Con Artist, page 20
“Don’t. Call me that,” I grit out, now hating the nickname I used to love. It’s the same kind of polarizing feeling I have about the man across from me. “You owe me the truth, Archie, if you’re capable of it.”
“I was doing my job, Pe—” He cuts himself off this time.
“Is that what it was? Every time you held my hand and traced circles on my skin with your thumb? Each time you pulled me close to whisper in my ear? Every time you kissed me, Archie? That was just doing your job, right?”
He looks ill again. The same look he had when he came to my door a few hours ago. He scrubs his hands over his face, dropping them into his lap. He proceeds to tell me about the art theft ring operating in the city. How an artist is providing forgeries, and the crew is executing heists with expert precision. The interesting part is when he tells me someone gave him my name, which is what started Archie on my trail. And, apparently, my portrait for the Russo family was seized at the Canadian border with counterfeit money in the frame.
Like somehow any of this information is supposed to justify the lies he told me.
“I shipped that drawing in a mailer tube, Archie. I still have the receipt for the shipment.”
“Okay. The team processing your apartment will find it.”
I forgot about that part. “Will they unwrap my other art? Ruin any of it?”
He dismisses my question and asks one of his own. “Why didn’t you tell me about the exhibit at the gallery?”
“Really? You’re going to ask me about why I kept a secret?” I cut off his attempt to speak and continue my fury-fueled rant. “I didn’t tell you because I’m sick of disappointing people. Tired of being the girl who doesn’t have other skills beyond drawing, but can’t seem to use that to function like an adult. For once, I wanted people I cared about to be proud of me. So I was waiting for the gallery to make an official announcement before I went bragging about it. Plus, I didn’t want anyone getting in my head and derailing my process.”
He nods, looking more defeated than I feel. “I texted the lead agent in your apartment. They’ll be careful with your art.”
I almost thank him, but he’s the reason I’m in this position, so I stay quiet.
“Who would do something like this? Help us solve the case and everything that has added up against you won’t matter.” Archie’s expression is pleading. If his hunched posture and down-turned mouth are any indication, he has regrets.
But none of that makes me feel sorry for him. Not when I’m the one on the suspect side of an FBI interrogation table, facing off against the man I thought I loved.
“There can’t be anything against me because I haven’t done anything wrong.” My voice gets louder than I intended, but I don’t regret it. “But far too often, when priceless works of art are stolen, they end up destroyed, damaged, or never found. I don’t want that to happen.”
“So, what can you tell me?”
I think of every possibility, now knowing the works that have been stolen. Art sales have never been my strong suit, or I would have been more successful by now, but I know it’s a huge industry. Black market art sales are not uncommon, but it never seems to go well for the more famous works. They’re too hot. People notice them, and no one wants to steal them, just to have to store them properly for years until that heat dies down. Art requires proper conditions to maintain its integrity and value. I’m sure he knows all of this.
“My best guess is it’s a private collector. Someone who has the means to protect it, but at little risk of anyone seeing them.”
Archie pulls out a notepad and starts writing, just as Hopper did. The sight of him sliding into his role here makes the heartache flood through me in a deluge all over again. But I won’t let him see that anymore. He’s seen me cry enough already.
“So you think it’s someone who wants to build up their own collection? Not someone trying to sell them for a profit?”
I swallow down my emotions to answer. “It wouldn’t be a collector who is doing well for themselves. They put a lot of time, effort, and money into their personal collections.” I lean back in the uncomfortable metal chair, trying to create distance between us. “Maybe someone who is having money troubles. I don’t know, Archie. I’m not a part of that world—though you seem to think otherwise.”
He continues writing, then after an enthusiastic dot, looks up at me. “What’s the deal with Bernard Shaw? What were you meeting him for?”
My jaw almost drops of its own volition, but I clamp it shut. “How do you even know about him?”
“It was my job to look into every aspect of your life, Geor—Miss Dewan. Part of that was looking into associates too.”
My jaw and eyes clench simultaneously. I can’t look at him. I shake my head, pulling in a deep breath and commit to spilling my guts so I can get out of here. “Bernard was a security guard at Adler Planetarium.” I open my eyes to glare at Archie. “Though I’m sure you know that. He claimed he fell in love and was moving to a hundred acre coffee plantation in Costa Rica with this person, but he wanted to capture the beauty of the skyline he had come to love. So he hired me to create it for him.”
