Chapter 5
The police are coming over. Tessa sits at our dining table, twirling her pen. Our doorbell rings.
“Should I act as your lawyer?” she asks.
“I think that will just look suspicious.” I buzz the officer in. “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t steal my painting.”
“That’s what people think, and then it all goes bottoms up.”
“Are you trying to reassure me or scare me?” I ask. “Maybe you should stay, and we’ll see if he says anything. At least you’re not implicated because you worked that night.”
Tessa pouts. “Now I wish I’d gone. What if I’d caught the thief in action?”
“It’s got to be the catering waitstaff. In the kitchen. For money,” I say.
The police officer is thin and muscular, with closely cut black, curly hair, around forty-five years old. He’s dressed in plain clothes but shows us his badge. We shake hands. I introduce Tessa as my roommate and say she wasn’t at the party.
“I had to work. I’m a lawyer,” Tessa says.
I ask him if he’d like some water to drink. He shakes his head, pulls up a chair at our table, and takes out a notepad. I sit across from him. Tessa gives us each a glass of water and sits next to me. He looks at the wall behind us, which is filled with my paintings. I watch his face; it looks like he appreciates my work. His eyes narrow and he nods. At least he likes art.
“Those yours?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
He says, “I’ve seen the ads for the Vertex show. I liked your painting. So how do you support yourself as an artist?”
The perennial question. For me and all other artists.
“Odd jobs. I sell paintings here and there, and that brings in a few thousand. I’m a singer/guitar player for a band, The Tempest. We perform around town at bars and other venues and post on our YouTube channel. We didn’t have a gig yesterday so I could go to Uncle Tony’s anniversary party.” Where I should have spent the night guarding my painting. “I pick up freelance graphic artist jobs. And I waitress. My parents don’t support me, despite TheSquirrel calling me a trust fund artist. My mother is an HR executive, and my father is an artist as well—who hasn’t made it.”
“So you’d have a financial motive to steal the Kimimoto?” he asks.
“Objection,” Tessa says.
I put my hand out to stop her and shake my head. I don’t want her to make it look like I’m worried. “No. It’s not like you can sell it. So even though I’m not flush with money, stealing the Kimimoto isn’t going to do it for me. Plus, I really love my uncles.”
“And why would she steal her own painting?” Tessa asks.
“To give cover,” he says.
Great. I seem to be the number one suspect. Because I’m impoverished.
“I looked you up on LinkedIn,” Officer Johnson says. “You used to work in Christie’s provenance department.”
“I did.” An oil paint smell wafts over as a breeze blows through our open window. The paint is still drying on yesterday’s painting attempt.
“So you know about tracing provenance?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And faking provenance?”
His stare is unwavering. A chill ices through me. But I hold his gaze. Tessa shifts forward in her seat.
Think.
“Cases that involve fake provenance usually involve newly discovered older paintings that don’t have any provenance. Like an undiscovered Rembrandt or something,” I say. “This Kimimoto has a well-established chain of owners. And there’s only one. That’s well known. So whoever stole it would have a hard time saying it’s some undiscovered Kimimoto. Any reputable art house would presume it’s the stolen one.”
He nods slowly. “Exactly, so it’s a weird painting to steal. Both of them.”
I let out a breath. I seem to be in the clear. “Unless the thief didn’t know that it would be hard to sell?”
He whistles through his teeth. “It makes me think it was personal. Someone dislikes you or someone dislikes Tony and Takashi.” He hands me the list of attendees of the party. “Who doesn’t like you?”
“I don’t think anyone dislikes me,” I say. “Not enough to steal my painting.”
“Who are you close to from the party attendees?”
“My uncles and Rex.” I take a sip of my water.
“Not your sister?” he asks.
“Stepsister. My mom married her dad when we were both ten. I’m not particularly close to my stepsister anymore. We’re very different. You know, I’m the artist, she’s the lawyer.”
“Except that my predecessor spoke very highly of your investigative skills during the Christie’s case. He vouched for you, but obviously, I still had to question you impartially.”
“Officer Samuelstein. How’s he doing? That was a fun case. I mean, not for the auction house, but it was fun to work with Officer Samuelstein.”
“He’s good. Enjoying the retired life. But he likes to check in with me every once in a while and give his input.”
“I bet.” I smile fondly. Officer Samuelstein came across as this no-nonsense, gruff New York cop, but he had a total soft side underneath. “I hope he’s still painting.”
“He is,” Officer Johnson says. “He was sorry to hear about the theft.”
