Page 90 of Bitter Lies

“Shut the fuck up! It’s a knob, isn’t it?” Then his face scrunches up as he tilts his head and points. “Is that a fanny? Is this supposed to be a sculpture of…” he turns his head as if he expects me to say it, so he doesn’t have to.

“Having it off? I believe so, yes.”

Lane shakes his head. “Why? Why would someone want a sculpture of that? Do I even want to know how much it cost?”

I shrug. “Probably not. And I have no idea.”

Taking a step back, I look around the room, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. There are several ways this could’ve played out.

The first one is whoever killed Rico took the keys off him and emptied the room before starting the fire. Maybe he let them in, thought he was making a deal before they killed him. But that feels risky. He was on a time crunch with Isabel and Alma only gone for a few hours. Not to mention, someone would’ve noticed that much activity, even if they used the service elevators.

Scenario two fits better, and it points to Cort Theiss.

He could’ve killed Rico. Motives unclear. Maybe the Russians forced his hand. He may have mixed truth into the story he told us, buying himself valuable time to cover his tracks before the real truth surfaced. He steals the keys from Rico, hands them over, and the men Alma saw were already in the middle of clearing the place when she surprised them.

The problem is getting them out without being detected. A room full of priceless paintings vanished into thin air within a twenty-four-hour window.

Is it possible? Yes.

But it would take precision along with a very skilled team to pull something like that off. They wouldn’t have let Alma catch them off guard. So that one’s off the table.

“What are you thinking?” Lane asks as he joins me and glances around the room. “This job would’ve taken months to pull off. And not just anyone could’ve done it.”

“And walking out of here with them”—I wave my hand at the bare walls to make my point—“would’ve drawn attention they wouldn’t want. So how did they get them out?”

“Something’s not right.” Lane circles the room, rubbing his head. “You said Isabel found her grandmother inside this room.”

“Yes. She moved the bench to prop open the door.” Said bench is at an odd angle by the door, suggesting it was moved and hasn’t been moved back. “And smoke was coming from the vent in here.”

“But wouldn’t smoke damage the art? If the theory is that whoever stole it set that fire as a distraction, either the art was already gone or they are idiots.” Lane walks over to the wall where the remaining pieces hang and runs his glove-covered finger over the frame. “I’m no expert, but wouldn’t it leave some kind of residue behind? There’s not even a speck of dust on these.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Fucking right, it doesn’t. Which makes me wonder why that is. It’s like they weren’t here during the fire.”

I growl in frustration. “And that makes even less sense. They’re right there. They had to be here. Where the fuck would they go?”

We stand there like two daft bastards, trying to crack it and getting nowhere fast.

Lane shakes his head as he walks the perimeter of the room. “You’re sure the police didn’t confiscate everything in here?”

“The room was locked. How would they get in?”

“Was it?” He reaches up and runs his hand over his jaw. “You sure about that? If she propped the door open, isn’t it possible that it never closed fully?”

“Fuck.”

I remove my phone from my back pocket and ring D.C. Henry Sanders.

During Isabel’s nap this afternoon, I pulled his information and stored it in my phone. Now it’s time to see just how corrupt this copper is.

“Sanders.”

“Hello, detective. Aiden Bishop. We met bright and early this morning.”

Clearing his throat nervously, Henry makes the silence feel even heavier. “I remember.”

I’m sure he does. Following our brief chat, he likely placed several calls.