“How did he hear about you?” he asks, still writing copious notes.
“I didn’t ask.”
He drops his arms to his side and leans back, locking his eyes on me. I don’t flinch; instead, returning his sorrowful expression with a furious one.
“What about your income? How did you afford your apartment and living expenses? Your tax returns show you barely made enough to cover rent over the last two years.”
Is this guy serious right now? How is it that I wrongfully get suspected of a crime, and now I have to lose every shred of dignity and open myself up like a supermarket tabloid to share every aspect of my life? “You want to know the truth? Since there’s no limit to your deceitfulness, I’ll share some honesty. My parents supplement my income. Not a lot now because I manage to keep my own lights on, but when I need it, they send me some money. That’s part of the reason I’m such a perpetual disappointment. They hate that I’ve chosen this path and can’t support myself, so they give me financial support instead of any other kind.” I stand from my chair and lean over the table. “Are you happy now? To know what a failure I am? Does it help your career at all to know that mine is so pathetic?”
Hopper returns to the room before Archie is able to answer my rhetorical question and gives both of us a questioning glare. Archie stands to whisper something in Hopper’s ear, then both men return to sit across from me. Like a suspect trying to earn points for good behavior, I sit back down.
Any sorrow I’m feeling makes way for more fury, leaving me so angry, I have spots in my vision. My blood is thumping through my body with such force, I’ll be surprised if my heartbeat isn’t audible to the two men in the room. One of whom I have a new hatred for, even though a large part of me is clinging to the hope this is all a misunderstanding. That he actually cared and wasn’t just manipulating me to solve a case.
They continue to ask me more questions, which makes me more angry by the second. If any of them had asked me the same things, viewing me as a law-abiding citizen, I would have been happy to answer. I would have been thrilled to take down people who are destroying things that are important to me and hurting people in the process. But being dragged in here, embarrassed in front of my neighbors, and treated like a criminal, that’s a different scenario. There’s not an ounce of happiness left in me.
A few more hours pass. Both Hopper and Archie are in and out of the room, but one of them is with me the entire time.
Finally, I work up the courage to ask, “So, am I going to need a lawyer, or am I free to go? I’ve answered all of your questions, and you’ve scoured every inch of my private life. Have you clued into the fact I’m not a criminal yet?” I’m praying they don’t tell me I need a lawyer, because my bank account won’t allow for that.
“Just sit tight a little while longer,” Hopper replies.
Both men exit the room, leaving me alone for the first time since before Archie entered earlier. Alone time doesn’t bring me any kind of peace like it normally does. My world feels like it has imploded, and this scenario will linger in my mind every day for the rest of my life. It will make me question every person’s motives and every kind word. Is it genuine, or is it a tactic designed to get something out of me? I hate Archie for doing this to me.
But he returns about twenty minutes later and tells me I’m clear to leave, and that resolute hatred I had minutes earlier is overshadowed by the way his presence made my heart soar mere hours earlier.
I stand and exit the interrogation room, squinting at the bright lights in the hallway.
Archie points me toward the exit. “At least let me give you a ride home.”
If this man thinks I’m ever going anywhere with him, he’s mistaken. A mistake I won’t let him make again.
“Is Nate even your real brother?”
Again, he stares at his feet. “Yes. Everything I told you about me was real… except my job.”
“You know what? I think that might be even worse. The fact you claim you were ever honest with me when everything was built on a lie. And the fact you’d use your brother as a pawn. For what purpose, Archie? In hopes I’d meet your family and spill my guts about some supposed criminal life I was keeping secret?” My volume has reached new heights as tears begin streaming down my cheeks again. I’m not sure if it’s the betrayal or heartache that hurts the most, but together, it’s debilitating.
Archie takes a deep swallow and tucks his hands in his pants pockets. His defeated body language almost makes me feel bad for him. A few hours ago, if I had seen him with slumped shoulders and sad eyes, I would have comforted him. I’d have done anything I could to make him happy again. But he lost that level of concern the minute his lies were exposed.
I step toward him and lower my voice so we don’t attract any more attention. “Stay away from me. Don’t text me. Don’t show up at my door. From this day forward, pretend you never knew me. That’s one thing that will be easy for me, because it turns out, I never knew you.” I turn to walk down the hall, refusing to look back or give him another minute of my attention.
