Miles touched his earpiece."Vic, anything on your end?"
"Negative," Vic's voice came back."I've got eyes on maybe a dozen servers in the American wing.None of them match Hartley's description...nothing out of sorts from what I can see."
"Same here.Linhart, what are you seeing?"
"Lots of movement, lots of people," Linhart said."Nothing standing out yet.I'm cycling through the cameras, watching for anyone who lingers too long or pays unusual attention to specific guests.Might want to keep an eye out for servers with empty trays, too."
Miles moved back toward the Great Hall.A different server approached with a tray of canapés, offering them to a group of women wearing enough diamonds to fund a small country.The server was thin and nervous-looking, with acne scars on his cheeks.He kept his eyes down and barely spoke.Shy, maybe, or just uncomfortable around wealth.Not Hartley.
The minutes ticked by.Miles worked his way through the crowd, studying faces, watching body language, looking for anything out of place.He did his best to scrutinize every server, every security guard, every guest who stood alone for too long.His feet were starting to hurt in the rental shoes, and the bow tie was getting tighter somehow.He checked his watch.They had been at this for over an hour now, though it felt like much longer.The gala was in full swing, guests mingling and laughing, completely unaware that federal agents were moving among them searching for a killer.Miles was beginning to doubt his certainty from earlier.Maybe Hartley wasn't planning to strike here at all.Maybe this had been the wrong call and they were wasting precious time while the killer could be elsewhere moments away from taking another life.
He spotted Vic across the Great Hall near the entrance to the American wing.She caught his eye and gave a small shake of her head.Nothing.Miles felt the frustration building in his chest.They were running out of time, running out of options.
But then Linhart’s voice spoke up in his ear and all of that changed.
"Agent Sterling, Agent Stone," Linhart's voice suddenly cut through the earpiece, sharper than before."I might have something."
Miles stopped moving, his hand instinctively going to his earpiece."Talk to me."
"There’s something going on in the European paintings wing, east corridor.There's a server who's been moving through that area for the past ten minutes.His body language is off and he’s just sort of making loops and not interacting with anyone.He's carrying a tray but he's not offering anything to guests.Just walking, watching, studying the room."
"Can we get a description?"Vic asked.Miles could see her already moving, cutting through the crowd toward the European paintings wing.
"White jacket, black bow tie, standard uniform.I can't get a good angle on his face from the cameras.But the way he's moving doesn't match his supposed role.He stops, looks around, then moves again in the same circuit.”
“He’s looking for someone,” Miles said.He was moving too now, weaving between guests who chatted and laughed, oblivious to everything.
"Could be nothing," Linhart said."But it's worth checking out for sure."
Miles pushed through the crowd, his pulse quickening.After an hour of nothing, this was the first real lead.He navigated around a group of older men discussing art investments and nearly collided with a server carrying champagne.The European paintings wing was on the opposite side of the Great Hall, past the main staircase.
Vic was ahead of him, already disappearing into the corridor that led to the wing.Miles followed, his rental shoes clicking against the polished marble floor as he hurried to catch up.All around them, the gala continued on, every single person oblivious to the potential danger that might be unfolding in their midst.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Miles stepped into the European paintings wing and immediately scanned the space.The corridor stretched ahead of him, lined with gilt-framed masterpieces.Guests wandered past Rembrandts and Vermeers, their attention split between the art and their conversations.The lighting here was subdued, designed to protect the centuries-old pigments from damage.It cast long shadows that made it harder to distinguish faces in the crowd.
A server passed Miles carrying a tray of empty champagne flutes.Not Hartley.Too tall, wrong build entirely.Another moved through a cluster of guests near a Vermeer, offering canapés from a silver platter.Also, not their suspect.Miles kept moving, his eyes tracking every white jacket, every person who didn't quite fit the rhythm of the gala.
The wing was less crowded than the Great Hall but still had maybe forty or fifty people scattered through its various galleries.Some stood admiring the paintings, others had claimed the few benches positioned for optimal viewing.The murmur of cultured conversation mixed with the distant sound of the string quartet still playing somewhere in the building.
"Linhart, where is he?"Miles said quietly, touching his earpiece.
There was a pause.Miles could hear the detective typing on her laptop."I lost him.He moved into a section where the camera angles overlap.Hold on, I'm checking the other feeds."
Miles felt his stomach tighten.They couldn't lose him now.Not when they were this close.He moved deeper into the wing, his eyes tracking every server in a white jacket.There had to be at least five of them visible from where he stood, all moving through the crowd with their trays.
"Vic, how about you?Do you have anything?"Miles asked.
"Negative," Vic's voice came back through the earpiece."I'm at the south entrance.I can see maybe seven servers from here, none of them acting suspicious."
Miles walked past a Caravaggio, barely registering the dark drama of the painting.A server approached him with a tray of champagne flutes, and Miles waved him off without making eye contact.The server was too young, too short.Not Hartley.
"Come on, Linhart," Miles muttered under his breath."Where did he go?"
"Still looking," Linhart said.Miles could hear the frustration in her voice."The camera coverage in this wing has more blind spots than I thought.He could be in any of three different galleries right now."
Miles turned a corner into a smaller gallery.The walls here were deep burgundy, the paintings smaller and older.Renaissance pieces, mostly.A couple stood admiring a Madonna and child, their backs to Miles.A single server was visible at the far end of the room, refilling wine glasses at a small table.
