CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Miles stepped into the European paintings wing and immediately scanned the space.
The corridor stretched ahead of him, lined with gilt-framed masterpieces.
Guests wandered past Rembrandts and Vermeers, their attention split between the art and their conversations.
The lighting here was subdued, designed to protect the centuries-old pigments from damage.
It cast long shadows that made it harder to distinguish faces in the crowd.
A server passed Miles carrying a tray of empty champagne flutes.
Not Hartley. Too tall, wrong build entirely.
Another moved through a cluster of guests near a Vermeer, offering canapés from a silver platter.
Also, not their suspect. Miles kept moving, his eyes tracking every white jacket, every person who didn't quite fit the rhythm of the gala.
The wing was less crowded than the Great Hall but still had maybe forty or fifty people scattered through its various galleries.
Some stood admiring the paintings, others had claimed the few benches positioned for optimal viewing.
The murmur of cultured conversation mixed with the distant sound of the string quartet still playing somewhere in the building.
"Linhart, where is he?" Miles said quietly, touching his earpiece.
There was a pause. Miles could hear the detective typing on her laptop. "I lost him. He moved into a section where the camera angles overlap. Hold on, I'm checking the other feeds."
Miles felt his stomach tighten. They couldn't lose him now. Not when they were this close. He moved deeper into the wing, his eyes tracking every server in a white jacket. There had to be at least five of them visible from where he stood, all moving through the crowd with their trays.
"Vic, how about you? Do you have anything?" Miles asked.
"Negative," Vic's voice came back through the earpiece. "I'm at the south entrance. I can see maybe seven servers from here, none of them acting suspicious."
Miles walked past a Caravaggio, barely registering the dark drama of the painting. A server approached him with a tray of champagne flutes, and Miles waved him off without making eye contact. The server was too young, too short. Not Hartley.
"Come on, Linhart," Miles muttered under his breath. "Where did he go?"
"Still looking," Linhart said. Miles could hear the frustration in her voice. "The camera coverage in this wing has more blind spots than I thought. He could be in any of three different galleries right now."
Miles turned a corner into a smaller gallery.
The walls here were deep burgundy, the paintings smaller and older.
Renaissance pieces, mostly. A couple stood admiring a Madonna and child, their backs to Miles.
A single server was visible at the far end of the room, refilling wine glasses at a small table.
"Check the north gallery," Linhart said. "I'm seeing movement there, sort of pressed against a back wall, but I can't get a clear view."
Miles reversed course and headed north. The galleries connected in a maze-like pattern, each one flowing into the next through wide archways.
He passed through a room filled with French Impressionists, then another showcasing Dutch masters.
Each space held clusters of guests, all of them oblivious to the search happening around them.
"Anything?" Vic asked over the comm.
"Nothing yet," Miles said. He was trying to keep his movements casual, trying not to draw attention, but the urgency was making it difficult. He wanted to run, wanted to start checking every face systematically, but that would blow their cover completely.
"Wait," Linhart said suddenly. "West side, near the corridor that leads to the restrooms. I've got a server moving fast. Faster than he should be. No tray, no drinks…nothing."
"Where exactly?" Vic asked.
"Headed west from the main gallery. He just passed the Baroque collection."
Miles changed direction again, cutting through a room filled with Spanish paintings. Guests gave him curious looks as he moved past them quickly, his champagne glass abandoned on a table somewhere three rooms back. He emerged into a wider corridor lined with tapestries.
"Lost him again," Linhart said. "Damn it. These camera angles are terrible. There’s just too many people in the way."
Miles listened to her speaking as he stopped in the middle of the corridor, turning in a slow circle.
There were servers everywhere…white jackets and black bow ties, all of them looking identical from a distance.
How were they supposed to find one specific person in this chaos?
He felt like he was playing the most intense version of Where’s Waldo ever created.
"There!" Linhart said, her voice loud and static-laced in his ear. "I've got him. North corridor, moving toward the restrooms near the medieval art section."
"Which restrooms?" Miles asked. He was already moving, heading north through another gallery.
"Women's restroom, northwest corner of the wing. He just went inside."
Miles felt a surge of adrenaline. "He went into a women's restroom?"
"Affirmative. Dressed as a server, carrying something. I couldn't see what."
"Yeah, I’d say that sounds suspicious as hell,” Miles said. “Vic, did you hear that?"
"Yeah, I got it. I'm on the opposite side of the wing. I can get there in two minutes."
"We don't have two minutes," Miles said. He spotted a sign for the restrooms and broke into a jog. Guests turned to stare, their conversations faltering. Miles didn't care anymore. Maybe their notice would alert security. "Linhart, where exactly?"
"Follow the corridor past the Flemish collection. The restrooms are at the end, around a corner. You should see the signs."
Miles rounded a corner and saw the hallway Linhart had described. It was quieter here, away from the main galleries. The noise of the gala faded to a distant murmur, little more than background noise. A small alcove at the end held two doors marked with the universal figure-symbols for restrooms.
Miles slowed his approach, his hand moving to the small of his back where his weapon was holstered. He was maybe twenty-five feet from the women's restroom door. Close enough to see that it was shut. Close enough to reach it in seconds.
But if he went in wrong, if he made a mistake, he would blow everything.
Kicking down a bathroom door at Manhattan's most exclusive charity event would cause a scene that couldn't be walked back.
Museum security would respond. Guests would panic.
And if Hartley was inside, he would be instantly alerted to their presence.
But what choice did they have? If Hartley was in there with a victim, if someone was in danger right now, Miles couldn't stand in the hallway weighing options. Every second could matter.
"Linhart, any idea if anyone else is in that restroom?" Miles asked quietly.
"I can't tell. The camera doesn't cover the interior, only the hallway outside."
Miles pulled his weapon and held it low at his side. He moved closer to the door, listening. No sounds from inside. No screams, no struggle, nothing.
"Vic, how close are you?" he asked.
"Thirty seconds," Vic said. She was breathing harder now, running.
Miles stared at the door. Thirty seconds could be too long. If Hartley was inside with a victim, thirty seconds might be the difference between life and death. But if Miles was wrong, if this was just a nervous server using the bathroom, he would have caused a massive incident for nothing.
But Miles felt certain that was their man and that this was the right moment.
He took three quick steps forward, raised his foot, and kicked the bathroom door just below the handle.