"Torero" by Pablo Picasso (1949), stolen 2018 - value $45,000

Chapter Two

The pale glimmer of an imminent dawn threatened us outside the museum. Exhausted officials conversed in quiet murmurs in the halls, their faces drawn and pallor pale.

It was gone. Really, truly, gone.

The museum had been combed top to bottom, but no hiding thieves were found. The grounds had been searched, but no obvious criminals roamed or cowered. Nooks and crannies were swept, but no pieces of art were discovered tucked away. Now, their best chance for finding the painting would be heavy investigations and watchful eyes on smuggling chains. Or skillful deep pressing on sore spots in criminal links. They said it was likely the culprits would try to get the painting out of the country, and alerts had been sent to databases across the world.

The Weeping Widow had joined an impossibly long list of stolen, unretrieved items for officials to watch out for. It'd taken a place on the FBI's National Stolen Art File, a collection of fine art and property that numbered over fifty pages. From historical letters, paintings, swords, statues, and even Superbowl rings, some of the artifacts had been on the list for a very long time. Interpol's stolen art database numbered over fifty-two thousand items as well.

The Widow joined their sullen ranks.

There were a number of high-profile smugglers and traders that either dabbled or specialized in stolen art, and the FBI would keep a watchful eye on them to see if the Widow traded hands. It was the best contender for hope, along with dim optimism a tip would come through, or an informant would shuffle forward.

But there isn't much of a chance for that to happen.

"Here." A cardboard cup clunked down in front of me, thudding against the wooden surface of my desk. August stood above it, looking as tired as I felt. It was an exhaustion that felt wired with electricity, but no jolt or zap could lift the heavy weight on our bodies. It wasn't only from a lack of sleep.

"Thanks. Where's Geraldine?" I numbly reached forward for the coffee, feeling the warmth burn against clammy fingers as August settled in one of my chairs. He slouched in the seat and tightly gripped his own cup.

Geraldine had disappeared after our conversation, standing with tight shoulders and a firm set to her mouth as she told me she was going to find the detectives. I was sure she'd be held by their questioning and updates for a while, and then the big dogs would surely arrive and begin the process all over again. If I was lucky, I would escape any more questioning until tomorrow. They'd eventually sniff me out, but I'd hopefully paid my dues, at least for the night.

"Still talking with the detectives," August replied. "I asked her to finish up soon. I don't want her up all night, and she can answer the rest of the questions tomorrow. I think she's done all she can for now." His worry for his elderly grandmother was clear in his heavy brow and slumped shoulders, but there'd be no convincing Geraldine otherwise if she wanted to stay.

"Have you called your mom and dad? Or anyone else?"

"Yes. But they're still in New York, so they won't get here until late tomorrow. They tried calling Gramma, but I watched her hit decline. That was a fun thing to tell them," he said, slightly exasperated.

Even with the heaviness of the situation, my lips turned upwards at Geraldine's antics. She loved her son and daughter-in-law, but she also drove them crazy. My lips flattened as I realized another reason she probably didn't want to take the call. She wouldn't want to step away from the investigation at such a critical time.

"What happens now?" I asked. I took a long sip of the coffee, ignoring the scald on my tongue and savoring the sensory jolt that would help wake me up. I was tired and awake, panicked and calm, and a million other contrasting feelings that strung out my mind and smothered my sanity.

August sighed, running his hands through his hair again. I'd told him before he would cause early hair loss if he didn't quit, but I understood his need to keep moving. We were too tired to stop and too wired to relax. His blue eyes were dull as they met mine, and I hated to see it.

"The FBI is on their way, and the police are still here, but almost everyone else is gone. There'll be more questioning tomorrow, but that's tomorrow's problem to be honest. Tonight's problem is getting Gramma home before the shock wears off. It's eventually going to hit her that it's really gone." He paused for a moment, shaking his head with a soft groan. "This investigation is going to be rough, El."

