She splutters and crosses her arms over her chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The one with the bridge scene?”
Her left eye twitches with barely concealed greed, but she keeps her mouth shut.
I delve deeper. “I believe I heard Mr. Hartwell raving about such an acquisition recently.”
“Iwas the one who told them about it,” she snaps. “He doesn’t care for art. He just wanted to screw someone over, and I guess it was my turn.” She reaches for the file, but I slip it behind my back.
“And you care for it? Which is why you were buying it off the black market?”
“It’s the art world; that’s how you get all the good pieces,” she says so flippantly it surprises me. She’s no newbie when it comes to the art underworld. She’s just like the rest of them—callously screwing anyone who dares stand in her way for her own corrupt gain.
“Then why would you tell Mr. Hartwell about it?” I ask.
Her throat bobs, but she holds her chin high, refusing to look pitiable as she adjusts her brooch. “I was recently scammed by a man who looked like a Greek god, and therefore needed a small loan while my other accounts are frozen.”
“And did Mr. Hartwell give you the loan?”
“Yes. Only to bid against me until it was just out of my limit. That rat.” Her jowls shake as she spits the insult. “I’ll show him what his money can buy.”
She hired the other thief. I wouldn’t put it past her to hire more. I need to put an end to this.
“As you can see, the painting is not here. It has been removed.”
“Removed?” she shrieks. “It must be cared for.”
On that, I can agree.
“Where has it gone?”
“Even if I knew,I wouldn’t tell you.” I take her by the arm, and gently—mostlygently—maneuver her out of the room and toward the front door.
“But I must have it. I will stop at nothing!” She pulls against me, ready to run back to the office. Does she really think she can make it past me? I used to think myself invincible and intimidating. But I’m starting to get a serious complex.
“Like sending your partner in to abduct a little girl?” I clench my jaw.
“He wasn’t going to take her. It was just a distr—” Her eyes go wide as she realizes what she’s admitted. “What have you done with my grandson?”
Grandson. That makes more sense. He wasn’t a professional by any means.
“The police should have him in custody shortly. You can visit him in prison.” I stop at the door and pull it open. “It is in your best interest to forget that painting. Or you will be the next one arrested for breaking and entering.”
She splutters again, and this time spit lands on my hand. “I was let in!”
“The door was left open. You were not invited, and I don’t think the Hartwells will see it like that.” As it stands, I’ll be giving her name to a friend in the FBI to see if Mrs. Morrison has been involved in any other art crimes.
“This isn’t over!” She stomps her foot down on top of mine.
I try not to cringe, but her short-heeled boots may have broken a few toes.
This place is utter insanity.
“Yes, it is.” I grab her arm, more forcefully this time, dragging her into the hall. I give her a gentle shove and slam the door. I turn the two deadbolts, ensuring it’s adequately shut.
I drop my head to the wood. “I need to find that painting and leave.”
“I heard that.”
