"The Concert" by Johannes Vermeer (c. 1664), stolen 1990 - value $250 million

Chapter Three

The museum was closed to the public, and I imagined it would be for quite some time. However, the building wasn't empty. It never was, and it was certainly nowhere close to empty now.

It bustled.

Museum employees congregated in tight groups; whispers quickly exchanged as they rushed from place to place. Detectives spoke tersely to each other, just as hasty whenever they crossed the wide foyer. The place was crowded with people scrambling to put out fires ignited last night, or people knee-deep in the search for the arsonist.

That's what it was. The loss of the Widow was a fire that threatened to consume us, threatening the stability of Whitehill and offering to bring the museum to its knees. It kicked the foundation and prepared to test the might of the build, charring what once was pristine and shattering what once was shining. It rose higher and higher when it wasn't put out immediately. It could cause devastation faster than the eye could blink.

News articles already churned, and blogs across the world babbled about the theft. I'd been forced to maneuver around news vans and hungry reporters when I arrived, and I had no desire to go out and expose myself to the wolves again. As far as I was concerned, I'd moved into the museum until they left.

I nodded at Owen, the head of security, as I passed. He nodded back, his expression grim before returning his attention to overseeing the installation of more security. More cameras, more alarms, more sensors. The museum would be both a gilded palace and an impenetrable fortress by the time the dust settled.

I searched for August or Geraldine as I made my way in but didn't see either Whitehill. Conflicting emotions surged and clashed at their absence. It was a tsunami I didn't want to be a part of, but knew the swells of an uneven tide would give me no choice. I eventually made it to my office, kicking to keep my head above water, and sighed as I saw the mess on my desk. I wasn't sure if the new exhibit or fundraiser ball were moot points now, or if they were especially important for the museum's recovery. I supposed Geraldine would meet with the board to decide. Until then, my work on them stalled in irresolution.

I settled in my chair, scanning my emails. Several had been sent out to all museum employees from the board, informing us of the touch-and-go nature of the situation and the uncertainty of how this would play out. The emails promised to keep us informed as they decided how to continue and how to recover, and swore to keep us updated as it unfolded.

They also sent a copy of the statement released to the public. The press release was a vague response, briefly conveying the dismay of the museum and emphasizing the hopes of a quick recovery of our Widow. It was short, but it didn't necessarily have to be long; it was truly only a temporary bandage to address concerns while they picked a strategy to douse the flames. Almost all of the accompanying emails heavily urged employee compliance with sticking to the statement. They informed of the crucial need for sealed lips to the press or anyone with prying questions, and warningly cited the necessity of a united front. I could almost believe the assurances we'd pull through as a team and as a family.

Between the press release and the emails, it was an overwhelming and slightly threatening thread to pull.

I was so intent on absorbing the barrage of information I didn't realize when someone stepped through the open door of my office. I only noticed when the chair in front of my desk scraped on the floor, clunky as it stuttered and pulled back to make room for long legs.

August once again sat before my desk, cloudy eyes set on me and expression unreadable. He looked more put together than the night before, his golden curls neatly combed and his collar crisp around his throat. He looked more like himself, more like August Whitehill, because August usually looked carefully crafted and slightly tired. The man hadn't stopped moving since he was born.

Right then, he also looked more strained than I'd ever seen him. His normally bright blue eyes, once brimming with teasing mischief, were tired and marred by deep purple. He was slightly pale, and he looked entirely too tightly wound.

"When are your parents getting in?" I asked, leaning forward onto my elbows, twiddling a pen between my fingers. August's eyes focused on the pen, looking up in a silent warning not to start clicking or tapping. I'd often driven him nuts clicking a pen; it was a favorite pastime of mine, done consciously or not.

"Their flight lands at six. They're coming straight here."

"And Geraldine?" I asked hesitantly. August gave me a grave look, his throat bobbing before answering. Frustration flickered across his face and settled in his eyes.

"She won't admit it, but she's devastated. I don't know why she's acting like it's not a big deal. She's very focused on moving forward," he revealed. I frowned in confusion.

"Moving forward as in how the museum will bounce back, or moving forward in the investigation?"

"Bouncing back. I can't tell if she thinks the painting will be recovered soon, so it's nothing to worry about, or if it hasn't really hit her yet that its gone. Or it has hit her, and she's just pretending like it doesn't bother her for appearances."

