Page 140 of Desperate Crimes
Like chasing a ghost.
I tracked down the artist.
Got the name of the private collector who purchased the piece.
Negotiated a viewing.Brokered the deal.Arranged the delivery.
When the money hit my account, I cried.
Not because I needed it, but because I earned it.
And it felt amazing.
Today, I’m curled up in Nico’s—my—library, scrolling through a digital archive of recently acquired art pieces from regional galleries, already halfway down the rabbit hole of another lead.
My little notebook is open beside me, scrawled with names, dates, clues.
It’s late summer now, but still warm enough to warrant air conditioning.
The sun is starting to dip outside, casting long amber shadows through the tall windows.
And then the phone rings.
Not my cell.
The private line.
The one only family or security uses.
I frown.Glance at the screen.
It’s my father’s name.
Adrik Volkov.
My chest tightens.Something sharp and cold slides through my veins.
I answer on the third ring.
“Dad?”
His voice is steady.Too steady.
“Dochka?”he says, calling me a pet name for daughter in Russian before he continues, “I have some news.”
I sit up, the notebook sliding off my lap.
My throat closes.My stomach drops.
“What kind of news?”My voice is barely audible.
He exhales, slow and carefully.
“Something’s happened overseas.We are still getting details.”
“Nico.”I breathe his name.
No.It can’t be.