“The irony is not lost on me. Please tell him that I said hi.” I study again the list of suspects.
“Why’d you stop working for Christie’s?”
“I wanted to concentrate on my art, and that was a full-time job,” I say. “Being a part-time waitress and bartender is more flexible. And it’s good for me to get out of my studio and interact with people.”
Officer Johnson nods.
“I should warn you,” I say, “that I’m going to do some investigating on my own.”
He smiles. “Are you?”
“Yes. I talked to Kimberly, the owner of the catering company.”
He frowns. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t think she did it. Even though I hoped it was her, so it was not personal.”
“But now she already knows?”
“No, I went in disguise with William,” I say. “And we didn’t mention that we were there in connection with the painting. We pretended to be catering clients and taste-tested food. We were going to hire her for another party and interview the staff.”
“That’s one approach,” Officer Johnson says wryly.
“I can’t say we learned much except that she likes her work.” I shift in my chair. Officer Johnson has the view of my wall of art. I face the closed door of our walk-in storage closet.
“Look, why don’t you give me another day and let me talk to everybody first, and then you can go in and talk to them?” Officer Johnson says. “But let’s not mess up my case here—and your case. Give me a chance to do it my way.”
“Okay.” I’m not exactly succeeding with my current investigation. “Do you think they’ll destroy my painting?”
“No. The painting still has some value. Unless it’s really personal and someone does hate you.”
Oh great.
He consults his notepad. “You said you and your sister are not close. Why? Was there an obvious rift?”
“No. We just drifted apart. But we’re not enemies. I mean, we’re just very different.”
“Is that the family narrative?”
Who knew police officers were psychologists? But I guess detectives have to be. Between the free food from taste testing and free therapy from police detectives, I had not realized all the benefits of getting my painting stolen.
“That’s the family narrative,” I say. “I’m the emotional artist, and she’s the logical lawyer.”
“So maybe if you had your big break, you’d be the successful artist …”
“She’s still the successful lawyer. And as a lawyer, she’s not going to lose her license by committing a crime. She just made partner. But yes, if my art opening were to be successful, my gamble would have paid off, and I hope there’d be a little more family support of my career. But it’s not like Annabelle has ever been disapproving. She’s always taken my side. But then she can afford to be generous.” That sounded more bitter than I meant it to be.
He glances at my easel with my unfinished painting. The way my life is going, the pink and yellow stripes will probably get psychoanalyzed as too happy. I should have gone with black.
“And Rex is your ex-boyfriend?” he asks. “Would he have any reason to steal the painting as revenge?”
“No. We’re good friends, and we’re in a band together.”
“You’re sure?” He writes some notes in his pad.
“Rex knows the Kimimoto is worth money, and he would prefer I concentrated on the band rather than my art career.” My chest feels hollow and heavy. “But I don’t think he’d actually steal my painting or my uncle’s painting.”
“You didn’t include Edmund as someone you’re close to. Yet your uncle said he was a childhood friend of yours. What’s your relationship with him?”
I sigh. “Complicated. We met when we were ten when his father hosted a fundraiser for my stepdad, John. His father was some wealthy hedge fund investor. His mother died before I met him, and his father died a few years ago. As children, I think we both competed for Annabelle’s attention, so I can’t say we’re close. We’re not really friends. We’re more like family who don’t like each other but tolerate each other because we’re family. He’s one of Annabelle’s closest friends, so I have to see him a lot.”
“Does he have a motive then?”
“I don’t know. Even if we don’t particularly get along, we pretend we do, for Annabelle’s sake. He likes Annabelle, so stealing those two paintings would not help him win her. Edmund is a passionate art collector, but he doesn’t like modern art, so he wouldn’t want either for his collection. Plus, he’s wealthy. He inherited his father’s money. And he’s got these olive oil farms in Italy that he’s very proud of.”
He asks me about the rest of Uncle Tony and Takashi’s friends. There were about twenty of them in total. They’re all fun—with impressive karaoke abilities. They’ve been coming for years. It’s unlikely. Not that I thought before today that anyone in my inner circle would want to torpedo my dreams.
He says, “And then there’s the dog walker and the cleaner. They both have keys to the apartment.”
“Penelope is one of my best friends. She’s not going to steal it. And Maria has been cleaning for years. She’s completely trustworthy.”
“It seems like there are no clear-cut suspects. Still, try to think of who dislikes you enough to sabotage your career.” And on that note, he leaves. My phone buzzes.