I nodded, pursing my lips. Tomorrow would be a total shit show. I was very glad it was an issue for then and not now. Tonight, they would take pictures, obtain records, retrieve security footage, and coordinate the investigation.

Tomorrow, they would begin to comb and dig. Tomorrow, the real questioning would begin. Or rather, today. The sun was almost up.

"They said they'd have more questions for me tomorrow," I glumly informed.

"Yes, you were the first one there. And you were here while it happened. They want you to tell them everything you heard or saw."

"I already told them when they questioned me earlier, I didn't see or hear anything, just the alarm. I'll tell them again tomorrow."

August nodded, dropping his head back to look at the ceiling, propped against the back of the seat. We lapsed into silence, both of us drinking our coffees and fighting the weight of the never-ending night. As terrible as I felt, I was glad for August's presence. He was calming and a long-time friend, and it was comfortable to sit in silence with him.

Augustus Leon Whitehill was the eldest of Geraldine's grandkids and by far the closest to her. He hadn't yet taken over the Whitehill company, but he'd been involved since he was born to prepare for his someday inheritance. His father still presided over the company his grandfather passed down, and his grandmother still ran her estate, but he'd been 'in-training' since he could walk. One day he would be head of the Whitehill family, and he was prepared. He had to be.

Sooner or later he'd be CEO of Whitehill Enterprises, and he would eventually become head of the museum's board of trustees. But for now, he was August Whitehill, son and grandson. For now, he was my friend.

August's hand raised, tossing his empty cup into the trashcan by my desk. He leaned forward, catching my eye with a determined look.

"Go home, El."

His voice was quiet, but left no room for argument. It was more of a caring order than a suggestion. Gentle, but firm in his demand.

"I will. I'm waiting for you and Geraldine."

"We're going home, too. Go home and get some sleep. You have to be here in a few hours, so get some rest." He stood and waited expectantly. I grimaced, knowing he was right, and stood on weary legs. My knees carried too much pressure and my feet buzzed as I walked slowly by August's side, heading down the echoey halls towards the entrance. Both of us stared straight ahead as we passed by the crime scene, neither of us turning to look. There was nothing to say, and nothing we wanted to see.

When we reached the main hall, officials still milled around, wrapping things up for the time being. August's hand fell on my back to lead me through, guiding me out the door and into the faint chill of a dawn teetering on the cusp of arrival. Our footsteps were loud as he walked me to my car, too sharp in the hazy silence of a world still groggy.

I turned to August, my hand resting on the car door and one leg already tucked on the floorboards. The beat-up red car I called mine waited patiently as I studied him in silence, from his solemn expression to the exhausted drop of his shoulders. August was only two years older than me, but he looked so much like his father right then. He didn't look like the carefree young man he should've been, enjoying his twenties and finding his place in the world.

But then again, I wasn't the carefree young woman I should've been, either. We'd both been given our place in the world, and neither of us had any room for giving it back.

"I'll see you tomorrow, August." I finally broke the quiet, disrupting the thick layer of hush and piercing it with my hesitant goodbye. He cleared his throat before responding.

"Drive safe. I'll see you later." He stepped back, watching as I got in. I pulled out of Whitehill's lot, feeling his attention until I disappeared into the faint light of an awakening morning. Until he turned around, disappearing back into the museum bearing his name, to get his grandmother home.

A while later, after only a few hours of fitful sleep that couldn't be considered rest, my laptop screen shone against the harsh light of mid-day. I needed to be at the museum, but instead I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the illuminated image.

The Widow stared back, her eyes sad and broken even as a photo online. I'd pulled up the FBI's database, where the newest entry was already posted. I knew it'd been called in to the agency immediately but it'd been entered surprisingly quickly to the website.

It joined the likes of Picasso's Torero, a print stolen from a lobby in Milwaukee, and several of Monet's missing works. It found a place between penciled works by Dali and bronze statues, nestled between Native American artifacts and ivory teapots, surrounded by oil works and dainty watercolors. Centuries of art and millions, if not billions, of dollars of precious items still missing. Some had been missing for decades, some only a few years. Some would be missing forever.

