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“Yes, I just checked it myself.”
“We believe it was the first step. Our lab techs are dusting the place for prints and fibers, but we don’t expect to find anything. This was a professional job…” Detective Benson pauses. “An inside job.”
“That’s my conclusion as well.” The two exchange a look, and I move to sit on the leather couch. “Please sit, detectives.”
Tank sits at one end and Benson at the other. She crosses her legs at her ankles, no doubt too overweight to cross them at the knees. Benson, on the other hand, sits back on the couch, one arm draped casually over the back of it.
Sipping my brandy, I put my best face on, smile, and say, “I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I was in shock. The art collection was put together over many years. Some were gifts from benefactors or students who’ve done well in their chosen paths. I was upset, but it’s no excuse for poor manners. Do you have any idea who would’ve done this, and how do you expect them to dispose of the stolen items? No reputable dealer will touch them, so where does that leave us?”
Benson looks at Tank, who shifts on the couch and folds her hands into her lap. “There’s been no chatter about a large-scale theft on any of the networks we know of. We’re thinking that whoever purchases the pieces will be private collectors who won’t care how they came to be available.”
“A black market for collectors?” I ask.
“Yes, but usually we hear about certain pieces being available. With your collection, there’s been nothing, which leads us to think they either haven’t offloaded the art yet or buyers were lined up ready to go or it’s insurance fraud.” Tank’s voice hardens, and her eyes squint at me.
I laugh. “Detective Tank, I’m a very wealthy man. This university is my legacy. I’ll not stain it by stealing my own art and doing something as distasteful as insurance fraud for a few pennies.”
“Some of those pieces were worth millions,” replies Tank.
“Like I said, a few pennies.”
Her mouth drops slightly open. It’s true the collection is worth a lot of money, but it’s not the money that I need, it’s the art.
“Because of the amount stolen and the cost of some of the individual pieces, we’ve contacted the FBI to look into the case,” Benson says.
“Ahh, good, it’s nice that theprofessionalsare involved.”
Tank’s mouth drops open further. She recovers quickly, snapping her mouth shut, and stands. “Don’t leave town,Mr. Stonewall.”
“I have no intention of doing so,detective.”
Tank nods at me, and she and Benson leave my office.
I walk over to my desk and hit the intercom to Ms. Brown.
“Yes, Mr. Stonewall?”
“The detectives are on their way down. Ask for their business cards and escort them out of the building.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s unbelievable that those buffoons would think I’m responsible for stealing my own artwork. Opening a drawer on my desk, I pull out a book filled with names of people to call when situations like this arise.
There are politicians, mercenaries, and people from all walks of life. I flip through the pages, staring at the individual names, and eventually come to Bernardo Valli. He’s a private investigator with a hand on the pulse of New York’s seedy underworld. If someone tries to sell my art to anyone, he’ll know about it.
Jonathan Stonewall
Valli found nothing. My art has seemingly disappeared into thin air along with Simon Bartlett. His family hasn’t seen him, nor have his friends or anyone at his dorm. By all accounts, he left my office and disappeared. If I didn’t have proof that Jamison Felder was dead sitting in my vault, I’d think he was behind everything. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as this thought crosses my mind. But I know there’s no way it was him. There’s the footage and all the blood at the warehouse. My people believe there’s no way anyone could’ve survived that kind of blood loss.Felder is dead.
The buzzer on my intercom goes off, and I hit the button.
“Mr. Stonewall, there’s a Special Agent Flint Armstrong here to see you.”
“Send him up.”
This is no flat foot from the local police, so I stand and open the door to my office. After several minutes, Agent Armstrong raps on my door. I’m standing, looking over the campus. Turning, I smile and stride toward him, hand extended.
“Special Agent Armstrong, I’m so glad you’re here.”