If that was the case, I wondered who the show for appearances was for. What was the motive, and who was the intended audience? Was it for museum personnel to show she wasn't worried, and the employees didn't need to be either? Was it for the public, to reassure we were as steady as ever? Or was it for her circle, to show them she wasn't affected by the loss of millions?

Is it an act of leadership or a shrug to the public?

With Geraldine, it could've been all of the above, or it could've been for her own reasons. It was always hard to tell with her.

"She has her family. She'll get through this," I promised. I tried to pour reassurance into the words, but I wasn't sure how strong their effect was. August nodded half-heartedly, knowing as well as I did the Widow wasn't just any painting.

It'd been the final anniversary gift from Mr. Whitehill before he died, and eventually the reason Geraldine decided to open a museum. It was the most famous work by her most favorite artist. She really, truly loved it. It was a sad piece that screamed grief, but Geraldine admired the raw emotion captured on canvas, and seemingly found something in the watery eyes of the lone lady. She'd cherished it even before Mr. Whitehill had passed away, and after his death I think it'd taken on a new meaning.

From one weeping widow to another, I think a special bond had formed.

August was only a young teenager when his grandfather died, but he'd taken on his grandfather's, and even his father's, desire to gift Geraldine with art. The Whitehill family was always prowling for new pieces, and I knew more works would continue to join their firmly established ranks. But I wasn't sure any could, or would ever, hold a candle to the grieving woman in her gilded frame.

"Gramma's with the FBI now. I'll let them know you're here." August let out a small and quiet sigh, obviously desperate for a break and not eager to return. I was sure it was why he'd escaped to my office. Not only to see or talk to me, but to sit and have a moment away. My office was always open for him to hide as long as he could from the pressures of being a Whitehill. But August stood as he always did, fixed his sleeves, and settled back into his public persona before slipping out the door.

I hesitated when August left, wondering if it'd be better if I followed. It probably would, but there was something tempting about letting the prowling hounds come to me on my own turf—yet there was also no guarantee they wouldn't ask me to go with them anyway, and I hated to wait. So, with my own resigned sigh, I stood and made my way out. As much as I appreciated August offering to go find them, letting me have a few more minutes before I had to face the music, I couldn't avoid the symphony forever.

I assumed they were in Geraldine's office. There weren't a whole lot of places in the museum for investigative teams to effectively meet up. I couldn't see them congregating in our 'Art in the Gold Rush' exhibit, where art, photographs, and artifacts paid homage to the creation of California. I couldn't imagine them conversing before displays exploring effects on Native communities, nature, technology, and the economy. It wasn't exactly a place to conference. Neither was our Whitehill prize exhibit, where pieces that ranked in the annual competition and the Whitehill private collection were displayed, or Jon Leehaven's personal exhibit showing his works.

I briefly wondered how Jon felt about the theft. I expected he wasn't thrilled his name was attached to what'd happened, even if only as thinly stretched as having an open exhibit at the time of the theft.

I made my way through the halls of the museum, avoiding the strained faces of my coworkers who could only afford a tight nod as they hurried by. I walked slowly towards the crime scene, still sectioned off, and covered in broken glass. As hard as I tried to avoid looking in the room, my eye caught the evidence markers that littered the wooden floors, and I paused by the entrance still blocked off by tape. Several of the markers were scattered around the small emergency exit door blended into the wall.

The door should've caused the fire alarm to go off after fifteen seconds of continuous pushing; only then should the door have opened—but no fire alarm had gone off. Only the security system had blared the night before, yet the door had still served as an escape route for victorious thieves.

I continued my slow footsteps up the stairs to Geraldine's office. I heard August's voice before I saw him.

"Gramma, did you have anything to eat yet? Do you want some tea?"

August's voice was gentle and concerned, but I didn't hear Geraldine's response before another voice cut in.

"Ms. Vaycker is here? Where is she?" That voice was gruff and demanding as it continued a conversation I hadn't heard the beginning of. It was a tone I was sure August loved. I hurried as I made my way closer.

"She's in her office. I can escort you there after I get my grandmother some lunch," August replied. There was a sharp bite present then under his professional tone. It was cooly polished, but I knew August like I knew the museum. There was a bond, a familiarity, a habitual understanding that allowed me to walk, hear, and see blind.

Geraldine's voice joined the conversation, gentle as she tried to appease her grandson's concerns. "I'm fine, Gus. Please show them the way to her office."

I could almost feel August's masked unhappiness, one he most likely soothed with a hand through his hair.

"Lead the way," the harsh voice spoke again.