Right now, I need my friends. People who I can actually trust.
Chapter thirty-four
Prime Crime
Archie
Georgia walking away stings. No, sting isn’t the right word. It feels like a hot lance piercing my heart that sends a flood of ice water through my veins until I am incapacitated. I want to explain myself. I want to beg and plead for her forgiveness and hope she’ll understand I was just doing my job. Or tell her I tried to confess before things came to this. But if the roles were reversed, I don’t think I could forgive someone who betrayed me the way I did her.
Nate was right. I ruined my chances with the best thing to happen to me.
Bruce was right. There’s so much more to life than a career.
Georgia was right. Nothing good comes from a relentless pursuit of vengeance.
So now this has to be worth something. I need to have given up the perfect woman for what I thought I wanted all along. A promotion. Career advancement and policy change. Retribution for Nate.
I settle back into my desk and read through the reports Kensington sent detailing Georgia’s involvement in the Russo’s money laundering sham. How did Lancaster justify bringing Georgia in when it’s so obvious she just drew the picture? There is nothing concrete linking her to the actual crime other than her work of art. They couldn’t arrest Ikea if Mr. Russo had chosen a mass-produced painting to ship counterfeit bills across the border.
A large part of me wants to be angry with my superior, but the logical part sees my anger for what it is: displacement. I want someone else to blame for things going south with Georgia. I don’t want to admit that I screwed up—job or not. She didn’t deserve any of it.
I continue distracting myself by combing through the non-redacted parts of the reports until I spot a familiar name. Tom Conti. One of the city’s art collectors is an associate of the Russo family. Those old country connections run deep. Caroline and Steve Brown also stayed with Mr. Conti when they visited the city two months ago. A deeper dive into Tom’s business financials shows that it’s struggling. After the theft of his art, we didn’t have justification to look into his business. His old-school warehouse where he sells custom Italian furniture is not faring well, but it is an excellent way to launder money and ship items without suspicion like Bobby suggested.
Was the answer in front of me all along? If I had asked Georgia for her input a month ago, could I have stopped the robberies that happened in the meantime? I’ll never know.
No matter how much I try to tell myself I was just doing my job, it all still feels wrong. I was so blinded by Georgia, I missed the red flags around the people likely responsible.
It’s time I set this all right.
I return to the bureau in the morning and spend the next several hours scouring the client records of the galleries that have been targeted. Tom Conti’s name shows up on each one as a prospective buyer or as a potential donor.
Before I get ahead of myself, I take the information to Lancaster to see if I have enough to go speak with Mr. Conti again. I assure her I’ll insist we’re doing a follow-up regarding his recently stolen artwork, and we just have a few more questions. Reluctantly, she agrees.
Sanders tags along, so I fill him in on the drive to Conti’s home address. It’s after business hours, but if we can catch him by surprise, that’s even better.
We stand at the front gate, which is only twenty feet from the front door, but it serves the purpose of keeping us out. I use the buzzer, which Mr. Conti answers himself. Times must be tough, because I can imagine he had staff to do that for him once upon a time.
“Mr. Conti, this is Special Agent Prewitt of the FBI. My partner and I would like to ask a few follow-up questions regarding the theft of your art.”
This guy responds like he expects us to have this discussion through his gate intercom. Sanders interrupts and convinces him to let us in, so we’re not sharing sensitive information with pedestrians and neighbors.
When Tom Conti answers the door—probably another mundane task he used to have hired help for—he’s sweating. Not like he just got out of his $20,000 home gym kind of sweat, but like he’s about to be baking under the terrible lighting of an interrogation room. His perspiration rate rivals naked Bruce.
I try my hardest to sound like a polite law enforcement professional attempting to help a person who has been victimized. It’s hard. Especially since the efforts I put into acting with Georgia have backfired spectacularly. I wish I could just be a straight shooter, ask direct questions, and get direct answers. But Sanders and I play Mr. Conti like we’re the Steelers and he’s the Super Bowl.
Within twenty minutes, he has not only denied ever visiting the list of art galleries, but claims to not even know they exist. He acts surprised by the rash of thefts across the city. However, he’s not a convincing actor.
I want to be careful not to jump to conclusions again and end up wasting more time investigating a dead end, so Sanders and I wrap up our conversation and head back to the bureau.
“What do you think?” he asks as I pull up to a red light.
