Finding the Forger (15 page)

“So, did you think any more about what I said?” she asked.

“What? What did you say?”

“About putting a word in for me—with Witherspoon’s son.”

Mental groan. The last thing I needed to do now was talk with Neville Witherspoon. When I didn’t say anything, she continued.

“He called, you know.”

“What?” I asked.

“I checked the voice mail at home, from my office. And Neville called you. I saved the message.”

“Connie!”

“Hey, what’s so bad about that? He sounds like a nice enough guy.”

“I have a boyfriend, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Right. More like
had
a boyfriend, if you know what I mean. “Besides, isn’t Mr. Witherspoon on the museum board? You’re working for the board.
You can get to him that way.”

“I work for the staff, not the board,” she said, “though, after I finish this job, I can use it to get in to see him. But it wouldn’t hurt for you to help me out now with Neville. He’s a bird in the hand.”

When I didn’t say anything, she continued.

“I’m not asking you to marry the guy. You only need to ask him how I can get in to see his dad. That’s all, for crying out loud.” She honked at a car that wasn’t moving fast enough when the light turned green. After a couple blocks of silent driving, she spoke again.

“All right. I’ll make a deal with you. You talk to Neville Witherspoon about me, and I’ll help you with something. Name your price. What do you want most?”

What I wanted most was to get back in Doug’s good graces, but I doubted Connie could deliver on that. Hmmm . . . but maybe she could help me out in that regard all the same.

“Another phone line. I want another phone line so I can stay on the Internet as long as I like.”

Connie shot me a glance, her mouth twisted up to one side as if she admired my negotiating skill. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What do you think will happen to Hector?” I asked after we drove for a few more minutes.

“Don’t know.” Oh, she knew all right. She just wasn’t saying. Bummer for him and for poor Sarah.

As for me, hey—things could be worse. My boyfriend might be mad at me, but at least he wasn’t an art thief.

“What did you find out from the security tapes?” I asked, remembering Connie had said she was going to look at them.

“Nothing. Big goose egg. They’re as clean as a whistle.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t show anything. Nobody in that part of the museum—nobody in the hallway leading to the door out to the dumpster. So the thief probably used a different exit.”

We drove for a few seconds, then a thought came to me so fast and hard I almost fell over.

“Connie!” I said, turning toward her. “The tapes had to show
someone
in that hallway—Sarah was there, remember?”

Connie’s mouth fell open and I knew exactly what she was thinking: “Darn it, Bianca! You just came up with something I should’ve thought of.”

But there was no time for thinking. She pointed up ahead.

“Hey—that’s Hector!”

I leaned forward and peered through the window.

“How can you tell? It’s the back of a head.”

“He turned around a minute ago, looked at something in the back seat.” A light turned green and we inched forward.

“Let’s follow him!” I shouted in true detective fashion.

“
I
T’S TOO HARD to follow someone when you only have one car,” Connie lectured me. “Usually when you’re following someone, you need a partner, maybe two. It’s complicated.” Just then Hector turned left onto a street leading into the city.

“Come on, we can do it! Just for a little while.”

Connie didn’t say anything, but she turned where Hector had turned.

“Up there!” I said, pointing. “Maybe he’s going to turn there. Be prepared to get in the right lane. No, wait, he’s staying in the left one. Hold on, I think I see his turn signal—”

“Shut up, Bianca. I can’t concentrate!”

“What’s there to concentrate on? Your foot on the gas pedal, your hands on the steering wheel . . .”

Connie didn’t appreciate my helpful driving suggestions and gave out a disgusted snort as she maneuvered her car through heavy city traffic. Two cars ahead, I could see Hector’s cruddy black Impala lumbering along Mount Royal Avenue.

“Damn. I hate Bolton Hill. Always get lost here,” Connie muttered under her breath. She turned right on a street just as Hector shifted to the left lane and went straight.

“Hey!” I pointed out the front window. “He went thataway!”

“I know, I know.” Connie slowed down, glanced over her shoulder, and pulled off a quick U-turn on the small side street. “I thought he was going to turn.”

Bolton Hill is a funny neighborhood. Like ours, it’s a mixture of renovated homes side by side with houses that look like their owners stopped trying. As we cruised by some of the better places, I helpfully pointed out decorating items I liked. “Look at that flower box! Did you see that window treatment?” I’m sure Connie really appreciated this. She showed it by letting out a little groan of delight.

“This is why you need more than one person to follow a car,” she said, speeding up to see if she could locate Hector again. “One to follow right behind, another to stay several car lengths behind that. This one-car stuff sucks!”

“Guess I’ll have to get my driver’s license,” I said, imagining our future partnership.

She shot me a quick look. “Guess you’ll have to get a car, too.”

“There he is!” I pointed to a block ahead. Hector’s car was double-parked outside a seedy-looking corner building with boards across its lower floor windows.

Connie crawled past while I scooted down in my seat so Hector wouldn’t see me.

“Get up. He’s not there.” Connie pulled the car around to the next side street and parked it two inches into legal. When I peeked up and over, I saw what she meant. Hector’s car sat there, but Hector was nowhere to be seen.

