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From my position, I can clearly see inside the gallery through the long windows that flank the entrance. It’s exactly what I’d expect an art gallery to look like—a large, open industrial space with a high ceiling that exposes beams and duct work, the supporting walls made of red brick and wood flooring.
However, there are several narrow walls at various angles on which art is displayed that block part of the view to the back.
Was he shot here before he somehow made his way to the Hudson? Was he chased and forced into the water?
My gaze follows an invisible trail from the building to the river, mapping all possible routes.
When I feel enough of a crowd has gathered inside that I can easily walk around unnoticed, I head toward the entrance. The security guard, who’s dressed as well as the patrons, greets me, moving aside to allow me in.
A man in black slacks and a white button-up shirt lifts a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. “Drink, sir?”
“Thank you,” I say, taking one. But I don’t intend to drink that bubbly shit.
It’s all in the name of fitting in, as are my black suit with black button-up and tie and my slicked-back hair.
I stand beside a group that’s admiring the first painting I pass. They tilt their heads this way and that in an effort to decipher what the colors mean to them.
Smirking inwardly, I walk on. When I told Maxton that art isn’t my thing, I meant it. Nothing but fucking swirls and dots on a white background and they call it emotional and intriguing and pay thousands of dollars for a thing a child could have painted better.Icould have painted it better.
Moving to the next display of splattered paint, I pretend to study it, but what I’m really doing is scanning the room for cameras. I’m able to spot them without much effort, something probably done on purpose to deter any theft.
I’d be surprised if there weren’t other security measures taken, especially with the high price tags on the paintings kept here. Jackson Shaw must be a smart man to run a successful business where the hoity-toity like to pretend to have depth. Surely he’d use more than closed-circuit video.
The S Gallery, if well-secured, would have not only have an armed guard, but also twenty-four-hour surveillance with their feed recorded and stored somewhere. Perhaps even equipped with facial recognition.
Without taking my eyes off the room, I angle my face downward slightly, a force of habit, even though I know every trace of my features on law enforcement records has been erased.
Ahead of me is the guard I predicted would be here. Though he is armed, he’s preoccupied with the appetizer currently being presented to him.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?”
I turn my head slowly toward a tall blonde woman who’s appeared beside me. She peers at me through lashes that are too long to be natural as she licks the rim of her champagne glass.
She smiles and nods to the canvas we’re standing in front of. “I just bought it.”
Returning her smile, I say, “It suits you.”
Sighing, she straightens her spine, pushing out her chest to display her cleavage further. “Maybe you can help me figure out where I should hang it.” She bites her lower lip, then adds, “I don’t live far.”
Though she’s a beautiful woman any man would be lucky to fuck, with full breasts and a small waist the slinky white dress she’s wearing does little to hide, I don’t fuck when I work. Complicates shit.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say. “Though it pains me, I must decline.”
Undeterred, she pulls a business card from a tiny bag hanging from her forearm. “If you change your mind.”
I read it as she leaves. Kelly Durono. Interior Designer.
Durono. That sounds familiar. There’s an Ed Durono who owns a casino in Atlantic City. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were his wife. Fits the bill perfectly. Blonde, big boobs. Smells of too much money, too much booze, and too much time on her hands.
Tossing the card onto the tray of the first server who passes me, I get back to the task at hand. I stop at the back wall, within a visual of a stairwell. I narrow my eyes and wonder if it leads to the offices and how I can slip upstairs unnoticed.
“What do you see?”
I cringe at the sound of another woman standing beside me. For a moment, I believe she’s asking about the stairs I was contemplating ascending, then I remember where I am.
Turning to the painting in front of me, I play along, pretending to derive some sort of emotion from the piece.
“I’m reminded of…” I cross my arms and stare harder, tilting my head in the same manner others have been doing. “It’s just so vividly raw. Like an open wound.”