“He has the means, motive, and opportunity. We just need to figure out who he’s working with, because I will not give him a chance to get off easy by rolling on his crew.”
Sanders stays silent until the light turns green and we speed southbound on Halsted Street. “We don’t know he’s guilty, Prewitt. We have to follow the evidence.”
I swallow down the embarrassment that causes. Sanders is too nice to say it, but he must know Georgia was more than a suspect. He’s alluded to that several times, but never called me out.
“Then we need to find the evidence, man. We need to put this case to bed and stop these guys. At this point, I don’t care what it takes.”
“That’s half of your problem right now.”
I can’t bring myself to look at Sanders. Even though I’m one hundred percent sure what he’s referring to, I play dumb and pretend I don’t know. “What are you talking about?”
We round the corner onto Roosevelt before Sanders replies, “Anyone with half a brain can see you’re cutting corners and blurring lines on this case. Trust me, I’ve been on the giving end of some questionable choices before because sometimes the situation calls for it, but I’ve never compromised a case.”
“I didn’t—”
“What if she was guilty, Prewitt? Then what? You’re so in love with that girl, you can’t see straight.”
His words cause me to jerk the steering wheel to the right, nearly hitting a small hatchback traveling beside us.
“See. You’re so blinded by your feelings for this girl, you can’t even drive.”
I have nothing to say to that. It can’t be possible to be in love with someone after two months. Falling, yes. But all the way there? I don’t think so. Especially not when those two months consisted of me lying and pretending. There were so many secrets piled up between us, there’s no way. But then, how else do I explain the pit in my stomach that feels a lot like an ulcer? The one that is only second place on the pain scale next to the hole I have in my chest. I’d rather take a bullet than feel this way… and I would take a bullet for Georgia. Without question.
“What do I do now?” I ask, staring straight ahead.
Sanders reaches his meaty hand over and places it on my shoulder. “We catch these guys, find the answers we’re looking for, then you make things right.”
I gulp down the ball of compounding emotions and finally turn to look at my partner when we roll to a stop. “Let’s get to work, then.”
“Jared Duffy is Jerry Adkins.” Sanders slaps down an employee file on my desk with a photo and resume of Mr. Jared Duffy. The partner of one Casper Gibson, who happened to be working the night of the Smith Goldstein & Co. robbery.
“I was doing my job, Pe—” He cuts himself off this time.
“Is that what it was? Every time you held my hand and traced circles on my skin with your thumb? Each time you pulled me close to whisper in my ear? Every time you kissed me, Archie? That was just doing your job, right?”
He looks ill again. The same look he had when he came to my door a few hours ago. He scrubs his hands over his face, dropping them into his lap. He proceeds to tell me about the art theft ring operating in the city. How an artist is providing forgeries, and the crew is executing heists with expert precision. The interesting part is when he tells me someone gave him my name, which is what started Archie on my trail. And, apparently, my portrait for the Russo family was seized at the Canadian border with counterfeit money in the frame.
Like somehow any of this information is supposed to justify the lies he told me.
“I shipped that drawing in a mailer tube, Archie. I still have the receipt for the shipment.”
“Okay. The team processing your apartment will find it.”
I forgot about that part. “Will they unwrap my other art? Ruin any of it?”
He dismisses my question and asks one of his own. “Why didn’t you tell me about the exhibit at the gallery?”
“Really? You’re going to ask me about why I kept a secret?” I cut off his attempt to speak and continue my fury-fueled rant. “I didn’t tell you because I’m sick of disappointing people. Tired of being the girl who doesn’t have other skills beyond drawing, but can’t seem to use that to function like an adult. For once, I wanted people I cared about to be proud of me. So I was waiting for the gallery to make an official announcement before I went bragging about it. Plus, I didn’t want anyone getting in my head and derailing my process.”
He nods, looking more defeated than I feel. “I texted the lead agent in your apartment. They’ll be careful with your art.”
I almost thank him, but he’s the reason I’m in this position, so I stay quiet.
“Who would do something like this? Help us solve the case and everything that has added up against you won’t matter.” Archie’s expression is pleading. If his hunched posture and down-turned mouth are any indication, he has regrets.
But none of that makes me feel sorry for him. Not when I’m the one on the suspect side of an FBI interrogation table, facing off against the man I thought I loved.
