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Excerpt from DIRTY PICTURES As Mitchell walked through the main floor of the museum, he heard the spokeswoman’s voice continuing to educate the gang of reporters circled around her, scribbling down each detail offered. “Heat rots paper and sudden cold makes wooden panels fragile. Ideally, 70 degrees Fahrenheit and 50% humidity is the controlled condition that these precious works of art must be stored to prevent decay.” Don’t bother to mention that these works survived centuries of conditions that were not at ideal setting, Mitchell thought. “For instance,” the spokeswomen continued, “Landscape with an Obelisk was painted on an oak panel about 350 years ago. If removed from its frame and dropped, it could shatter along the joins and stress points in the wood, which is even older than the painted image.” In an effort to drive the point home, she added, “We are relying on you to get the word out so that we can recover these works of art safely.” Her voice carried on the breeze as Mitchell veered away from the crowd and opted instead to use the western exit to Palace Road, the same doors the thieves had come and gone through just hours earlier. He watched the FBI agents snap photos, discuss entrance theories, and note anything of suspicion. He’d join these conversations later, but preferred to view the surroundings on his own. He crossed the sidewalk to the street and tried to envision what had occurred. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and thought as he stared back at the museum’s outer walls. Hip height hedges followed the property’s sidewalk border. Decorative black iron covered the first floor windows, intended to prevent intruders. He felt their sense of shame, their inability to keep the wrong people out, or to keep them in until they could be captured. He could see the scar that would not heal, the humiliating offense that would perpetually evoke vulnerability. Apart from the media’s hum around the corner and the clicking of cameras, there was little auto or pedestrian traffic along the street, even with Simmons College as a direct neighbor. He looked down Palace Road and wondered where the theives may have parked. “Any theories yet?” asked a voice from behind. Mitchell turned to see a doughy looking man with glasses peering back at him with anticipation. He smiled. “Nothing yet.” “Richard Gray from the Globe. Crime beat.” “Aren’t you supposed to be over there?” he pointed to the group of media across the street. “Probably, but I’ve never been one to follow directions.” Mitchell was amused at Gray’s assertiveness. “Me neither. Mitchell Eren.” “Ah, you’re not with the FBI or the BPD?” “How did you know that?” “No Special Agent or Detective as part of your introduction.” He pointed to the officials Mitchell chose not to respond. “The only others that would be allowed inside the museum would be insurance adjustors, but the museum didn’t have insurance. So who are you?” “You’re a good reporter.” “I like to think so.” He removed his glasses and placed them in the chest pocket of his untucked shirt. “I’ve been working in this city for twenty years, seventeen at the Globe. There isn’t much that I don’t know.” Humble guy, Mitchell thought. “I’m an art investigator.” Gray raised his eyebrows. “I can honestly say I’ve never met one of those.” “We’re a unique breed.” Gray stood at Mitchell’s side and spoke while taking in a contemplative view from the street. “Probably obvious, but what exactly does that entail?” Mitchell had been asked this question so many times he could respond without even thinking. “I investigate forgeries, stolen or smuggled art using the same investigative techniques as other detectives would use.” “And you have a specialized knowledge of art?” “I have a PhD in art history. But just like any street detective, I strike up relationships with sources, primarily with members of global art communities who will report thefts, contribute to databases, provide tips, authenticate work and offer appraisals in court. And even reporters.” Gray smirked. “So you link up with the bad guys?” “Only if they’re informants. Sometimes that’s the only source you can find.” Gray nodded as if he had encountered this himself. “Is this on behalf of museums or private collectors?” “Both. I help out wherever I’m needed. But I’m usually hired by insurance companies like CHUBBS or Lloyds of London.” “So in this instance the museum hired you?” Mitchell smiled at the reporter’s logic. “Right.” “Is this a collaboration or a competition with law enforcement? “Definitely a collaboration from my perspective. We’re after the same thing, but maybe for different reasons.” Gray’s look requested clarification. “They want the criminals brought to justice. I want to return the art to its rightful owner.” “You said criminals, plural. So there was more than one thief?” “You can save your questions for the police. I believe you’re missing a presentation to your colleagues over there.” They looked across the street at the group of media pummeling the spokeswoman with questions she either refused to or could not answer. “Hanging around with that bunch is not how you break a story.” “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” Mitchell turned away from the reporter and concentrated on the door. “I suppose they have their list of suspects and you have yours?” “We haven’t shared notes yet, but they’re probably similar.” Mitchell looked up and down the street, imagining the location of the car and how the thieves had exited with their arms full of items without being noticed. “I would guess I have a lot of background information on local suspects that you might be interested in.” Mitchell recognized Gray’s obvious sales tactic. “I would guess you do. But why do you think they were local?” “You’ve got to cover every angle.” “Maybe we can share a cup of coffee sometime,” Mitchell said, trying to extricate himself from the conversation. Gray stepped in front of Mitchell, staring at him closely. “Or we could save a lot of time and I can tell you who did it.” |