“Was it out of your possession at any point?” It’s hardto tell whether he’s humoring us, because he always sounds deadly serious.
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
Felix clears his throat. “It would have been fairly easy for someone to take it without her noticing. Given the state of her… affairs.” He offers this helpful tidbit in a half whisper, like that makes it less rude. I shoot him a look that says we’ll be discussing this moment later.
“I doubt it was stolen,” I tell Detective Ortiz.
“Your grandmother keeps her door locked?” he asks, too quickly for me to come up with a less damning answer.
“Not… always.”
The detective nods, then turns his attention back to the ring. I want to ask if he’s going to dust it for fingerprints, so I can explain how careful I was not to touch it when I put it in the box. I wonder if he’ll let us watch, especially if they test the poison compartment for residue.This isn’t a school field trip, I remind myself.He’s not going to give you a tour of the lab.
Or anything else, it seems.
“I appreciate you coming forward,” he says, closing the velvet case with a decisive snap. “You don’t have to worry. The ring would not have been used.”
The careful wording catches my attention. “Because whatever it was wouldn’t fit in the compartment? Or did he not ingest it?”
Felix smacks me in the arm. “It could have been a contact poison!”
Detective Ortiz treats us to a rare hint of a facial expression. Unfortunately for us, this one says,Nice try.
So much for tricking him into letting a vital piece ofinformation slip. I can feel the timer counting down, even before he glances at his watch.
“There was something else,” I say in a rush. “That was stolen—”
“My grandfather’s paintings,” Felix interrupts. He doesn’t look at me, but I hear the unspoken warning. Maybe he thinks bringing up Bernie’s cup will throw Malia under the bus—a factor I should have considered before opening my mouth. Besides, art theft sounds cooler than a missing cup.
It seems the detective agrees, because he sits back, no longer on the verge of departure. “More than the one you found at the thrift store?”
Felix nods. “At least four or five others.”
“Can you describe them?”
It’s obvious from his answer that Felix is an artist, because where I would say things like “a swirly blueish background” and “some pink slashes,” he busts out useful terminology like “landscape” and “foreground” and exact color names, along with the approximate size of each canvas and its subject matter.
Detective Ortiz makes a few notes (by hand! With an actual pencil!) in a small spiral notebook he keeps in a pocket. “Do you have a sense of the monetary value of your grandfather’s work? On a per piece basis.”
“I think the most he ever got for one painting was sixty thousand.”
My eyes widen. It sounds like a lot to me, but I’m not exactly an art expert.
“There’s a gallery downtown that carries his stuff,” Felix adds. “They’d know better.”
The detective nods, returning the notebook to his pocket.“We’ll look into it. Leave your number with the desk. I’ll have someone call if we find anything.”
Someone as in “not me.” Subtext: don’t drop by and ask for another chat. The brush-off should be disappointing, but right now being pawned off on an underling is the best-case scenario.
“Thanks so much,” I say brightly, popping to my feet. “We’ve taken enough of your time.” Catching Felix’s eye, I jerk my head at the door. “We should go.”
I start walking before either of them has a chance to respond. Hopefully Detective Ortiz will assume we’re a couple of jittery teenage weirdos running outside to jaywalk while staring at our phones.
“Chill,” Felix whispers as we near the exit. “You’re acting like you left a bomb under your chair.”
I restrain myself to a small huff, waiting until we’re outside the building to round on him. “What were you planning to say if he asked where the paintings were stolenfrom? If it even counts as stealing. She inherited Claude’s apartment, so maybe they belong to her now.”
Felix shakes his head. “He wouldn’t do that to my grandpa. Claude must have known his sister had terrible taste in art. It would be like giving a steak to someone who only eats McDonald’s hamburgers.”
