Chapter 27
JULES
After Linc sends me copies of the files, I spend the rest of Friday afternoon staring at numbers that don’t add up and insurance valuations that make my brain hurt.
The deeper I dig, the more convinced I become that Linc is right.
Someone with executive access has been playing fast and loose with company resources.
My demand for caffeine is high, so after grabbing not one, but three cups of coffee—don’t worry, they’re not all for me—I visit the Collections Processing Department on the thirty-third floor.
I know I can trust the office girlies. Carmen has been with Meridian for twenty years—she knows where all the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking.
Wendy is newer but sharp, and since she came back from maternity leave, what some people call “mommy brain” has turned into “I’m going to get the job done as efficiently as possible so I can get back to my baby” brain.
“Hi, ladies,” I say, sliding into the office like I belong here, because I used to before my abrupt ejection … upward, to an exec suite.
I’m still undecided whether that’s a net gain.
Carmen looks up from her computer. “There’s our third Musketeer!”
I’ve been looking at images of muskets a lot lately, but that’s another side project entirely, though I’m quite sure the two must intersect somehow.
We exchange hugs and I inquire about how Carmen’s hubby is doing with his physical therapy after shoulder surgery and how many teeth Wendy’s baby now has.
“Half a mouthful. He’s like a puppy, chewing on everything. Nothing is safe in our house from his gummy exploration anymore.”
Carmen chuckles. “Speaking of naughty boys, how are things with your boss these days? You haven’t set his office on fire, so I take that as a good sign.”
Heat creeps up my neck, but I wave my hand dismissively. “Linc is as impossible as always.”
“Linc?” Wendy asks.
“Last month, you referred to him as ‘a corporate Ken Doll with a plastic personality.’”
Wendy interjects, “But at the last meeting, she didn’t look at him like he was a bowl of lumpy oatmeal.”
“Maybe I’m just getting used to his, um, management style.”
Carmen gives me a knowing look. “And maybe I’m getting used to my husband leaving his socks on the bedroom floor next to the dirty laundry hamper, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
She and Wendy waggle their eyebrows in unison.
Goodness, do I miss them, but I guess my new position isn’t the worst.
“It’s not like that,” I protest, but the lilt in my voice fools no one.
Wendy places her hand on my arm. “There’s nothing wrong with warming up to someone. Especially if they’re actually decent underneath all those handsome good looks.”
“He’s still my boss,” I mutter.
Wendy asks, “So what’s he really like when it’s just you two working late? Is there anything sweet or ridiculous that he does?”
The question catches me off guard because it goes past the professional and into the personal.
He’s funny and vulnerable and surprisingly easy to talk to.
He listens when I speak and remembers details about things I’ve told him.
He writes songs and worries about living up to impossible legacies and looks at me like I’m good for more than answering emails.
But I can’t say any of that.
I let out a stuck breath. “He’s … different from what I expected.”
“Different how?” Carmen presses.
To lighten things up and take the spotlight off me, in my best robot voice, I say, “He’s more human, less man-droid.”
The two women exchange a look, then burst into laughter.
“I’m not saying she has it bad, but she has it,” Wendy stage-whispers.
“Going, going, gone!” Carmen agrees with a flourish.
“I do not have anything,” I insist, but my voice comes out squeaky and slightly defensive. Then, clearing my throat, I add, “Except for a favor to ask.”
This gets their attention.
I take a sip of coffee, buying time to figure out how to phrase this without sounding suspicious. “I was hoping you two might be able to help me with something. I’m working on a project that requires historical documentation verification, and I need access to previous insurance information.”
Because these records are handled by a separate department with different login credentials, the system would show an audit trail of who accessed the files.
It would leave digital footprints and throw up a red flag if Linc’s assistant did it, whereas it’s not out of the realm of possibility for this department to refer to the information.
Carmen raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure Linc would have access.”
Without revealing too much, I say, “There may have been a clerical error and because we’re the ones who did some of that paperwork, I just want to double check before …” I trail off.
Carmen nods. “We did help process some of those insurance valuations when we were covering for Leanna.”