Did it count as missing if someone knew where it was? Even if it was a thief who had the weighty, costly knowledge, there was still someone out there who knew where the precious item took up space. It wasn't really missing. It was unknown for most of the world maybe, but it wasn't lost completely. Someone, somewhere, had these items. Maybe hidden in a basement, or tucked behind plaster in the walls, or hung in climate-controlled bunkers. Perhaps in the private rooms of a collector with no qualms about buying stolen art, or tucked in someone's attic who had no idea of its worth. Or maybe, some of these items really were gone forever. Art was often destroyed or taken in wars, some fallen in battle or buried in rubble. Some works would never be recovered, for whatever reason.

I was more than aware of how easily, and how often, art could disappear. It wasn't unheard of, and happened far more often than anyone seemed to realize. So many works by so many great artists had disappeared over the years, some recovered, some not. Even the Mona Lisa had been stolen before and returned years later. And most didn't know artists themselves could be thieves. Picasso himself had sticky fingers.

The Weeping Widow was not unique in its disappearance and would not be unique if never recovered. Maybe now it was just another reason for her tears.

A sharp cacophony of knocks flooded my apartment from the door and my spine twitched as I jolted. Annoyance climbed up my back, clouding my fuzzy brain and igniting anger. I stomped furiously to the door, flinging it open without checking who it was. I was in no mood for company.

"What?" I snapped, glaring at the young woman on the other side. I couldn't say I was truly surprised by her presence, but it was unwelcome at that point in time. She only rolled her eyes and shoved past me, apparently not giving a damn about my attitude.

"Have you seen the news?" she demanded. I gritted my teeth, closing my door with a harsh snap and turning to her.

My younger sister wasn't that much younger than me, but just enough for me to still struggle to see her as an adult. But she was, and even a near-graduate of the nearby university. We had a standard sister relationship grounded in screeching threats and a certain shade of love. I would give her my left kidney but not my favorite shirt.

Carrie didn't look anything like me. It was something constantly remarked on by new acquaintances. Her hair was a very light, straight brown in wild contrast to my dark curls, and her eyes were as light as her hair. Mine were a conflicting hazel that clashed in a mix of color. She took after our mom, and I took after our dad. She looked like the gentle protagonist in a fairytale and I looked like the deceitful villain.

"What news?" I asked, forcibly keeping my tone monotone and uninterested.

"You don't know? You work there! Wait, why aren't you at work?" Her eyebrow lifted, as if just realizing I was home in the middle of a weekday. Her nose scrunched as she looked me over, taking in the ratty sweatpants and lopsided tee that framed my body.

"Why would you come over if you thought I was at work?" I grumbled. I pushed past her to return to my kitchen. She ignored me as she followed, her eyes immediately falling to my open laptop and the sorrowful gaze of the Widow.

"So, you do know," she stated.

I scowled, pouring her a cup of coffee and shoving it in her hands. Our mother had taught us hospitality even when a guest's presence was unwelcome. I needed to get to the museum, and I didn't want to experience questioning before I even got there. My sister was always full of questions. I would have enough of that the moment I stepped through the door.

"Obviously I know what happened. It's the big showpiece of the entire museum, the whole world knows by now. I'm more than aware."

She once again ignored my sarcastic bite, used to it and unaffected. She was also giving me some leeway, knowing stress was a potent aggravator and I had plenty of it to spare. I shoved the scrape of gratitude deep down. I was caught in a hurricane of emotions and had no time to enter the eye.

"Why aren't you there?" she continued, narrowing her eyes. Suspicion trickled out of her like a leaky faucet that was intent to drip, drip, drip away my sanity.

"I'm going there now. I only got home a few hours ago."

I shoved off the counter I'd been leaning on, heading to my room to grab the last of my things. My sister stayed in the kitchen, settling at my computer and beginning her own curious scroll through the pages of precious items.

