To Catch a Sinner (The Blurred Lines Duet #1)

Chapter One

Sin

You Don’t Send a Saint to Catch a Sinner

“Activity detected.”

It takes me a minute to remember that I installed a surveillance camera in the tiny office I’ve set up in the apartment I share with my boyfriend.

I didn’t the set up the cameras because I suspected him of him of anything, but I decided to keep it to myself.

In the nearly two weeks I’ve been away, he’s only been in there once and that was to drop packages from my PO Box on my desk. I feel guilty for not telling him so I decided I wouldn’t watch anymore unless I had a reason to.

I check the time on my phone. I’ve got ten minutes until my appointment, and the last thing I want to do right now is worry about my failing relationship.

Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Today, I’m focusing on the things that make me happy. I put my phone away and cross Constitution and head toward the National Monument.

There’s no place prettier than Washington, DC, in the Spring.

This first week of April has been spectacular.

The weather is a nice balance of cool mornings and balmy evenings. The cherry blossoms are in bloom, but the season is almost over so the tidal basin isn’t packed with people.

My braids are fresh and not too tight, my jeans feel good, and my jasmine body oil is turning heads.

If “not looking like what you’ve been through” was an Olympic sport, I’m pretty sure I’d medal.

The last two weeks have been some of the most trying of my life. I clawed my way back to standing and after two weeks of hard decisions and heartbreak, I’ve earned a day where all I do is what makes me happy.

I promised myself today would be for things that make me happy.

I walk up the path to the entrance of the National Museum of African History and Culture excited about my behind-the-scenes look at the items that will go on exhibit later this year.

I’m proud of the role I played in making that happen. But it hurts that someone else got credit for the work I did. It will have to be enough that the stolen artifacts I wrote about are on their way back to their rightful owners.

I stand in line with the rest of the ticket holders and marvel at how, nearly ten years after it opened, it’s still one of the few Smithsonian's popular enough to require a reservation.

I came down to visit it for the first time and went with my entire family. My father told anyone who would listen that the architect who designed the ten-story building is from Ghana. Just like him.

It’s true that the vision for the design came from a Ghanaian man.

But the unique corona shape of it was inspired by the pillars used in Yoruba architecture.

The nearly four thousand aluminum panels that make up the bronze facade are carved with intricate patterns that are an homage to the ironworks designed and made famous by Black Americans in cities like New Orleans and Charleston.

I too owe my singularity to the melding of several cultures. The kinship I feel for this museum and the history it holds makes every visit feel like stepping on sacred ground.

“Welcome. How can I help you?” A young man stands in greeting as I approach the desk at the center of the gigantic main hall.

“I’ve got a three o’clock with the Senior Curator of Special Collections.”

“Just one moment.” The young man at the check-in swipes his mouse around and studies his screen and nods. “Ms. A. Sackey?”

“That’s me.”

“Here you go.” He hands me a printed name badge and then points to his right. “You’ll take the elevator to the fifth floor. Use your badge to choose the floor. They’re expecting you.”

I do as he asks but promise myself I’ll take the escalators on my way down. The view from there is magical.

On the fifth floor, I’m greeted by a young woman with gorgeous shoulder length locs. “Welcome Ms. Sackey. I’m going to show you to Mr. Mends’ office. You can wait there for him.”

She smiles politely but turns away before I can read the name tag stuck to the lapel of her brightly colored maxi dress. I have to hustle to keep up with her. “Do you want some coffee?” She asks and stops outside a double wood paneled door.

“No, thank you.” If I drink coffee now, I’ll never fall asleep.

She leads me into a large office with a window that faces the National Monument. “Mr. Mends is wrapping up his meeting. And you’re a little early.”

“Am I?” I instinctively put my hand in my tote to fish out my phone.

“Yes, but it’s perfectly okay.” She smiles stiffly, and I get the distinct feeling that it’s actually not okay. “If you change your mind about coffee, you can help yourself from the machine over there.” She points to a wet bar in the corner of the room. “There’s also water in the fridge.”

I wait for her to leave before I look at the time. I scoff. “Just as I thought.” I’m not early. It’s three minutes until three. In my book, anything less than five minutes early is on time.

