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Thankfully, no one in the break room seems to care when I yell, “What do you mean they’re missing? All of them?”
“Yes.”
I plant my feet and try not to freak out. “How? They were there on Saturday afternoon. Grams and I sat there after lunch and talked. She shared stories with me about when she bought each one. I’d heard it all before, but when she talks about her art, her mind doesn’t seem to wander as much. So, I soaked in the moment.”
It was only a day ago, but it feels like weeks with everything that’s happened since. I remember it very clearly.
She insisted we take our time and appreciate each piece. Told me a wild story about the Rembrandt. How she had to keep it quiet because the person she bought it from didn’t have permission to sell it. That for years it sat on a list that could’ve gotten her arrested. Then the original owner died, and it went up for auction. She bought it again—legally this time—which allowed her to proudly display it in her gallery.
She went around the room, pointing out a few others with similar stories.
At the time, I brushed it off as the ramblings of a confused woman, wishing she had more exciting tales to share about the art she loves so much. I even teased her. Told her she sounded like an art thief. Warned her not to tell that to the wrong person, or she’d end up locked away in the Tower of London.
“Aiden.”
“You went quiet on me. Why?”
“I need another favor.” I don’t want to believe this, but the unease in my stomach won’t let up, and it’ll only get worse until I uncover the truth. “Could you please find the invoices my grandfather saved, listing all the art pieces my grandmother bought? He was adamant about keeping records. They’re probably in the safe. The one inside the gallery.”
“Safe? Do you know where that is?”
That makes me laugh because he’s going to wish he never asked. “I do. Do you see the sculpture of the giant cock and fanny?”
He grunts. “I do. Not touching it. Your grandmother has some very disturbing taste in sculptures.”
“You don’t have to touch it.” I snicker because he’s not wrong. Each sculpture in the gallery is erotic and a hot topic of discussion when someone new walks in. “The safe is next to it in the floor. It’s rather large. To get the floor to move, you only have to kiss the tip.”
The silence that falls after my bold statement has me smiling, but his next words nearly make me slip out of my chair from laughing.
“That’s fucking touching the obscene thing. You said I didn’t have to do that. No way in hell am I kissing the tip.” When he hears me laughing, he chuckles, then in as stern of a voice as he can muster says, “That’s what you will be doing as soon as you get back to London, kissing my cock’s tip before I fuck your smart mouth. Now tell me how the hell I open it. Stop messing around.”
“Sorry,” I giggle.
“No, you’re not, but you will be.”
Now that I’m no longer laughing so hard I can’t talk, I get on with it. “The portrait of my mother and me when I was just a baby. Do you see it?” As soon as he says yes, I continue. “Above it is a small release button. Push that and the frame should shift so you can swing it open like a cabinet door.”
“Very cool,” he says. “Of course, another keyhole. Do I use the same one I used to open the door?”
“No, it’s the large bronze one.” I scratch my head. “Wait, is that one on the keyring? I can’t remember.”
“There are six keys. The two we used to get inside. The one Lane figured out lowered the wall. And three more, one of which is bronze. Hoping it’s that one. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to pick the lock with my special tools.”
I hear the sound of metal against metal as he inserts the key and then a loud click telling me it worked.
“So, what are these other two keys for? Do you know?”
I shake my head but then realize he can’t see me, so I use my words. “No. I also don’t know the combination to the safe. Sorry. But the document should be in there. It’s where he kept anything important. Not sure what else. Not sure I want to know. I’m hoping your bad guy skills go beyond lock picking and extends to cracking safes too.”
“Mine, no. That’s what Lane is here for.”
“Lane?”
“Sorry. He’s a friend.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Not my business, not yet at least.
There’s a loud thump. I’m guessing it’s because he and Lane just opened the floor and are now staring at the safe.