I turned the corner through the open door, coming face to face with a scene I could easily see captured on canvas. Geraldine sat regally behind her glass desk, her expression cool and unreadable as she faced forward. August stood next to her with angry creases around his eyes and a stiff stance. He grappled with professionalism and anger as he stared at the two others in the room, his hand sternly coming down to his side from his head. One of the strangers was half-turned, startled as I almost ran into him in my quick entry. The other had her back to me, but she turned at the jolted sound the man made as I came to a sudden stop and stepped back.

"Oh, good. They were just about to come find you, Eleanor," Geraldine calmly announced.

My breathing was slightly elevated from rushing in, but I sucked in a quick breath of air and responded.

"Good afternoon, Geraldine."

Geraldine smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good afternoon, Eleanor."

"Eleanor Vaycker?" the man questioned immediately. He paired it with a scrutinizing glance-over of me and a twisted scowl that did little to make him approachable. August was not a fan of the man or the way he acted based on the flash in his eyes, but I didn't allow any negative response of my own to show.

"Yes," I answered politely. "May I help you?"

The man opened his mouth, but stopped, cut off by the woman stepping forward and extending her hand.

"Agent Catarina Gallick from the Bureau's art crime team. L.A. branch. Nice to meet you, Ms. Vaycker."

For a breath I evaluated her, even as my body naturally leaned forward to greet her. Agent Gallick looked to be in her mid- to late-thirties and radiated with the power of an intimidating and powerful woman. Her black pant suit was paired with sleek heels, and her dark hair was clipped back from her face, giving her a very polished and pristine look. I liked her. Being an intimidating woman was not a bad thing; it was powerful, and I admired it.

"Eleanor Vaycker, exhibit coordinator. One of them, at least. Nice to meet you, Agent Gallick." I shook her hand, returning her firm grip before turning to the grumpy man once more. He stepped forward for a brief and begrudged handshake before quickly dropping my hand and retreating.

"Andrew Graves. Private art detective."

"Andrew was highly recommended by several acquaintances after they'd heard what happened," Geraldine explained, gesturing to him. "He'll be doing his own side investigation, Eleanor."

Andrew Graves couldn't be much older than Agent Gallick, but he was certainly grumpier. He had a harsh gaze under short hair that barely reached his ears. While Agent Gallick wore a power suit and a badge on her hip, he wore clothing that barely veered business casual. I hadn't met many private art detectives in my time, but Andrew Graves was not what I was expecting. He looked hardened and angry, and stared like everyone around him was a criminal that hadn't yet been caught. I didn't want to make assumptions about him based on his appearance, or think art could only be appreciated by certain types, but it was hard to imagine the grouch in front of me as an appreciator of fine art. I could imagine him as a bounty hunter, maybe, but his anger made it hard to imagine him standing in front of an O'Keefe or Kahlo and valuing it. Still, I chided myself for my stereotyping.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Graves."

Another scowl.

"You said you had questions for Eleanor, Agent Gallick?" August wore his own twisted expression towards Graves but tampered it back as he turned to Agent Gallick.

"Please, call me Catarina, all of you. Considering how often we'll be seeing each other, I see no need for formalities," she stated firmly. August nodded.

"With all due respect, Catarina, I'm hoping the painting will be found quickly, and we won't be needing your help for much longer."

Catarina allowed a thin smile and a tilt of her head, eying the firm stance of the Whitehill before her. "We'll see. I don't have the ability to make promises at this time. As I was explaining to your grandmother, we don't have much to go on just yet."

August tried to hide it, but I saw crestfallen disappointment darken his face. He recovered quickly and nodded again.

"What do we know?"

Catarina shifted, crossing her arms and straightening her spine. She may have been in unfamiliar territory, but she was slipping into her own unconsciously familiar space. She could almost match Geraldine's ever-present grace of authority. 

"We know at 1:26 A.M. this morning the security alarms went off, which caused an immediate response by various personnel. By reading the statements procured by officers on scene last night, Ms. Vaycker was the first to arrive." She turned to me expectantly, patiently waiting for me to confirm.

"My office is closer than the guard desk. I heard the alarms, and went out. That's when I saw the glass," I revealed, repeating what I'd told the officers.

"Surveillance shows Eleanor entering the exhibit at 1:27, joined by the night team at 1:30."

"Four minutes?" August interjected. "The guards took four minutes to get there?"