Resigned to wait, I unlock my phone and check my notifications.

There’s another notification telling me that the recording is finished and ready to watch. It’s more than twelve minutes long.

That’s odd.

I’ve got a minute to kill and curious because I don’t remember ordering anything this week, I open the app and hit play.

Stephen walks into the frame, talking. I assume he’s on the phone until he’s joined in the frame by a woman who’s back is to the camera.

“What the fuck?” I hiss. They stand in front of my desk, face to face, not talking. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he laughs at something she said.

The video freezes on that frame. His mouth open, her hand on his shoulder.

I refresh but nothing happens. I check my service and growl. I’ve only got one bar.

I move to the window and hold my phone up in vain.

“Don’t bother. The service in here is terrible.”

I jump, so engrossed that I didn’t hear the door open. I spin around surprised.

“You scared me,” I chide and walk over to meet him in the middle of the room. I drop my phone in my purse and force my attention to the present and smile at the man I’m here to see.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” he says as we approach each other.

“It’s okay. I know how busy you are Mr. Senior Curator.” I add some flare to my voice.

“Sounds so good, right?” He beams a smile and instead of the handshake I expected, he pulls me into a hug. “It’s so good to finally meet you in person.”

After a split second of surprise, I return it. “You too.” Even though after more than a year of emails, Zoom calls and texts, it doesn’t feel like the first time at all. “I’m so glad we could make this happen,” I add when we break our embrace.

He wrinkles his nose. “About that. I know I promised you could see the items today, but something has come up in my last meeting that means I can’t spare the time after all. I’m so sorry.”

Disappointed, I deflate a little but shake it off.

I’m a big believer that everything happens for a reason.

“It’s okay, Leon. I understand. I was surprised when you said you were free.

I’ve been reading all the press about their arrival.

” The bronzes, carvings, jewelry and other cultural artifacts that we helped reclaim from museums and private collections all over North America have been big news in the art world.

“Yeah, it’s been crazy.”

“That’s what happens when you make history.”

He smiles but brushes the praise away. “Hardly. And if history was made, we made it together. Have you figured out how that story got scooped by The Guardian?”

“Nope.”

“But when I read the article, I knew she had used your research because some of those things were direct quotes from me, and I didn’t talk to her.”

“Well, unfortunately I have no way of proving anything, and my editors didn’t have my back.”

“God, I’m sorry.”

“Just promise me that if she comes to see the exhibit you won’t show her the Queen Mother’s stool. She doesn’t deserve it,” I quip trying to make light of something that still hurts.

He doesn’t laugh. His expression loses all its humor and he looks away.

“What’s wrong?”

He motions for me to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He sits in the other and leans forward, hands resting on his knees. “This isn’t public knowledge.”

“What isn’t?” I press.

“This is off the record.”

My fifth sense, as I call it, starts vibrating. “Okay.”

His pins me with his eyes. “I’m trusting you Sin, but if you say you heard it from me, I’ll deny it.”

I stifle an impatient growl and nod. “You’ve got my word. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“On its way from Chicago, the truck that was transporting the artifacts for the exhibit was robbed. The Ohemaa’s Stool was taken along with most of the ivory and several carvings.”

Horrified, I gasp and press a hand to my chest. “When did this happen? And why didn’t you tell me?”

He heaves a long-suffering sigh. “We all signed NDAs. The museum doesn’t want anyone to know they’ve lost it.”

“I can imagine they don’t, but the Interpol database is publicly available. How can they avoid it getting out?”

“They didn’t report it.”

“Are they trying to find it?” I ask incredulously. “It’s scheduled to be returned next year.”

He grimaces. “I don’t know what is motivating their behavior. I’m new to this role and this team.”

I sit up. “Do they have any clue who it is?”

“I don’t know what they think, but I think it’s The Wizard. Same MO, all the thefts are of West African cultural relics. And they’re sophisticated, well-trained people carrying out these heists.”

I sigh and shake my head, my mind boggled. “How could they have known the stool was on that truck? It wasn’t announced publicly, was it?”

