three-hundred pound neighbor snuck up on me last week has made me extra paranoid.
“Bobby.”
The smarmy swindler raises his hands and steps forward. “Prewitt.”
“I need answers, Bobby. You’ve been giving me nothing for months, and I’m fed up.”
“Ha! Good one. Fed up.” Bobby smirks, and I can’t help but think that’s the kind of thing Georgia would laugh at too.
My glare in response rids Bobby of any hint of a smile.
“Tough crowd. I’ve been giving you all I’ve got. People don’t trust me with their secrets.”
Gee, I wonder why. “No kidding. You’re such an upstanding citizen. I can’t imagine why they’d hesitate.”
“See, now you’re just being hurtful for no reason. I’ve put my neck on the line and done what you asked.”
I almost feel sorry for the guy for a second. But everything he’s given me has been useless or something I already knew because it was after the fact. The one promising lead he gave me hasn’t resulted in anything but a stress-induced ulcer and pain in my chest.
“What have you learned since we last spoke?”
He rolls his eyes and huffs a breath that consumes his face in a fog. “There’s chatter about paintings being shipped out. Whoever has them won’t sell them in the city, so they need the resources to transport them. Not just any old shipping container will do. They need proper temperature and humidity controls. So look into people who have access to that sort of thing.”
“Any names? Someone you’d suggest?”
“Prewitt, I’m your informant. I inform you of what I know. It’s not my job to do yours.”
I’m starting to feel like Bobby is more trouble than he’s worth. If I’m not getting a new name, I might as well ask about an old one. “How did Georgia Dewan’s name come up?”
“Come on, man.” Bobby tucks his hands in the pockets of his bright blue Burberry coat. “We’ve been over this. Some of my contacts said she was the most talented artist in the city who didn’t have any gallery exhibits. Plus, she’s versatile… and easy on the eyes, if you catch my drift.”
I lurch forward, losing all control for a split second. For Bobby’s sake, he’s lucky I find it quickly.
“Ahh, so that’s what this is about. Got a thing for a con, Archie?” His amused expression returns, and this time, I have a distinct urge to strangle it off. “Don’t let a pretty face fool you. Look at me. No one ever suspects the pretty ones.” His infuriating smirk grows into a wide grin, testing my resolve.
I turn to walk away before I leave myself any more exposed. If Bobby knows how I feel about Georgia, there’s no stopping him from exploiting that—which he will if it benefits him.
“You have three days to find me some answers, Bobby,” I holler back at him from the mouth of the alley. “Something concrete. Your current deal only covers previous crimes, so don’t think for one second I won’t find something else to use against you.”
He doesn’t reply as I merge into the foot traffic along the sidewalk and walk away. Still without any answers to most of the questions consuming my life.
But I have settled one. It’s time for me to come clean.