Page 147 of The Chase
He gave an apologetic nod.
“I’m sure we’ll find out soon,”I said.“Either way the investigationis added to these.” I glanced over to the case files.
“I’m here for you if you need anything,”he said.
“Thank you.”
“Back to work then.”
I gave a polite smile to hide my frustration and returned to the table.
Danny had fun cranking the library mechanism to open the shelves, and we slid between the thin corridor to retrieve the compendiums we needed to track the Titian’s provenance. We carried the large books back to our private space.
Two hours later and we had our first breakthrough.
Danny stood beside me as I talked him through the painting’s history.
I placed my scribbled Post-it notes in a line to represent the names of previous owners, and used them for reference before heaving open one of the larger compendiums that we’d pulled from the sixties section.
I pointed to the page. “Here’s our Titian. Look, in July 1955 the painting turned up for auction in Amboise in France. The Ramirez family who lived in Bobigny reported it missing, stolen from their home. When they found out about the intended auction they argued against the sale and demanded their Titian back. It appears the Burells had the money to have their attorney deal with the mess. Says here, ownership landed with the Burells.”
“Were the Ramirez family compensated?” Danny moved quickly back over to the computer and tapped away, searching out any news articles related to the contested ownership.
I scrolled through my phone, trying to come up with new and imaginative ways to coax Tobias to reply. I sent him a silly cat GIF and suppressed a smile.
“Found something.” Danny centered the article. “This is from the local newspaper back then,Le Rue Relais.”
I threw my phone back into my handbag and hurried over. We both stared at the headline enlarged on the screen.
Danny shot up straight. “No way.”
“Make sure it’s the same family.”
“Same address.”
“Same time frame?” My stomach churned with the revelation.
“It is.” He stared at me. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is?”
Our gazes returned to the screen—
Reading on, I cupped my hands over my mouth, aghast at the terrible truth.
27
Silence reigned in Huntly Pierre’s conference room, emphasizing how traumatized we felt. Danny and I had returned to The Tiriani building just before 5:00 p.m.
The other staff were wrapping up their work for the day and preparing to head home.
I needed to document the details of what we’d found and Danny looked too shaken to be alone. He’d sat for the last twenty minutes with his head in his hands.
We were both grieving for the family. The injustice.
“Dan,” I soothed.
“The Burells...” his voice cracked with emotion “...had them killed.”
My weary gaze fell once more onLe Rue Relaisnewspaper article Danny had printed off from July 1955. It relayed the tragedy of a house fire at the Ramirez’s home in Bobigny, and the loss of the family. Only their fifteen-year-old daughter, Sarah Louise, had survived. That large oak tree with its strong branches that reached her bedroom window had been her miraculous liberator.