“There can’t be anything against me because I haven’t done anything wrong.” My voice gets louder than I intended, but I don’t regret it. “But far too often, when priceless works of art are stolen, they end up destroyed, damaged, or never found. I don’t want that to happen.”
“So, what can you tell me?”
I think of every possibility, now knowing the works that have been stolen. Art sales have never been my strong suit, or I would have been more successful by now, but I know it’s a huge industry. Black market art sales are not uncommon, but it never seems to go well for the more famous works. They’re too hot. People notice them, and no one wants to steal them, just to have to store them properly for years until that heat dies down. Art requires proper conditions to maintain its integrity and value. I’m sure he knows all of this.
“My best guess is it’s a private collector. Someone who has the means to protect it, but at little risk of anyone seeing them.”
Archie pulls out a notepad and starts writing, just as Hopper did. The sight of him sliding into his role here makes the heartache flood through me in a deluge all over again. But I won’t let him see that anymore. He’s seen me cry enough already.
“So you think it’s someone who wants to build up their own collection? Not someone trying to sell them for a profit?”
I swallow down my emotions to answer. “It wouldn’t be a collector who is doing well for themselves. They put a lot of time, effort, and money into their personal collections.” I lean back in the uncomfortable metal chair, trying to create distance between us. “Maybe someone who is having money troubles. I don’t know, Archie. I’m not a part of that world—though you seem to think otherwise.”
He continues writing, then after an enthusiastic dot, looks up at me. “What’s the deal with Bernard Shaw? What were you meeting him for?”
My jaw almost drops of its own volition, but I clamp it shut. “How do you even know about him?”
“It was my job to look into every aspect of your life, Geor—Miss Dewan. Part of that was looking into associates too.”
My jaw and eyes clench simultaneously. I can’t look at him. I shake my head, pulling in a deep breath and commit to spilling my guts so I can get out of here. “Bernard was a security guard at Adler Planetarium.” I open my eyes to glare at Archie. “Though I’m sure you know that. He claimed he fell in love and was moving to a hundred acre coffee plantation in Costa Rica with this person, but he wanted to capture the beauty of the skyline he had come to love. So he hired me to create it for him.”
“How did he hear about you?” he asks, still writing copious notes.
“I didn’t ask.”
He drops his arms to his side and leans back, locking his eyes on me. I don’t flinch; instead, returning his sorrowful expression with a furious one.
“What about your income? How did you afford your apartment and living expenses? Your tax returns show you barely made enough to cover rent over the last two years.”
Is this guy serious right now? How is it that I wrongfully get suspected of a crime, and now I have to lose every shred of dignity and open myself up like a supermarket tabloid to share every aspect of my life? “You want to know the truth? Since there’s no limit to your deceitfulness, I’ll share some honesty. My parents supplement my income. Not a lot now because I manage to keep my own lights on, but when I need it, they send me some money. That’s part of the reason I’m such a perpetual disappointment. They hate that I’ve chosen this path and can’t support myself, so they give me financial support instead of any other kind.” I stand from my chair and lean over the table. “Are you happy now? To know what a failure I am? Does it help your career at all to know that mine is so pathetic?”
Hopper returns to the room before Archie is able to answer my rhetorical question and gives both of us a questioning glare. Archie stands to whisper something in Hopper’s ear, then both men return to sit across from me. Like a suspect trying to earn points for good behavior, I sit back down.
Any sorrow I’m feeling makes way for more fury, leaving me so angry, I have spots in my vision. My blood is thumping through my body with such force, I’ll be surprised if my heartbeat isn’t audible to the two men in the room. One of whom I have a new hatred for, even though a large part of me is clinging to the hope this is all a misunderstanding. That he actually cared and wasn’t just manipulating me to solve a case.
They continue to ask me more questions, which makes me more angry by the second. If any of them had asked me the same things, viewing me as a law-abiding citizen, I would have been happy to answer. I would have been thrilled to take down people who are destroying things that are important to me and hurting people in the process. But being dragged in here, embarrassed in front of my neighbors, and treated like a criminal, that’s a different scenario. There’s not an ounce of happiness left in me.
A few more hours pass. Both Hopper and Archie are in and out of the room, but one of them is with me the entire time.
Finally, I work up the courage to ask, “So, am I going to need a lawyer, or am I free to go? I’ve answered all of your questions, and you’ve scoured every inch of my private life. Have you clued into the fact I’m not a criminal yet?” I’m praying they don’t tell me I need a lawyer, because my bank account won’t allow for that.
