Page 63 of The Chase
This was a tight-knit group with Abby Reynolds at the helm, a forty-year-old who was considered a highflier in the company after leaving the Met at the rank of inspector. Her African heritage had given her those sharp cheekbones and her intelligent eyes sparkled with insight and highlighted Abby’s pretty complexion.
Her rugged counterpart was Shane Hannah, an ex-policeman too, though he’d spent his years in Special Branch, and a back injury had apparently forced his early retirement. That cane he walked with was testament he’d put his job first.
Beside him sat Brandon Forbes, Huntly Pierre’s senior techie who hailed from Wales and was rumored to be able to hack into anything.
They talked over each other with the ease of friends.
Everyone seemed relaxed around Adley, proving this was their stomping ground. They avidly listened to Danny and at times threw in even more relevant details. Their notebooks were open in front of them as they each waited a turn to present their own findings.
Adley leaned back casually at the head of the table and scribbled away, taking his own notes. “The family was in the house?” he asked. “Asleep upstairs?”
“Yes,” said Abby. “They had silverware out in the same room, but nothing else was taken.”
“The thief didn’t get greedy,” said Shane.
“Insurance won’t match the worth of the painting,” said Danny, “so it doesn’t look like insurance fraud—” He looked over at me. “Shall I bring you up to speed?”
I gave a nod of appreciation.
He continued for me, “The theft was a quick break-in. No alarm was set off and nothing else touched. However, there was a partial fingerprint, but whoever left it isn’t in the National DNA Database. We’re running the staff right now in case it came from them. None of them are suspects but their prints will be all over the house and we need to eliminate them. The Met’s Arts and Antiques Squad are leading the investigation but, with their resources short, they’re happy to share updates and join resources. I have a meeting with them right after this over at New Scotland Yard. We’re going to compare the Chelsea theft of a Henry Raeburn with this latest case.”
“That burglary involved Raeburn’s 1815Portrait of a Lady,” Abby said as she continued to update me on this robbery.
Free-flowing information had proven beneficial in other cases, she told me.
“How the hell does a man get into a house, steal a painting and leave no evidence?” said Brandon. “I mean nothing. Not one lead.”
“And we know it’s most likely to be a man,” Abby threw in.
“Statistically,” said Shane, “women are more likely to be arrested for theft.”
“Apparently,” said Abby, “the entire power went out on the Jaeger house in Holland Park right before the theft.”
“The thief didn’t stop there,” said Shane. “The Holland Park neighbors had wall-to-wall cameras, which were also affected by the outage. That cuts the chance of our guy being caught on film entering or leaving the premises.”
“The thief knew the painting was there. It wasn’t random,” I realized. “He’s done this before.”
Adley slid a file over to me marked Jaeger/Confidential.
I rifled through it, taking note of the paperwork full of proof of ownership, the legalese, including a Christie’s tracking number for the painting. From a quick glance the family had inherited an Edvard Munch. A trip to Christie’s would be all it would take to verify the provenance and validate their story. The investigation might not turn up the painting, which was quite possibly stashed away in a private collection by now, but at least it would assist with their insurance claim.
The meeting ended with an agreement for all of us to reconvene at five. This team knew each other well, from the way they huddled in a group and chatted away, forming a circle of trust that excluded me.
I felt like an outsider.
Taking the hint, I carried the Jaeger file back to my office and set about making an appointment with Christie’s appraisals and evaluations department. They’d be able to authenticate the family’s ownership of the Edvard Munch and confirm the painting had indeed come through them. The paperwork went back as far as 1902.
After a few clicks on Christie’s website I’d secured a 7:00 p.m. with Andrew Chan, their senior documentation curator.
A blur of movement in the doorway.
My eyes rose to meet the startling gaze of Tobias’s—
I shot to my feet, wondering how long he’d been there.
I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, a storm soon to follow in its wake.
He walked in with the stature of a man who owned any space he entered, turning briefly to close and then lock the door before heading over to the window. His fingers curled around the thin pole of the blinds, twisting them closed and throwing shade on the room.