"Several alarms across multiple exhibits went off at the same time, Mr. Whitehill, causing a diversion. The Prize exhibit was the last one responded to, but the only one actually hit," Catarina smoothly replied.

"'August' is fine," he responded quickly. "What about the surveillance before the alarms went off? What did they catch?"

"From 1:13 to 1:26, the surveillance footage was looped. Nothing was caught of entry, painting removal, or exit. The cameras only ended their loop when the alarms finally went off at 1:26."

"So, the alarms went off when the painting was already gone. Why did the alarms not go off when they broke in?" August shook his head, his brows furrowing even more.

"You're right," Catarina agreed. "The alarms went off after the painting had already left the building. I don't have an answer why the alarms didn't go off on entry, I'm hoping system analysis will provide that clarity."

"Not only entry," August informed. "The alarms are set to go off at any disruption to the glass enclosure around the painting. Owen can tell you that. Even if they'd made it in without issue, how'd they break the glass and take the painting off the wall, when it was heavily secured on there? And all without any of the alarms going off until after they'd left the building?" August asked, incredulous frustration leaking into his tone.

I couldn't blame him. It sounded impossible, but it clearly wasn't. August added another question to his ever-growing pile. "And why did the alarm go off at all, if there was no one here to trigger it? The thief had already left with the painting."

"Possibly the same way the footage was looped. We believe this may be the work of a highly skilled group of individuals. Your family will be informed when reports are finished or we have more to share."

We listened intently. Geraldine still wore her composure, and Graves listened with a concentrated squint; August had drawn brows and narrowed eyes. I could imagine a Renaissance painter at his canvas, swiping on the busy group scene. A work with too many things to look at and too many details to pick up at first glance. Too distracted by drying paint to consume one's own surroundings.

"Why do you say it was a group and not a single person?" Graves interrupted, a faintly curious expression growing across the harsh lines of his face.

"Have you come across any individuals in your time that'd be able to coordinate all of that, Mr. Graves?"

"You'd be surprised," Graves muttered grimly. Catarina's hair swished on her back as she turned to him with raised brows. The room grew quiet for a moment, the weight of the epic heist sucking the air out of the room. Geraldine was the first to interrupt.

"Well, we look forward to working with both of you. My son and daughter-in-law arrive from New York shortly, and both will be eager to meet everyone. I'd like to meet later today for introductions and further informing of any progress. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very panicked board waiting for me."

With that, and a pat on August's shoulder, Geraldine left her office. August pinched his nose and took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders back. "Right. We can do any questioning in here, or Eleanor's office if that's preferable."

Graves shot him a nasty look, but August look unfazed. "We? I have questions for Vaycker, not you, Whitehill."

"No reason you can't ask them with me in the room, Graves," August replied strongly. For a moment I wondered if they'd known each other before that day.

Graves looked ready to argue, but August only met his angry gaze with a brutally defiant one; August was a Whitehill, and therefore as stubborn as an ox. It wasn't a battle Graves would win, especially since at the end of the day he worked for the Whitehill family. Realizing the same, Graves worked his jaw and grunted a response.

"You'll have to wait, Mr. Graves, until Ms. Vaycker has finished up with me. We won't be needing your presence, August," Catarina informed, leaving no room for argument in her compelling tone. August didn't look happy, but he agreed with a slow nod, and Graves immediately looked enraged; August had clearly only wanted to be present when Graves was the one questioning me. However, he knew it was another losing battle at August's hard stance and challenging eyes.

Graves spun and left the room with a few glares and muttered vulgarities, followed shortly after by August. August squeezed my hand as he passed, offering a reassuring smile before he too disappeared. The door closed behind him with a resounding click.

"Is here fine, Ms. Vaycker? Or would you like to move to your office?"

"Here is fine. If we're doing first names, then please, call me Eleanor," I said quietly.

The tsunami that'd surged when I'd arrived was now drowning me.

Catarina nodded with a bright smile and settled herself onto one of the plush purple chairs in front of Geraldine's desk. She gestured to the other one, and waited as I slowly complied. I sat stiffly across from her. Our roles felt reversed; having spent so much time in that room, I should've been the one reveling in ease out of the two of us. But I couldn't.

"I know you answered questions last night, Eleanor, but I just have a few more. How long you've worked here, information about the exhibits and paintings, maybe a couple things about yourself. Then we'll talk about a few events from this morning, and your plans for the rest of the day," she said plainly. "Easy things."

I nodded and took a deep breath.

Here we go.