“Just sit tight a little while longer,” Hopper replies.
Both men exit the room, leaving me alone for the first time since before Archie entered earlier. Alone time doesn’t bring me any kind of peace like it normally does. My world feels like it has imploded, and this scenario will linger in my mind every day for the rest of my life. It will make me question every person’s motives and every kind word. Is it genuine, or is it a tactic designed to get something out of me? I hate Archie for doing this to me.
But he returns about twenty minutes later and tells me I’m clear to leave, and that resolute hatred I had minutes earlier is overshadowed by the way his presence made my heart soar mere hours earlier.
I stand and exit the interrogation room, squinting at the bright lights in the hallway.
Archie points me toward the exit. “At least let me give you a ride home.”
If this man thinks I’m ever going anywhere with him, he’s mistaken. A mistake I won’t let him make again.
“Is Nate even your real brother?”
Again, he stares at his feet. “Yes. Everything I told you about me was real… except my job.”
“You know what? I think that might be even worse. The fact you claim you were ever honest with me when everything was built on a lie. And the fact you’d use your brother as a pawn. For what purpose, Archie? In hopes I’d meet your family and spill my guts about some supposed criminal life I was keeping secret?” My volume has reached new heights as tears begin streaming down my cheeks again. I’m not sure if it’s the betrayal or heartache that hurts the most, but together, it’s debilitating.
Archie takes a deep swallow and tucks his hands in his pants pockets. His defeated body language almost makes me feel bad for him. A few hours ago, if I had seen him with slumped shoulders and sad eyes, I would have comforted him. I’d have done anything I could to make him happy again. But he lost that level of concern the minute his lies were exposed.
I step toward him and lower my voice so we don’t attract any more attention. “Stay away from me. Don’t text me. Don’t show up at my door. From this day forward, pretend you never knew me. That’s one thing that will be easy for me, because it turns out, I never knew you.” I turn to walk down the hall, refusing to look back or give him another minute of my attention.
Right now, I need my friends. People who I can actually trust.
Chapter thirty-four
Prime Crime
Archie
Georgia walking away stings. No, sting isn’t the right word. It feels like a hot lance piercing my heart that sends a flood of ice water through my veins until I am incapacitated. I want to explain myself. I want to beg and plead for her forgiveness and hope she’ll understand I was just doing my job. Or tell her I tried to confess before things came to this. But if the roles were reversed, I don’t think I could forgive someone who betrayed me the way I did her.
Nate was right. I ruined my chances with the best thing to happen to me.
Bruce was right. There’s so much more to life than a career.
Georgia was right. Nothing good comes from a relentless pursuit of vengeance.
So now this has to be worth something. I need to have given up the perfect woman for what I thought I wanted all along. A promotion. Career advancement and policy change. Retribution for Nate.
I settle back into my desk and read through the reports Kensington sent detailing Georgia’s involvement in the Russo’s money laundering sham. How did Lancaster justify bringing Georgia in when it’s so obvious she just drew the picture? There is nothing concrete linking her to the actual crime other than her work of art. They couldn’t arrest Ikea if Mr. Russo had chosen a mass-produced painting to ship counterfeit bills across the border.
A large part of me wants to be angry with my superior, but the logical part sees my anger for what it is: displacement. I want someone else to blame for things going south with Georgia. I don’t want to admit that I screwed up—job or not. She didn’t deserve any of it.
I continue distracting myself by combing through the non-redacted parts of the reports until I spot a familiar name. Tom Conti. One of the city’s art collectors is an associate of the Russo family. Those old country connections run deep. Caroline and Steve Brown also stayed with Mr. Conti when they visited the city two months ago. A deeper dive into Tom’s business financials shows that it’s struggling. After the theft of his art, we didn’t have justification to look into his business. His old-school warehouse where he sells custom Italian furniture is not faring well, but it is an excellent way to launder money and ship items without suspicion like Bobby suggested.
Was the answer in front of me all along? If I had asked Georgia for her input a month ago, could I have stopped the robberies that happened in the meantime? I’ll never know.
No matter how much I try to tell myself I was just doing my job, it all still feels wrong. I was so blinded by Georgia, I missed the red flags around the people likely responsible.
It’s time I set this all right.