“Oh yes, I remember those. Some of the numbers seemed off.” Wendy pauses, glancing around to make sure we’re alone. “Let’s just say I questioned my math skills for a while there.”
My pulse quickens. “What do you mean?”
“Some of the valuations seemed really high compared to similar pieces we’d processed before. But I figured maybe I was missing something, you know? We never have the full picture.”
But the one I have is starting to come into focus.
Carmen says, “I’ll email you what I can find by the end of the day and say hi to that big hunk-a-man upstairs.”
Wendy giggles and they both wave at me as I leave.
But I don’t go downstairs. I pay a visit to Suzie in Licensing and Rights Management.
A tech guy with a crush on her has access to the equipment I need, so I beg her to ask him in exchange for first pick of our interdepartmental fall activity.
I’m banking on being tasked with organizing it again—Valerie, Mr. Andresen’s assistant’s PA, passed it off to me last year.
I guess all the extra work people have asked me to do is paying off. Time to cash in.
That evening, I meet Linc behind the gallery at our designated time, my stomach a tangle of nerves and anticipation.
The weight of the forged painting wrapped in brown paper in my hands is anything but conspicuous.
The longer I hold it, the more it feels like I’m carrying around evidence of every bad decision I’ve ever made.
“Everything okay?” Linc observes as I approach.
“I’m fine. Just ready to get this over with.”
“You’re practically feral right now. All jittery energy and round owl eyes.”
“I think you like it,” I shoot back, surprising myself with the flirtation in my voice.
“Unhinged Jules is definitely growing on me,” he admits with a crooked smile.
It was one thing to sneak into the gallery—my original cover story was that I had low blood sugar and passed out in the ladies’ room before closing. Now I’m committing a real crime. I fear, like my father, my luck could run out.
“We won’t get caught,” I say, more to convince myself than Linc.
He runs his thumb over the penny in his hand. “Said every criminal ever.”
I release a shaky exhale. “We’re just borrowing the painting. It’s not like we’re keeping it permanently.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how the law works, but okay.”
Yet he’s aiding and abetting, which somehow makes me think this is legit.
I slip through the same window as before, my heart playing a dirge against my ribs.
My guilty conscience makes me feel like I’m about to trip over a live wire and alert authorities about my deviance, but everything is the same as before—long shadows, eerily glowing exit lights, the outline of statues.
However, luck is indeed on my side, and within minutes, I’m carefully removing the original painting from its frame.
The switch goes smoothly, though I’m convinced I’ve left the replacement slightly crooked.
There’s no time to adjust it now. I cradle the original in my arms and make my way back to the window, trying not to think about how much prison time art theft carries and whether I’d look better in stripes or garish orange.
Through the window, I spot Linc conferring with two men near the building’s corner. My blood turns to ice. I wait, counting down the remaining seconds to pull this off before the security team switches.
One of the guys claps Linc on the shoulder. The other gives him a fist bump. He saunters back to his lookout spot as if this is totally normal and not shady at all to be loitering behind a building in the middle of the night.
“What’s going on?” I whisper urgently as I clamber through the window.
He takes the painting first and then extends his arms for me. “Nothing serious. Just some fans.”
“Fans?” I blink at him. “You have fans?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Doesn’t everyone?” And there’s that cocky confidence that used to drive me crazy.
“But seriously, what did they want? Weren’t they suspicious about why you were hanging around behind a building at night?”
“I told them I was doing something extremely sketchy.”
“You did not!” I hiss.
He grins. “I did. They asked if I wanted help.”
“They didn’t!”
Arms around my waist, Linc holds me suspended for a pulse-pounding moment. We experience a mid-air blink freeze before he plants me on the ground.
He says, “Actually, I told them I was part of a birthday scavenger hunt.”
“And they believed you?”
“People believe what they want to believe. Plus, it’s not entirely untrue—this whole thing started with your birthday, didn’t it?”
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but I’m fighting a smile because this man is becoming harder to resist.
“Now let’s get out of here.” He holds out his hand for me to take.
And I do.