He shakes his head, his nostrils flare like he smells something bad. “They have someone on the inside. Maybe not at the NMAAHC but in the Smithsonian organization,” Leon says.

My stomach flutters. “That’s what I think, too.” It’s what I’ve always thought. “Have you considered making an anonymous report to Interpol?”

He shakes his head and leans away. “No. They’ll know it’s me. Only three people here know. I’m not trying to lose my job and be sued.”

Irritated, I scowl at him. “So why are you telling me?”

“Because you didn’t sign an NDA. And I think I have a lead on The Wizard. Someone I met told me she works for a man who runs auctions where they sell things that are illegal. She said his name is Oz.” He looks at me meaningfully.

My stomach drops as his implication comes clear. I shake my head on dismissal. “No way the criminal mastermind who has been harder to pin down than smoke would give himself such an obvious moniker.”

“That’s what I thought, too, but I asked her if she’d talk to you.”

“Why me?”

“I know your article was more focused on the artifacts return but you were also starting to look into the black market. Do you think The Times would let you switch gears and work on it?” His eyes are so hopeful it kills to say no.

I close my eyes briefly and groan. “Oh Leon…I can’t.”

He presses me. “You can. You’re the only person who can. And imagine how explosive it would be if you found the culprit while law enforcement twiddled their thumbs. It would be a huge coup for The Times. And you.”

I shake my head. “I can’t, literally. The Times passed on the story. I resigned two weeks ago.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you were locked in over there. Didn’t you just get promoted?”

“I didn’t get it.” Heat rises up my neck at the flash of pity on his face.

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have talked about it like it was a done deal,” I admit. I blink away the sting of tears.

“Oh man, I’m sorry. Their loss.”

It doesn’t feel that way but it’s nice to hear him say it.

“It’s all good. I'm moving back to the DMV. I just accepted an offer from The Spectator.” I make jazz hands and grin. I feel good about this decision. But saying it aloud for the first time makes it feel scarily real.

His smile brightens. “Wow, that’s great. Having a Black woman in the West Wing has been amazing. You reporting on it for the Lifestyle section is perfect. Can’t wait to read whatever you write.”

I squirm under his praise, and my throat tightens but I return his smile. “Actually, I’ll be writing the weekly advice column.”

His eyes widen with appreciation. “Dear Diary? My mom reads that religiously.”

“Does she? Mine swears she’s never heard of it,” I quip.

“Well, mine has. She’s going to flip when I tell her I know you.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not that serious,” I say.

“Yes, it is. That’s cool as hell.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “And very different for you. You done with sleuthing?”

“More like sleuthing is done with me.” I chuckle like the words don’t break my heart.

“That’s a shame. You are great at it.” He smiles but it’s forced.

Guilt pokes at me but I’m not moved by it. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. The black market’s distribution is airtight. Unless you have something solid. Something more than a name that isn’t uncommon. I just don’t see how I can help.”

“You’re right. It was long shot.” He glances at his watch and stands. “I’m sorry that I put you on the spot like that. Don’t hold it against me.”

I smile, sad and ready to move on. “I won’t. It was nice to see you. I’ll be in touch when I’m settled.”

While I wait for the elevator, I check my phone’s reception. It’s still terrible but I press play and rejoice when the video starts to play. I watch, my breath in my throat as the woman he’s talking to turns to face him.

The frame freezes with her in profile but it’s enough to know who it is.

What the fuck is that bitch doing in my house?

I need Wi-Fi. And privacy.

Leon, the missing stool, and my career heartbreak are forgotten as a sense of urgency to get back to my hotel takes over.

I skip the slow descent on the escalators and take the elevator down to the main hall of the museum.

Normally, I’d take my time on my way out to stop and read the exhibit cards and see what’s new in the hall.

Today, though, I weave through the crowd, checking my phone’s reception every few seconds, until I run into the solid wall of a man’s chest hard enough to send me flying back, my arms flailing for purchase.

My fall is broken by a strong hand around my bicep. I drop my phone, and it lands with a loud clatter.

“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” I say to no one in particular while I scan the ground for my phone. I grab it and shout an apology and thanks over my shoulder. I make a beeline for the door, drop my phone back in my bag, and focus on where I’m going.