“Fine,Nash. But you’d better go see Beaumont and calm him down.”
I slung my arm over her shoulder. My sister was tall like me, but still slight in width. “Heading there now, Bee.”
Outside my door, she parted from me, heading back toward the restoration floor. I turned opposite and headed down the long hall toward Beaumont’s office. Nodding at his receptionist; she waved me through.
I opened the large, heavy door and stepped in, catching Beaumont by the window. He had his hands in his pockets, jacket off and his shirt bunching in his checkered suspenders across his back.
He turned then.“Ah,Nash.”
I unbuttoned my jacket as I moved to sit in one of his guest chairs. “Father,” I replied coolly.
Tight-lipped, my father pulled his chair out and sat, leaning back, and looking tired like it wasn’t still morning. “I take it you’ve heard?”
I nodded.
He went on, “I spent all morning on the phone with Henry. He felt vexed about the event.”
“Vexed? Vexed how?” I ventured.
My father tilted his head from side to side. “Well, you know Henry, always seeing a way to spin it in his favor.”
I smirked, loving that I was right.
“I assured him that art heists such as this were inevitable. We experience—” he paused to wave his hand through the air, gesturing at an estimation, “—half a dozen such events a year. Whether it’s one of our clients or our competitors, I told him these things happen. Still, I’m upset that it did.”
I took in my father’s relaxed state; this wasn’t how I’d expected to find him. “You seem calmer than Bee made you out to be.”
He huffed. “Son, you know your sister. Her overreaction is half of what sets me off sometimes—so much like your mother, rest her soul.”
Bee and I kept our activities hidden from our father, Mr. Jeffrey Beaumont. He could never have imagined that we, fifth-generation part owners of one of the largest auction houses in New York, executed half the art heists in the world every year.
My father’s estimation of half a dozen was nowhere near the real number, either. So much art moved on the black market, under the table of the everyday art world. What we knew to exist of historically prominent artists was only a fraction of the number of undiscovered or lost works that still circulated, unseen.
Bee and I had agreed early on to steal for a reason. Usually, our fun came from stealing already stolen items and giving them back. When papers reported: “Priceless, Unseen Matisse, Found in Attic,” that typically meant a piece had been stolen back, usually by us, and then left to be ‘found’.
Bee’s love of art history led us down many paths, solvingcold cases in the art world, and bringing lost artifacts back to the public scene and to those most deserving. Once we successfully tracked down a piece, we’d return it to the rightful guarantor in a way that wouldn’t draw attention, such as planting it in an attic.
Stealing the PERL, however, was out of character for me.
It surprised me how quickly Bee put that together. Bee was good though. Her skill in seeing actions and patterns in people’s behavior was uncanny. She likely knew and noticed my growing interest in the PERL artist, and after last night, had already arrived at a firm opinion that I was the guilty party.
My father sighed, adjusting his shirt under his suspenders and putting himself back together. “Thankfully, by the end of my conversation with Henry, he’d seemed elated. I assured him we’d help the insurance detectives on the case verify the claim so he can get his insurance payment. Also, I assured him we’d do what we could to assist in the piece’s recovery, if possible.”
He didn’t look too confident about that last part, nor should he be. Once art was gone, it was gone for generations unless someone like me was willing to find it. But eventually, in this case, I’d give the PERL back. I just needed to create a little buzz first.
“What about the museum?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was on the phone with the director first thing. There aren’t any leads outside of some blurry camera footage. The thief bypassed the thermals. Current technology makes securing such items nearly impossible. Hell, a teenager with an iPhone could do it. Truly, if someone has the ballsto carry out a heist, it’s probably not that hard to figure out how.” He scratched his bushy brow. “Take the Louvre heist, for example. A ladder truck, a yellow vest, and poof, we have a heist.”
He was right. Taking the PERL had been easy compared to some jobs we underwent. Finding the lost art was half the struggle. Outside of that, the stealing was usually the simple part, restoration another battle, and then the return of it a genuine pleasure.
My father snapped his suspenders, an action he often did when he’d concluded a thought. “I’d put my money on Henry being the first in line to buy a PERL if we ever get one up for auction.” He grunted. “That reminds me, didn’t we have a seller interested?”
I nodded. One of our collectors had hinted at a PERL sale, and now would be the time. After what I’d done, the price would skyrocket. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the collector called today.
It was part of my plan.
The PERL artist would want to attend the auction if he / she / they were the person I expected. This would be the first time a PERLhadauctioned, and what artist could resist seeing that?
