CHAPTER 7
Nash
“What the fuck, Nash,” Betty entered my office in a flurry of clacking heels, slamming the door behind her.
I pressed my eyes closed to hide my eye roll. “What the fuck, what, Betty.” It was late morning by the time I’d made it into the office at Beaumont Antiquities. It was the day after the heist.
Her hand went to her hip as she stopped in the room.
Betty looked threatening in a long black pencil skirt and light blue starched shirt, rolled at the sleeves and collar popped, framing her pinned up black hair. Being a lawyer seemed a better fit for her than art restoration. I couldn’t figure out how she restored art in those clothes.
“You know what,” she shot back, her free hand midair as though struggling to decide whether to give me the finger, or wave me off.
I leaned forward in my office chair, steepling my fingers against my jaw. “Clearly I don’t, Betty.” I was feigning ignorance. “Please elaborate.”
She took a few more steps forward, leaning toward me.
“A PERL, Nash?” Her whispered hiss of words sliced into me.
“Are you kidding me? It may as well have been a Matisse for heaven’s sake.
” She threw her hands up, spinning away and pacing back toward my door.
“I thought we made a deal—nothing this new, nothing this—what the actual fuck.”
I raised my eyebrows at her free use of such colorful words, but didn’t otherwise respond. It wasn’t out of character for her.
Her shoulders fell in defeat. “Do you even care about the risk? Nash, PERL is too public, too hot. And why? This isn’t like you, like us. Why not track down the damn Monet the Nazis stole in World War Two, but PERL? A fresh and very alive emerging modern artist?”
I sat back then. “PERL is not emerging, Betty, PERL never emerged. It just existed one day like the eighth wonder of the world.”
I saw the muscles of her jaw clench; her patience with me frayed. “Whatever.” She pressed her hand to her forehead and looked at the ceiling. “Why are you such a fucking twat waffle?” she hissed in a whisper scream.
Again, I didn’t respond.
She changed tack, coming at me from a new angle. “Beaumont is furious.”
“Beaumont is always furious,” I replied coolly.
“Henry Barns is one of our top clients and collectors; this won’t look good. He’s going to have a cow and blame it on Beaumont, as he should.” She gave me a sharp look.
I stood, adjusting my suit coat and buttoning it.
“How do you figure? Do you even know Henry? The man will revel in the attention. Pompous eccentric loves a good story, and his story just got better. Who wouldn’t want to be a victim of theft in his circle?
The attention he’ll get? It doesn’t affect him financially either, not in that tax bracket. ”
What Betty needed to remember was that everything of Henry’s was over-insured. He’d be just fine. The man was a billionaire.
I walked up to her, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Bee, everything is going to be okay, yeah?”
She looked at me then, letting out a long breath as though I’d squeezed it out of her. “Beaumont wants to see you,” she grumbled.
“I didn’t expect any less,” I replied, smirking.
“How can you be so calm about this? You don’t even look like you lost sleep last night.”
I chuckled. “You didn’t inherit the same genes I did. You got Mom’s panic, and I got Grandpa’s calm. The only thing that’s the same about us seems to be our obsession with lost priceless art and jewels, dear sister.” I flicked her nose.
She slapped my hand aside and rolled her eyes, reminiscent of her teenage years.
When she’d learned what I’d been doing—stealing behind everyone’s back—she swiftly took an interest. Her sharp wit and ability to be innovative streamlined the process.
My sister, younger than I, often mimicked me.
In this sphere, however, we finally balanced each other, sharing our skills.
The more thrilling the heist, the better.
Her only shortcoming was her inability to deal with the pressure. In the end, though, she relished the thrill more than the sting of anxiety, and we’d fallen into a habit of planning, stealing, and solving mysteries like Sherlock Holmes and Watson.
“Fine, Nash. But you’d better go see Beaumont and calm him down.”
I slung my arm over her shoulder. My sister was tall like me, but still slight in width. “Heading there now, Bee.”
Outside my door, she parted from me, heading back toward the restoration floor. I turned opposite and headed down the long hall toward Beaumont’s office. Nodding at his receptionist; she waved me through.
I opened the large, heavy door and stepped in, catching Beaumont by the window. He had his hands in his pockets, jacket off and his shirt bunching in his checkered suspenders across his back.
He turned then. “Ah, Nash.”
I unbuttoned my jacket as I moved to sit in one of his guest chairs. “Father,” I replied coolly.
Tight-lipped, my father pulled his chair out and sat, leaning back, and looking tired like it wasn’t still morning. “I take it you’ve heard?”
I nodded.
He went on, “I spent all morning on the phone with Henry. He felt vexed about the event.”
“Vexed? Vexed how?” I ventured.
My father tilted his head from side to side. “Well, you know Henry, always seeing a way to spin it in his favor.”
