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A knock at my office door draws my attention. “Come.”
The head of campus security enters. He’s an older man and was once employed by the government.
“Simmons, what can I do for you?”
The man shuffles from foot to foot, an uneasy smile on his face. “Mr. Stonewall, sir, we’ve had a break-in.”
“Where?”
“Student accommodation.”
Frowning, I walk behind my desk and lean against it. I don’t offer him a seat. Simmons moves to stand in front of me.
“Which dormitory?”
He sucks in a breath, and his eyes stray to the floor. “The Prime penthouse.”
I stand so quickly that my chair falls over. “What?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was taken?”
“Everything.”
The Prime penthouse was filled with priceless works of art. One piece alone sold for one hundred and thirty million dollars and was graciously donated to us. The penthouse has state-of-the-art security systems put in by the very best in the business. To steal any, let alone all the pieces in there, it’s inconceivable.
“Not possible.”
Simmons’ eyes come to mine. “I’m sorry, sir, but they’re all gone.”
“The security system?”
“Deactivated.”
“Not possible. It’s on its own power supply and Wi-Fi. It’s impenetrable.”
“Apparently not.”
Standing straight, I glare at the man. “You will take me there at once.”
The walls of the penthouse are painted a crisp white to show off the works of art that once hung on its walls. Every painting, sculpture, and drawing are gone. My beautiful collection of priceless works has been stolen.
Inside the penthouse are six of the university’s security guards, all not knowing where to look or how to act. The shock is written all over their faces, and so it should be because thishasto be an inside job. One of them must be involved.
“Mr. Stonewall?” I turn, and Simmons is looking at me with a pained expression. “The police are here.”
I say nothing, only nod, then turn to stare at the blank space on the wall where one of Kooning’s works once hung. It wasWoman III. She was one of my favorite artworks. Sometimes, I’d come to just stare at her.
Someone clears their throat, and I turn around to find two police officers in black trench coats. Both of them are looking at me expectantly, badges clipped to the waistband of their trousers.
“Mr. Stonewall?”
“Yes.” To be polite, I hold out my hand.
“I’m Detective Benson, and this is Detective Tank, New York Police.”
“Thank you for coming.”
