Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
When the security alarm goes off in the middle of the night, I crawl out of bed, stumble to the upstairs keypad, and automatically turn it off. I realize this is a stupid move the moment I finish punching in the passcode to disarm it, because now that the alarm is no longer blaring, I can hear noise coming from what sounds like ground level.
I tiptoe quietly down to the living room, where I pause in a spot not visible from the foyer to listen intently.
For a moment I think Grand must have decided to come home rather than stay with Brian, but as I tiptoe down to the living room, I realize that the sound is coming from the garage itself; not her studio behind it or the front door, which Grand would be using if she’d come home.
Not wanting to involve the police, I dial Luke’s cell.
“What’s wrong?” He sounds completely awake even though it’s 2:00 a.m. Sheets rustle.
“Syd, what’s going on?”
“Um, it sounds like someone’s down in the garage again. I…I think whoever it is, is fooling with Grand’s car.”
He puts the phone on speaker, and I hear what sounds like Luke pulling on clothes, which, oddly, given that there are bad people just one floor below me, makes me wonder whether police detectives leave them puddled next to the bed ready to be stepped into, like firemen leave theirs next to the firepole.
“Where are you and Grand right now?” Luke asks.
“I’m in the living room. Grand’s out for the night.”
There’s a brief silence but he doesn’t waste time asking me where she is.
“Go into your bedroom right now and lock the door. I’ll be there in ten minutes or less. Do not open your door or leave your room—your locked room—until I get there.”
“But…” I begin to protest as I realize there’s no longer noise coming from below.
“No. No buts. I’m not going to hang up. I don’t want you to hang up, either.”
As much as I dislike being ordered around, I’m relieved that he’s on his way and that we can continue to communicate. But I can hear no reason to go upstairs and hide.
I stare out the kitchen window until Luke pulls to a stop in front of Grand’s unit, at which point I race downstairs.
“I told you to stay upstairs,” he says when I throw open the front door.
“I waited until you pulled up. And I haven’t heard anyone in the garage since just after I called you,” I shoot back because, although I’m uber relieved that he’s here, I really don’t love how bossy he gets.
He looks me up and down. His forehead wrinkles and I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s pissed that I didn’t follow his instructions, or because he’s never seen a grown woman wearing puppy-covered flannel pajamas.
He opens the foyer door that leads into the garage. “Wait here.”
I ignore this and follow him into the garage, where the Cadillac sits, trunk open, leather seats slashed, trunk lining ripped out. Through the open door that leads into the bonus room (aka Grand’s studio), I can see that one of the back sliders has been forced open but at least neither of them is damaged. This is a good thing. Heavy PGT glass doesn’t grow on trees.
Back in the garage, I turn on the overhead light and Luke shines his flashlight under the car and all around it.
“I’m glad you didn’t go charging into a dangerous situation this time,” Luke says. “Though I guess I should point out that if you don’t turn off the alarm so quickly, the police—the ones who are actually on duty—will show up.”
“I know. I forgot. It was just an automatic reaction. And I didn’t really want to bother the police again.”
“I am the police, Syd,” he points out.
I know this, of course. And at the moment I hate just how quickly I turned to him the minute I got scared.
“But for a long time, you were like a member of the family,” I argue. “And I didn’t want to have to explain to strangers that my grandmother is spending the night at her boyfriend’s.”
“Boyfriend?” He blinks back his surprise. “How do you know she hasn’t been abducted? Or hurt in some way?”
“Because she has a boyfriend—a real live ‘silver fox’—who’s lived in the complex for years. She’s spending the night with him so that they can have sex . And he’s promised to serve her breakfast in bed.”
I sniff. Not only do I not have a boyfriend at this time, none of the boyfriends I have had ever served me breakfast in bed—if you don’t count the occasional cup of Starbucks. For just a moment I let myself imagine having sex with Luke.
“Call her right now, Syd, and make sure she’s okay.”
“But it’s two a.m.”
“I am painfully aware of that,” Luke counters. “But someone, or several someones, are clearly looking for something they believe your grandmother has . Therefore, we need to make sure that she’s okay. For all we know, the silver fox could be part of whatever is going on.”