"This is all stuff that was stolen?" she asked as soon as I stepped back into the kitchen. Her gaze was focused, her attention entirely absorbed as she read the descriptions of the works. Her eyes were impossibly wide as she looked over the famous names and iconic pieces. Even those with only toes dipped in the fine arts would recognize some of the names displayed in the bright, cursed pixels.

"It's all stuff that's unaccounted for, one way or another."

"It's a lot," Carrie concluded, sitting back in the chair. I puffed out a breath, taking another quick glance at the screen before hastily closing it and scooping it under my arm.

"It doesn't include everything, either."

Carrie whistled, following me to the living room and watching as I shoved the laptop in my bag. I swung it on my shoulder and looked around for the shoes I'd kicked off in a daze only hours before.

"So, I guess you're going to have a pretty shitty week," she remarked casually. My anger compounded, a lack of sleep and the gravity of everything making me coiled and temperamental.

"No shit, sherlock. It's going to be an awful long ass week, and probably crazy for months, so I have to go."

I loved my sister, I really did, and I was being a bitch. I knew that. But I was in no mood for accurate observations, or conversations of the swirling storm that hung overhead. Especially not when I was preparing to enter said storm.

"What did August say?" Carrie asked as she followed me out of my apartment and into the elevator. Carrie had met August a few times, and I was pretty sure she carried a tiny crush on him though he was a few years older. He was my best friend, so the whole thing both amused and grossed me out, but I didn't feel the need to worry. Carrie was dating, and August was too busy to be anything but polite to her.

"There wasn't much to say. We were worried about Geraldine." I jabbed my finger at the button, waiting impatiently for the old lift to move.

Carrie bit her lip, her own expression turning worried as she stood next to me. Just like she'd met August a few times, she'd met Geraldine the couple times I brought her to the museum. She adored Geraldine, too, especially the glamour and glitz of her life both past and present. I was convinced Carrie was a true heiress in another life, a rendition of Fitzgerald's Daisy or even a real-life version of Holly Golightly.

We walked through the lobby of the building, neither of us saying a word as we entered the harsh realm of the California sun. I glanced at Carrie, guilt already creeping in. I unfairly took my emotions out on her, taking it a little bit further than our usual snips and snark between sisters.

"Thank you for coming to check on me. I'm sorry I was bitchy," I sulkily apologized.

"You're always bitchy," she quipped with a shrug. I rolled my eyes, guilt quickly dissipating into meaningless vapor. We were sisters and could jab at each other in ways others couldn't, so for us that was normal. Annoying, but I wasn't sure I'd have it any other way.

"Whatever. Bye." I began to stomp towards my car. She didn't let me get far before responding.

"You can do this, Ellie. Don't let yourself get too stressed out. It'll be okay," she called out. My steps slowed, and I forced my head to look at her over my shoulder. I plastered a smile before turning back to rush to my car, my head hung.

I sped toward my new hell, a place that had once been heaven, now tainted by the dark touch of crime and deceit. It was an intoxicating and unforgiving grip that couldn't be scrubbed off or removed. It dug itself in and marked the museum forever. It left claw marks, painfully deep gashes in the reprieve of sanctuary. It scarred, and scars could only fade.

And I could only hope those scars eventually faded.

If anyone is interested, I highly encourage looking up the FBI's National Stolen Art File (it's a real thing!). I think it's fascinating to look through. It includes some wild things, and yes, there really are several Superbowl rings listed. The website doesn't include any information about the loss of the items or the circumstances, but google can help you there.

The first item listed really is Picasso's "Torero", which was taken from plain view in the middle of a workday only a few years ago. It was displayed in the lobby of an art appraisal company - then plucked off the wall and taken, yet somehow not captured by a single camera inside or out. Wild, huh? The wildest part - the thief left another painting in the lobby that was worth more than Torero. Anyway, it's an interesting rabbit hole to fall down.

- H