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With a firm shake of my hand, he looks me in the eye. “Dean Stonewall, good to meet you.”
“Please tell me about the progress of your investigation.”
He follows me over to the couches, and we both sit.
“It’s not good, I’m afraid. Whoever stole your art knew what they were doing. We’ve gone over the footage numerous times.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out several black and white photographs. “Do any of these people look familiar?”
As he hands me the pictures, I notice he has tattoos peeking out from under his long-sleeve shirt at the cuff.
“I didn’t realize the FBI approved of tattoos?”
Agent Armstrong frowns and pulls his shirt down, covering them. “I was undercover for years with an MC.”
“MC?”
“Motorcycle Club. I’m slowly having them lasered off, but it’s a long, slow process.”
“A man committed to his job. Thank you for your service.”
Armstrong waves a hand in the air dismissively, then points at the photographs. “It was a lifetime ago. Does anyone look familiar?”
Staring down at the images, I dutifully look at each one. There are six in total. No one looks familiar until I get to the last one. It’s Jamison Felder.
“Do you know this man?”
Turning my lips down at the corners, I shake my head. “No.”
He eyes me for a moment, then nods. “Would you mind if I showed these around campus to various faculty, security, etcetera to see if anyone recognizes anyone?”
“No, of course not.”
“And Dean Stonewall, I know you’ve supplied all relevant documentation to your insurance company, but do you have the certificates of authentication for the artwork?”
“Of course, they’re in my vault.”
“Could I please take copies of them?”
Standing, I walk behind my desk to the fake bookcase, pull out a book, and the wall moves, revealing a large metal door. Using my left eye, I stare into the optical input device attached to the security system, and it scans my retina, then I place my security card across the scanner and punch in an eight-digit code. Finally, the door clicks, and I enter. Walking inside I place my thumb on the reader to the left of the door to let the security company know it’s me. Turning around, Agent Armstrong has followed me inside.
The walls are lined with filing cabinets and shelves. In the middle of the room is a wooden table.
Agent Flint whistles. “This is some setup. Why didn’t you store your art in here?”
“Art should be displayed. It should never be closed off in a small room where no one but me can enjoy it.”
My walk-in vault isn’t small. It’s approximately twenty feet by twenty feet with reinforced steel walls and twelve inches of concrete.
“Well, when we catch the thief, perhaps you might reconsider?”
“Do you think you’ll get him?”
“Or her,” he replies and nods. “I know we will.”
Agent Flint places his briefcase on the table and looks at me. I smile and use a key to open one of the filing cabinets and pull out the file containing all the documents.
Passing them to him, he asks, “Where can I get copies made?”
“These are copies. I have several ready for circumstances just like this.”