I shudder at the thought that Brian’s attraction to Grand might not be as “genuine” as it seems. And while I’d like to believe that the idea that criminals, including or not including Brian, are specifically targeting my grandmother because they think she has something they want, is farfetched, deep down I know these break-ins are not random. There’s definitely something dangerous going on, and it seems to be getting more dangerous by the day.
“Okay.” I walk into the town house with Luke at my heels and speed-dial Grand’s cell phone. It rings upstairs in her bedroom.
“Shit,” we say in unison.
“What’s his name and his town house number?” Luke demands. “We need to go check on her.”
“His name is Brian.” As I say this, I realize that I don’t remember his last name and have no idea which building he lives in, let alone his unit number.
“Seriously, Sydney?”
“She’s a grown woman,” I point out as calmly as I can. “And I haven’t wanted to pry.”
I get a huff of irritation and another look of disbelief.
“But I do know there’s an owners’ directory,” I say. “Which means I can look him up.” I wince. “Assuming I can find the directory and remember the first letter of his last name.”
Luke rolls his eyes at me. Which, I’d like to point out, is highly unprofessional even if he is technically “off duty.”
For several long seconds I’m completely stymied. Then relief floods through me. “But I can call her friend Myra. She’s lived here forever and knows everything about everyone.”
I call Myra and hold my phone to my ear as she sputters awake. “What? How? Are you? What’s going on?”
“I need to know Brian’s last name and his building and unit number.”
“Boyer,” she answers without hesitation. “Building six, that’s three buildings to the left of your grandmother’s, two past mine. Number 520. Corner unit.”
“You have everyone’s addresses memorized?”
“Of course not. Just close friends. And the attractive single men. Do you want me to meet you there?”
“No, thanks. Luke, um, Detective Hayes is here. There was another break-in at Grand’s. We’re going to go to Brian’s and double-check that she’s okay.”
“But why wouldn’t she—”
Luke takes my phone, ends the call, and drops it in his pocket.
“Come on!” He takes my hand, and we speed-walk to Brian Boyer’s, where Luke pounds on the front door. “Police! Open up!”
The light comes on in Boyer’s foyer. As do those in the unit next to his. “Who’s there?” a male voice, presumably Brian Boyer’s, shouts through his front door.
“Detective Luke Hayes and Lillian’s granddaughter, Sydney. We need to see Lillian. Right now.”
Boyer opens the door. He’s wearing pajama bottoms, but his chest is bare. And solid. And tan. With a dusting of white hair. Which is way more attractive than one would expect.
“Where’s Grand?” I ask.
“She’s upstairs. Sleeping. Or at least she was.” His eyes get kind of steely. “What’s the problem?”
“We need to see her.” Luke steps into the foyer, forcing the silver fox back toward the stairs that lead up to the main floor.
“You have no reason to intrude in this way.”
“In fact, we do,” Luke replies. “There was another break-in at Lillian’s home. Is that anything you would know about?”
“Of course not!” The irritation is still there but now it’s laced with a certain wariness.
“Is everything all right down there?” Grand’s voice floats down from the top of the stairs. “I’ve got a gun!”
“I sincerely hope that’s not true,” Luke says to Brian and me.
“She does not own a gun,” I say. Careful not to add the “that I know of” that flashes through my mind.
“May we go upstairs and see Lillian now, Mr. Boyer?” Luke asks, though we all know it’s not really a question. “We need to speak with her. Now .”
Boyer steps out of the way and waves a hand toward the stairs in an “after you” gesture that feels distinctly unwelcoming.
Then he follows us up the stairs to where my grandmother stands, arms crossed over her lacy robe, one foot tapping on the floor. She isn’t glad to see us, either.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she asks me. “And why have you brought Luke with you?” Grand shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be a runaway. And I certainly don’t need anyone’s permission, especially not my granddaughter’s, to sleep with a man of my choosing.”
Luke blushes, which is not something you see a policeman do every day. Though I kind of wish the writers had thought of it when my now ex-boyfriend, Jake Bodie, was playing Cassie Everheart’s cheating boyfriend. Like they say, one look can be worth a thousand words.
“We’re here because there’s been another break-in, Grand. They came in the back again and this time they went through your car. The lining in your trunk is slashed and so is the upholstery.”
