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“Ahh, Mr. Stonewall, your head of security, Mr. Simmons, has given us a list of the stolen pieces. Sir, would you mind explaining why you’d keep such precious works all in one place?” asks Detective Tank.
“This facility has some of thebestsecurity money can buy, so whywouldn’tI want to keep it here?”
Detective Tank is in her fifties, short with one of those pixie hairstyles which makes her appear hard and masculine. She’s carrying too much weight around her middle, and her top button is straining against her ample bosom. At best, she looks like an overworked city employee whose prime passed her long ago.
With a disgusted snort, I shake my head at her. The detective smiles and peers at her counterpart, a silent communication passing between them.
Detective Benson clears his throat. He’s probably twenty years younger than Tank, dresses slightly better, but has that same dull look in his eyes.
“Mr. Stonewall, clearly your facilitydoesn’thave the best security.” He sweeps an arm around the room. “It’s all gone.” I say nothing, merely giving him a look of disdain. “Was it all insured?”
Barking out a laugh, and say, “Of course, it was all insured!”
“That’s a hefty payday,” chimes in Detective Tank.
“It’s not about the money,” I thunder. “These were priceless to me. You clearly don’t understand how art speaks to the soul.”
“Or how the insurance money will help heal that rift.”
“I beg—”
“We’ll need access to your security cameras, and we’ll want to talk to everyone who’s been in here in the past twelve months. Whether it’s students, faculty, security guards, or cleaners…everyone,” says Tank, looking at me with distaste.
“Simmons, see that the detectives get everything they need. I’ll be in my office.”
Without another word, I walk out of the Prime building and head toward my office across campus. It’s called the Prime building as it is, or should I say nowwas, the most important building on site. I often stayed there, and the occasional student also had the privilege of gracing its interior. The Prime penthouse and its contentswerea source of joy for me.
Many students offer greetings when they see me. It’s a rare day when I walk by myself on university grounds. Upon stepping into the main building, Ms. Brown takes one look at my face and immediately glances back down at her laptop.
“I’m not to be disturbed,” I say to her in a clipped tone as I stride toward the elevator.
Upon entering my office, I immediately go to the security footage of the Prime penthouse. Sitting at my desk, I go over the footage. It’s on a loop, every piece of art is in its place. Even now, if I flick to the live feed, I can still see it all.
The last time someone was physically in the apartment was two weeks ago. It was the cleaner. I watch as she dusts, vacuums, and polishes her way around the apartment. No one has stayed there for over three months, so there’s really not much for her to do. For forty minutes she cleans, then I watch as she makes her way out of the building. The camera catches her talking to a man outside. They exchange a few words, and he’s gone—it takes less than a minute. Nothing appears out of the ordinary.
Knowing how my security system was installed, I’m flummoxed how someone could beat it. Some of the best art thieves in the world were asked to try to outwit it, and all of them failed. A knock sounds on my office door, so I drag my eyes away from the screen.
“Come.”
Ms. Brown pokes her head through the door. Her long blonde hair swept over one shoulder moves as she declares, “Mr. Stonewall, the police are here, downstairs, and are asking to speak with you.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t buzz me?”
“I told them the system wasn’t working, and I’d need to check to see if you were in. I thought, sir, that you might not want to talk with them?”
“I’m going to have to deal with them sooner rather than later. Thank you for your consideration. Please send them up and leave my door open.”
Ms. Brown has been with me for a short time. She replaced Ms. White, who’d been with me for years but who also knew far too many of my secrets. The official story was Ms. White retired. Well, she did, permanently.
Closing my laptop, I walk around my desk and over to the bar in the room’s corner. I have a selection of alcohol to choose from, but my nerves are on edge, so I pour myself a brandy. When I turn around, the detectives are watching me.
“Care for one, detectives?”
“No, we’re on the job,” replies Tank.
“Of course. How can I help you?”
“No doubt you have seen the security footage has been tampered with?”