I smirked, loving that I was right.
“I assured him that art heists such as this were inevitable. We experience—” he paused to wave his hand through the air, gesturing at an estimation, “—half a dozen such events a year. Whether it’s one of our clients or our competitors, I told him these things happen. Still, I’m upset that it did.”
I took in my father’s relaxed state; this wasn’t how I’d expected to find him. “You seem calmer than Bee made you out to be.”
He huffed. “Son, you know your sister. Her overreaction is half of what sets me off sometimes—so much like your mother, rest her soul.”
Bee and I kept our activities hidden from our father, Mr. Jeffrey Beaumont. He could never have imagined that we, fifth-generation part owners of one of the largest auction houses in New York, executed half the art heists in the world every year.
My father’s estimation of half a dozen was nowhere near the real number, either.
So much art moved on the black market, under the table of the everyday art world.
What we knew to exist of historically prominent artists was only a fraction of the number of undiscovered or lost works that still circulated, unseen.
Bee and I had agreed early on to steal for a reason. Usually, our fun came from stealing already stolen items and giving them back. When papers reported: “Priceless, Unseen Matisse, Found in Attic,” that typically meant a piece had been stolen back, usually by us, and then left to be ‘found’.
Bee’s love of art history led us down many paths, solving cold cases in the art world, and bringing lost artifacts back to the public scene and to those most deserving.
Once we successfully tracked down a piece, we’d return it to the rightful guarantor in a way that wouldn’t draw attention, such as planting it in an attic.
Stealing the PERL, however, was out of character for me.
It surprised me how quickly Bee put that together.
Bee was good though. Her skill in seeing actions and patterns in people’s behavior was uncanny.
She likely knew and noticed my growing interest in the PERL artist, and after last night, had already arrived at a firm opinion that I was the guilty party.
My father sighed, adjusting his shirt under his suspenders and putting himself back together.
“Thankfully, by the end of my conversation with Henry, he’d seemed elated.
I assured him we’d help the insurance detectives on the case verify the claim so he can get his insurance payment.
Also, I assured him we’d do what we could to assist in the piece’s recovery, if possible. ”
He didn’t look too confident about that last part, nor should he be. Once art was gone, it was gone for generations unless someone like me was willing to find it. But eventually, in this case, I’d give the PERL back. I just needed to create a little buzz first.
“What about the museum?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was on the phone with the director first thing. There aren’t any leads outside of some blurry camera footage.
The thief bypassed the thermals. Current technology makes securing such items nearly impossible.
Hell, a teenager with an iPhone could do it.
Truly, if someone has the balls to carry out a heist, it’s probably not that hard to figure out how.
” He scratched his bushy brow. “Take the Louvre heist, for example. A ladder truck, a yellow vest, and poof, we have a heist.”
He was right. Taking the PERL had been easy compared to some jobs we underwent. Finding the lost art was half the struggle. Outside of that, the stealing was usually the simple part, restoration another battle, and then the return of it a genuine pleasure.
My father snapped his suspenders, an action he often did when he’d concluded a thought. “I’d put my money on Henry being the first in line to buy a PERL if we ever get one up for auction.” He grunted. “That reminds me, didn’t we have a seller interested?”
I nodded. One of our collectors had hinted at a PERL sale, and now would be the time. After what I’d done, the price would skyrocket. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the collector called today.
It was part of my plan.
The PERL artist would want to attend the auction if he / she / they were the person I expected. This would be the first time a PERL had auctioned, and what artist could resist seeing that?
From there, it was a matter of elimination for me.
If PERL always went to their own shows and auctions, perhaps Bee could help me find a pattern in the photos and videos of the events.
PERL had a social media account, and newspapers covered them heavily, as well as TV.
I’d be able to run facial recognition and see if people began standing out.
I expected many would, but that would narrow it down.
Though Bee hadn’t been involved in my plans until now, I understood her well. She’d want to be a part of this since it fit her skill set. She had a knack for hunting things down, and couldn’t pass up the chance to show off, plus she wouldn’t let me have fun without her.
I stood, re-buttoning my jacket and signaling my departure. “I’ll talk with the insurance company this afternoon,” I added.
My father nodded.
I left his office then, making my way back to my own. Controlling the insurance detective would be easy. I simply needed to send them chasing their own tails for a while until they tired themselves out.
I needed time with the PERL, and if I could get my hands on this second one, maybe there’d be more clues to gather from it.
My assistant met me at the door to my office, handing me my customary cinnamon roll and coffee. I entered and sat, releasing a steadying breath.
I wondered then what kind of coffee the woman enjoyed, or maybe she was a tea person; I couldn’t help it. For the love of baked goods, she was going to be impossible to forget.