“And once again you appear to be the only target,” Luke says to Grand, though his eyes are on Brian.
“But that’s crazy,” Brian says.
Luke spears him with a look. “Are you suggesting that we’re lying, Mr. Boyer? And if so, for what possible reason?”
Luke keeps him pinned with that look and I’m glad I’m not on the receiving end of it.
“No, of course not. This is all just so…”
“So, what, Brian?” I ask, surprised to hear my voice sounding a lot like Cassie’s while talking to a perp.
“It just seems so…odd. I mean, what could she possibly have that someone would want so badly?”
Grand stiffens.
“No offense,” Brian says.
“None taken,” Grand replies. But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean it.
“That would be the question, wouldn’t it, Mr. Boyer?” Luke adds. “What could she have that someone would want badly enough to break in repeatedly? And while we’re at it: Did you and Lillian know each other before she moved here? Or at any time in the past?”
“No, of course not!”
Luke and I exchange glances while Grand and Brian go up to retrieve her things.
“I’ve never heard someone say ‘No, of course not’ quite so many times,” Luke says quietly.
I nod in agreement. Methinks the man doth protest too much.
Grand, Luke, and I walk back to Grand’s place. Myra’s lights go out once we’ve passed and I have no doubt her curiosity is killing her.
I wait until Luke does a thorough look around Grand’s unit, her garage, and her bonus area to make sure no one is lying in wait.
After he leaves, Grand and I stare at each other for a long moment.
“Do you want coffee?” I ask.
“Might as well.” She still sounds annoyed at being dragged out of Brian’s bed. Or maybe she’s afraid, as she should be, of what’s going on.
· · ·
Grand rummages in the fridge while I make us cups of coffee. She retrieves a leftover piece of pound cake and brings it, and two forks, to the table.
For a few minutes we sip our coffee and demolish the piece of cake in silence. Then Grand takes the empty plate and puts it in the sink. “I think I’m going to go upstairs and lie down for a bit,” she says.
I reach out a hand to stop her. “Before you go, I need you to tell me one thing.”
Reluctantly, Grand sits back down.
“You know what the thief, or thieves, are looking for, don’t you, Grand?”
Her chin juts out. For a moment I think she’s going to lie right to my face. In the end she says, “Yes.”
We lock gazes and I remember her reaction to seeing Phillip Drake’s face on the TV screen at Covington Arms when his death was first announced. And how soon afterward the break-ins began.
“It has something to do with Phillip Drake and his Missing Madonna , doesn’t it?”
She doesn’t comment but something in her eyes confirms it.
“Did you steal it when you left New York because of how he hurt you?” I ask quietly. “Are you the person who made it go missing?”
Grand sighs. She drops her gaze briefly. But then her chin goes up and she locks gazes with me again.
“No,” she says so quietly, I have to strain to hear.
“No,” she says more firmly. “When I left New York, what I took with me was the self-portrait that I had painted.”
She folds her hands on the table in front of her, and I suspect she’s trying to keep them from shaking. “Days later, he circulated photos of my painting and officially claimed it as his own work. Then, when he’d grabbed the spotlight and the art world’s full attention, he announced that it had been stolen. In one fell swoop, he climbed a mountain it would have taken years to scale.”
Grand draws another breath and squares her shoulders. Her voice vibrates with a mixture of anger and sadness. “He kept The Missing Madonna in and out of the headlines for over sixty years. As a result, he became a household name and his other works commanded ridiculously high prices. My painting made him and his family extremely wealthy. Ultimately, Phillip Drake became famous for a work that was not his, and his name will always be associated with something that I painted yet can never claim.”
“Do you think it’s his family that’s behind the attempts to steal your self-portrait?”
“It could be. Or it could be his longtime agent. Who still gets a commission on every work of his that sells. Or even a gallery owner who sells his work regularly and wants the money train to keep on going.”
“Wow.” I say the only thing that pops into my head.
“What I don’t know,” Grand almost whispers, “is whether they’re trying to steal it to make sure my Madonna never sees the light of day. Or so that they can control the timing of its ‘discovery’ in hopes of sending its value even further through the roof.”