I return to the bureau in the morning and spend the next several hours scouring the client records of the galleries that have been targeted. Tom Conti’s name shows up on each one as a prospective buyer or as a potential donor.
Before I get ahead of myself, I take the information to Lancaster to see if I have enough to go speak with Mr. Conti again. I assure her I’ll insist we’re doing a follow-up regarding his recently stolen artwork, and we just have a few more questions. Reluctantly, she agrees.
Sanders tags along, so I fill him in on the drive to Conti’s home address. It’s after business hours, but if we can catch him by surprise, that’s even better.
We stand at the front gate, which is only twenty feet from the front door, but it serves the purpose of keeping us out. I use the buzzer, which Mr. Conti answers himself. Times must be tough, because I can imagine he had staff to do that for him once upon a time.
“Mr. Conti, this is Special Agent Prewitt of the FBI. My partner and I would like to ask a few follow-up questions regarding the theft of your art.”
This guy responds like he expects us to have this discussion through his gate intercom. Sanders interrupts and convinces him to let us in, so we’re not sharing sensitive information with pedestrians and neighbors.
When Tom Conti answers the door—probably another mundane task he used to have hired help for—he’s sweating. Not like he just got out of his $20,000 home gym kind of sweat, but like he’s about to be baking under the terrible lighting of an interrogation room. His perspiration rate rivals naked Bruce.
I try my hardest to sound like a polite law enforcement professional attempting to help a person who has been victimized. It’s hard. Especially since the efforts I put into acting with Georgia have backfired spectacularly. I wish I could just be a straight shooter, ask direct questions, and get direct answers. But Sanders and I play Mr. Conti like we’re the Steelers and he’s the Super Bowl.
Within twenty minutes, he has not only denied ever visiting the list of art galleries, but claims to not even know they exist. He acts surprised by the rash of thefts across the city. However, he’s not a convincing actor.
I want to be careful not to jump to conclusions again and end up wasting more time investigating a dead end, so Sanders and I wrap up our conversation and head back to the bureau.
“What do you think?” he asks as I pull up to a red light.
“He has the means, motive, and opportunity. We just need to figure out who he’s working with, because I will not give him a chance to get off easy by rolling on his crew.”
Sanders stays silent until the light turns green and we speed southbound on Halsted Street. “We don’t know he’s guilty, Prewitt. We have to follow the evidence.”
I swallow down the embarrassment that causes. Sanders is too nice to say it, but he must know Georgia was more than a suspect. He’s alluded to that several times, but never called me out.
“Then we need to find the evidence, man. We need to put this case to bed and stop these guys. At this point, I don’t care what it takes.”
“That’s half of your problem right now.”
I can’t bring myself to look at Sanders. Even though I’m one hundred percent sure what he’s referring to, I play dumb and pretend I don’t know. “What are you talking about?”
We round the corner onto Roosevelt before Sanders replies, “Anyone with half a brain can see you’re cutting corners and blurring lines on this case. Trust me, I’ve been on the giving end of some questionable choices before because sometimes the situation calls for it, but I’ve never compromised a case.”
“I didn’t—”
“What if she was guilty, Prewitt? Then what? You’re so in love with that girl, you can’t see straight.”
His words cause me to jerk the steering wheel to the right, nearly hitting a small hatchback traveling beside us.
“See. You’re so blinded by your feelings for this girl, you can’t even drive.”
I have nothing to say to that. It can’t be possible to be in love with someone after two months. Falling, yes. But all the way there? I don’t think so. Especially not when those two months consisted of me lying and pretending. There were so many secrets piled up between us, there’s no way. But then, how else do I explain the pit in my stomach that feels a lot like an ulcer? The one that is only second place on the pain scale next to the hole I have in my chest. I’d rather take a bullet than feel this way… and I would take a bullet for Georgia. Without question.
“What do I do now?” I ask, staring straight ahead.
Sanders reaches his meaty hand over and places it on my shoulder. “We catch these guys, find the answers we’re looking for, then you make things right.”
I gulp down the ball of compounding emotions and finally turn to look at my partner when we roll to a stop. “Let’s get to work, then.”
“Jared Duffy is Jerry Adkins.” Sanders slaps down an employee file on my desk with a photo and resume of Mr. Jared Duffy. The partner of one Casper Gibson, who happened to be working the night of the Smith Goldstein & Co. robbery.
