Chapter Fifteen
Sin
Help
My seven a.m. meeting is almost fifteen minutes late. I hate waiting. I dictate a message.
“Hey Leon. I have another meeting at eight-thirty and it’s seven-fifteen already. Is she coming?” And hit send.
He replies to my text right away. “She’s almost there. Here’s her number, fyi.”
I’m about to text her when there’s a light tap on my shoulder.
I turn to face the woman I’m here to meet.
She looks younger than I expected. She’s tall, round faced and doe eyed. Her hair is braided in a single plat that rests on her shoulder. Her pink tracksuit set reminds me of High School Musical.
“Are you Violet?” I ask just to be sure.
She nods but doesn’t speak. Her posture is rigid, holding herself like she’s cold despite the already sweltering morning. Her eyes dart around the restaurant. She looks scared. I can smell trouble a mile away and whatever she’s come to ask me stinks of it.
The curiosity I’ve had about her since Leon texted to say she was finally ready to meet is replaced by worry. “Why don’t you sit down?”
I look over my shoulder at the hostess stand. “Can we have another menu, please?”
While they bring the menus and waters for the table, I try to get a read on her. Is she scared or nervous or pretending? I hope Leon isn’t wrong about her.
When our coffees arrive, I flip open my moleskin notebook and pick up my pen to signal my readiness to talk. “So, you have a problem with your boyfriend.”
She nods. “He broke up with me and kicked me out of the place we were living together.”
“That was four months ago. Why have you waited so long to ask for help?”
She looks down at her lap. “He asked me to come back. Not as his girlfriend, but as his employee. He doubled the salary I make on campus and gave me a place to live. I’ve been saving, and the work was easy.
It’s been fine. But last week, he did it again.
This time he wouldn’t let me take anything.
Not even my passport. I’m scared. He’s dangerous. ”
Mindful of what I already know about her. “So why did you go back to work for him?”
She shakes her head. “I always knew he was doing something shady. But like, who doesn’t have some side hustle, right? The pay was good and he was generous. I wasn’t afraid of him. I am now.”
I feel for her but I’m not sure I believe her. She’s already admitted to being an opportunist who can be swayed to the dark side if the number is right.
“So, if he offered you your job back you wouldn’t take it?”
She shakes her head vigorously. “I just want to get my things and leave in peace. But there’s a picture of me at reception. I can’t even enter the building.” She presses her lips to together to stop them from trembling.
“What happened?”
She blows out a breath and composes herself.
“Last week I asked him when he’d let me go to one of his auctions.
He asked how I knew about them and I told him I’d heard him talking about them on calls.
He snapped, warned me to forget everything I’d ever heard him say or he’d make me.
He threw me out without letting me get my things together.
He has my clothes, my passport, the money I’ve been saving, all of it. ”
She’s trembling and I can tell that her trauma is real. I put my notebook down. “You’re from Trinidad. Have you reached out to the embassy?”
Her eyes widen. “I’m not supposed to be working. And I don’t want my parents to know I’ve gotten myself into trouble. They worked so hard to send me here for school. I just want my things.” Her eyes dart around the empty cafe.
“Look, Leon said you’re looking for someone who is selling art.
Well, he is. And it’s not on the level. The apartment where I was living is also his home office.
He’s got some of the stuff he sells there.
I made deliveries for him and have all the addresses in my phone.
I will give you all the information I have. ”
I’m still skeptical but if she’s telling the truth, this is a bombshell of a lead.
“You said his name is Oz. Do you know his full name?”
She shakes her head. “I called him The Wizard, too. That’s how he introduced himself.
But once I answered a call from a woman who asked to speak to Oz.
He didn’t keep any mail at this place, so I never saw his full name.
He was very careful about what he let me know, and I never went into his office without permission. ”
“I see.” I write it down like it’s just any other piece of information.
My heart hammering, my pulse racing with excitement at this piece of information, I press my luck.
“Do you know where he’s from?”
She shakes her head. “No, sorry. He has a British accent but I’m pretty sure he’s Ghanaian or Nigerian. He’s very tall. So probably Nigerian,” she muses.
“What else?” I ask and press the voice notes button on my phone.
She shakes her head and toys with the end of the long braids that spill over her shoulder. “I knew he was trouble. It was stupid to start sleeping with him and staying there.”
I agree but hate to pile on. I give her a sympathetic pat on the hand. “You’re doing the right thing. I’m glad you came to me.”
“So you’ll help me get my things back?”
“I’ll do my best. It’s been a while since I jimmied a lock but it’s like riding a bike.”
Violet claps her hands. “Oh! I forgot.” She leans over to rifle in her purse and pulls out a small plastic card. “This is my access card.”
She puts the key down in front of me. “I have no idea what his schedule is. I’m not even sure he’s in town, but this should help.”
I smile at the card. Maybe luck is finally on my side. “It will. I need to do some surveillance, figure out the best way to get in and out, and make sure that I don’t run into him.”
“You can’t let that happen. I’d rather not get my stuff back than for him to find out I sent someone to his place.”
A knot of dread forms in my gut before I can remind myself that I was good at this part of my job. “I’ll be careful.”
“Thank you,” I reach for the access card and pause before I put it into my purse. “Will he be able to tell it’s been used?”
“He doesn’t know how to check the logs.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can confirm that.” I make a note in my journal and close it. “No promises but I’ll try.” I give her a placid smile meant to manage her expectations.
Inside though, fireworks are going off, and I am itching to leave and get to work.
I decide to walk the half mile to my office to give myself time to think about what to do with the gift that just fell in my lap.
I’m not sure how to do this. Not without significant risk.
And not without the backing of a publication.
I’ve been content with my column. It’s not the life-changing journalism that I used to dream of writing. But it was the life-changing opportunity I needed when I accepted it.
Months in, I can’t deny that I’m bored.
I didn’t choose this incredibly cut-throat profession to add to the numbers or take up copy space.
I saw the journalist Charlayne Hunter-Gault speak in my final year of high school and knew, immediately, I wanted to do exactly what she did.
It wasn’t an easy road, but I loved every challenging inch of it. I wrote stories that needed my voice. I centered people who are often side characters that create a foil and serve to reinforce bullshit hierarchy that oppresses more people than it elevates.
It was that passion that led me to this story about the battle to repatriate plundered art, jewelry, and relics to their rightful countries of origin, and it feels like the perfect piece to do that.
The pieces, from monuments to handicrafts, were more than decorative pieces of art and priceless jewelry.
They were the record of a history, a culture, and a people whose very existence they affirmed and immortalized.
What was more universal and human than our connection to our heritage?
What was more fundamental to our cultural identity than the symbols of it? When I asked my editor how we’d feel if the Statue of Liberty was stolen by North Korea, she understood and agreed to give me a budget, and I was off to the races.
I was sure the story would help me clinch the promotion she’d dangled in front of me like a carrot for years.
When it didn’t and the story was scooped, I thought I was done.
But now the story has found its way back to me and it’s got dimensions I couldn’t even have imagined before.
When I was working on this story, I discovered the existence of a person name The Wizard. I took it to the FBI task force assigned to the recovery of stolen cultural artifacts.
They knew of his existence but wouldn’t do more than confirm that. They had nothing on this person. They weren’t sure if he was even man. Or where he was from.
I can’t arrest him myself but if I can unmask him and the ring he runs and write about it, it would force law enforcement’s hand.
If I can bring this home, I could write my ticket with it.
If I’m right.
If universe finally bends in my favor.
If.