“Wonder what’s in there,” I said, pointing to the ratty-looking building and imagining an art forgery clubhouse kind of thing.

Just then, Hector came back out and I slipped down in the seat
again. Connie exhaled sharply while she peered in her rearview mirror.

“What’s he doing?” I whispered.

“Getting into his car.” She spoke without moving her lips, so it was hard to understand her.

“Now what?”

“He’s looking at something.”

“At what?”

“Something he brought out of that house with him.” She glanced at me. “Shh . . . he might hear you.”

“He’s not going to hear me! We’re a half block away and I’m on the car floor. When was the last time you cleaned this car, anyway?” I pulled an old drugstore receipt from the bottom of my shoe. “Besides, he could recognize you as well as me. After all, you met him at the museum, too, and . . .”

“He’s looking at something. Something rolled up. Except now’s he unrolled it.”

“Like a painting, you mean?” My heart started thumping so loudly I was sure Hector could hear it no matter how many blocks were between us. Hector was guilty! Maybe Connie was right—if you hear hoofbeats, think first of horses, not zebras. Hector had artistic talent, motive, opportunity . . .

“Yeah, like a painting. He’s studying it.”

“Can you see what it is?”

“Nope. Only the underside of the paper. It’s cream-colored paper. Something old looking.” She leaned over to my side of the car, our faces inches apart. I made a mental note to ask Connie where she’d gotten her earrings—little points of cobalt blue. Pretty classy.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking busy. He’s leaving. Don’t want him to recognize me.”

I could hear a car passing by just beyond the curb. Once its noise was safely in the distance, I got up. Hector’s car was gone.

“Come on,” I said, opening my car door. “Let’s see what’s in this building.”

“Bianca!” Connie quickly followed, slamming her door shut behind her. “This isn’t safe. Let me take you home.”

“And let you come back and do this on your own? No way!” I strode off to the building with Connie quickly in pursuit.

It was a heavy, dark brownstone—a curved tower at the corner and cracked windows on upper floors. Hector must have entered by a side door because the front door was covered with boards, as were the lower floor windows. We skulked around to the side, to an out-of-place modern door that seemed to have been plucked from a suburban colonial and attached to this old house as an afterthought.

Connie nudged me out of the way. “Let me. You shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a professional.” Professional or not, Connie didn’t do anything exotic. She just crept up to the door, stood on tiptoes, and peered through narrow windows set at the top of the door.

Just as she looked in, we both heard three sharp “kerthwangs!” in quick succession.

I gulped. A gun? Did someone have a gun in there? Were we coming upon some kind of art forgery gangland killing scene?

Connie’s eyes widened.

“What is it?” I asked. “Let me see.” I pulled at her jacket just as I’d done when we were little kids and she was racing ahead of me. Some things never change, you know. “Is it a gun? Is somebody dead in there?”

“Nope.” She relaxed and moved away from the door. “Except
maybe a doornail. That was a nail gun. Someone’s renovating this place.”

Okay, I admit it. I was disappointed. I thought we’d stumbled onto something here, something that would have earned us some accolades from the local police chief, some cheesy photo shaking hands with him or her while a headline blared: “Amateur Sleuth Uncovers Kajillion Dollar Art Thieves.”

My disappointment immediately morphed into relief, however. Lack of violence is a good thing. But renovation?

Before I could think this through, Connie was tugging on the door handle and opening it. What the—?

“Excuse me,” she said sweetly to the three burly guys in the dusty room in front of us. They stopped what they were doing and looked at her like she was an escapee from a mental institution. We Balduccis have that effect on people.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me. I’m an art student at the Maryland Institute and I thought I just saw someone carrying the most exquisite painting . . .” She even spoke with a southern drawl. I looked at her like she was nuts. Again, a Balducci trait.

The oldest-looking of the crew stepped forward and wiped sweat off his brow. “You mean what Hector was carrying?”

“I don’t know his name. Some dark fellow. Just came out of here.”

“That wasn’t a painting. It was a sketch of this.” He pointed upward to the ceiling. Above us was a mural of chubby cherubs and fluffy clouds. It was heavily damaged—by water and peeling plaster. “Hector’s repairing it for us. You want his number?” One of the other men chuckled.

“No, no thanks. My, what a lovely image. Mid-nineteenth century,
I’d say. Neo-romantic with touches of post-modern Gothic.”

“Constance,” I said sweetly in a not-so-hot drawl that sounded more like a vampire in Sunday school, “we shan’t stay long, shall we? We must be going. Mummy will be so worried.” Oh yes, and I threw in some Brit, too. I’m sure it impressed them.

Connie and I left, rushing back to the car before they called the Bad Accent Police on us.

“So he’s not a thief,” I said triumphantly while Connie started the car. “He’s just doing some part-time work. Neat, too. Looks like fun.” I began to wonder if I should include art-restorer on my list of possible careers. Naw, scratch that. I forgot about the main prerequisite—artistic talent.