Inside, the scene is even more chaotic. There are at least a dozen more cops in here, speaking into walkie talkies, standing around looking official. There’s even a German Shepherd cop dog sniffing around.
What the hell happened?
I see Chelsea rush by, a panicked look on her face. “Hey!” I catch her arm. “What’s going on?”
“You didn’t hear?” She blinks. “There was a robbery, Saturday night, they think.”
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “What was stolen?”
“The Judgment of Paris,” she says as two cops pass us, carrying boxes of files.
“But what about security?” I ask, confused. “This place is like Fort Knox.”
“I know, right?” Chelsea leans in, whispering, “There’s no sign of forced entry, nothing suspicious on the tapes. It’s a total mystery.”
“The police must know something.”
“They have no idea what happened,” she says, looking around. “Everybody’s being interviewed, they were quizzing me for like, an hour.” She suddenly seems to realize who she’s talking to. “But they probably won’t bother with janitorial staff,” she adds with a smug smile. “It’s not like you’d know anything.”
We’re interrupted by Stanford, looking stressed.
“Chelsea,” he says. “Get back upstairs, now. Those papers need to be dealt with. And Grace, there is still filing to be done.”
“But…” I gesture at the police presence. Everyone is whispering, but the voices and footsteps echo through the big rooms and columned lobby. “Are you going to just pretend all these guys aren’t here investigating?”
“We are going to work as long as we can,” he says, shaking his head at me. “Now, get!”
I head downstairs. The basement is crawling with cops, too, and I have to squeeze through four different uniforms and show each of them my badge to get to the giant filing room. To my surprise, Lydia is here, directing the traffic flow of file boxes being carried in and out by policemen and Carringer’s employees. I’m about to ask if she needs help when a tall, rugged-looking man walks in. He’s wearing dark jeans and a crisp shirt, and although he looks casual, he’s clearly in charge. “Nick Lennox,” he says to Lydia, flashing some kind of badge. “Interpol, special projects.”
She doesn’t hide her impatience. “How can I help you?”
He clears his throat and plants his feet wider on the floor. “I need all your security footage from the last month as well as blueprints for the buildings. Plus a list of all employees and delivery drivers, and anyone else who had contact with this building in the last thirty days.”
Lydia looks stricken, and under better circumstances, I might enjoy her squirming. “Is that all necessary?” she asks. “I, uh, well, we’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.”
“Your company’s reputation isn’t my concern.” He stares her down. “The only thing I care about is finding that painting. Are we going to have a problem here? Because if I need to call your boss…”
I brace for Lydia’s rampage, but instead she backs off. “No, that’s fine. I’ll do whatever is necessary to help the investigation.”
“Good. You can start by providing a client list of who bid on the painting at the auction. Who had the winning bid, in the end?” Lennox asks.
“That would be Charles St. Clair.”
Lennox quirks an eyebrow. “Interesting. I’ll need to speak with him.”
“You, and our insurance agents too.” Lydia looks pale. “The deed transfer hasn’t gone through. We’ll take the full hit for the value of the painting.”
“Like I said, not my problem.” Lennox shrugs. “Let me know when you have the information I need.”
He turns and catches me watching them, so I quickly slink away back to work. I find a corner to avoid everyone’s frayed nerves and get into the groove of filing again until Stanford finds me amid the dust motes. “Where have you been!?” he demands.
“Where you told me to be,” I say. “I live to serve you.”
“Save the humor for a day when we don’t all face total ruin.” Stanford sighs. “Come on, it’s your turn to face the inquisition.”
He leads me upstairs to Lydia’s office. I notice three cop dogs sniffing around the lobby and hallways now. People are still on edge, jumpy, and when I enter the office, I find the agent from the basement looking comfortable behind Lydia’s desk.
“Umm, hi. They said you wanted to speak with me?” I hover, uncertain. I don’t know what I can offer to help with the investigation.
“Thanks, take a seat.” Lennox flips his little leather notebook open and skims a few pages. “I’m the lead agent on these cases, so I just have a few questions.”
Cases? As in more than this one? “Have there been other robberies?” I ask, sitting across from him.
He looks up, eyebrows raised. “That’s confidential for now.”
“Sorry.” I flush.
He smiles suddenly, and I realize he looks way more handsome when he’s not scowling. “There’s nothing you need to worry about. Now Miss…” he glances at his notebook, “Bennett. Some routine questions. How long have you been employed by Carringer’s?”
“I just started last week, so I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”
He looks at his notes again and seems to get focused. “I heard that you were the one who bid on the stolen painting?”
“Yes,” I answer, suddenly a bit anxious. “Mr. St. Clair had to take a call and asked me to bid in his place.”
“Were there other high bidders who seemed upset to lose?”
“Just one. This guy Andrew Tate. He seemed angry, but more about losing,” I say, remembering his sexist jokes. “Maybe about losing to a woman. But he didn’t actually care about the painting.”
Lennox jots a few things down. “Did you have access to the storage area?”
“No.”
“You were seen down there on Friday before the auction.”
“Oh, that!” Crap. God, interrogations are definitely harder than they look on TV. Who remembers every detail of their days? “I was sent back there to get chairs.” I shrug. “I’m the help. I do what I’m told.”
“Did you see anyone else back there?” he asks.
“Just Lydia and Stanford, a few photographers and clients…” My hands start to sweat. Now I’m really nervous. “What do you think happened? Do you think it was an inside job?”
Lennox leans back. “It’s too soon to tell, and I’m not at liberty to share details, but it looks like it could be linked to other high-end art heists we’ve encountered in Europe.”
So there have been other robberies. I doubt he’d tell me what was stolen so I don’t bother to ask. “Well, good luck,” I offer. “I wish I knew more.” The thought of all that stolen art makes my stomach clench.
Lennox nods, going over his notes with a frown. He glances up as I stand. “If you think of anything else, remember any details…” He pulls a card out of his jacket pocket. “Call me anytime.”
“I really hope you find this painting,” I tell him, taking the card. “It’s too beautiful to be hidden away in some thief’s lair.”
He smiles. “We’ll find it, Miss Bennett,” he says. “No matter what it takes. You can count on it.”
Outside, Stanford tells me that the auction house is closing for the day and we can all go home. The lobby still looks like a crime scene—I mean, I guess it technically is a crime scene—so I try to go unnoticed through the hubbub. Then I see St. Clair, standing with some older men by the doors.
I pause, hanging back out of sight. Suddenly I’m nervous, my stomach turning a slow flip. My cheeks burn as I think about our kiss, but I’m not sure if I should go over to him and his friends. God, it’s like I’m in high school. Is it awkward to go say hi?
“Grace!”
I look up. St. Clair has seen me, and is waving me over.
“Hi,” I say as I get closer, wondering how to greet him—a hug, kiss, handshake? I settle for a smile. “I’m so sorry about the painting. It’s such a shame.”