Page 85 of The Picasso Heist
“Ugh. Yeah, that’s what they call her. Michelle told you about her, huh?”
“Janet said I was only spending time with Michelle because a judge made me.”
“Some of these girls can be so cruel,” says Miss D.
Almost as cruel as life has been to them.
“So, Michelle’s just gone? She didn’t tell anyone anything or leave a note behind?” I ask.
“Nothing. We didn’t find anything but an empty bed. I was hoping, praying, that maybe she went to see you.”
“Did you call the police yet?”
“That’s my next call. I didn’t want to get them involved until I knew for sure she was missing,” she says.
“What about her mother?” I ask. “Michelle doesn’t know which facility she’s at, but that might not stop her from trying to figure it out and go there.”
“The girl has no phone and little to no money on her.”
“All she needs is the internet. That’s as easy as finding an Apple store.”
“If I know Michelle, the last thing she’s doing right now is trying to find her mother. She’s too mad at her. She thinks she’s been lied to again. It’s just one more betrayal stacked on all the others, and it’s broken her,” says Miss D. “Running away from the house is Michelle’s way of running away from her mother.She’s confused, scared. Nothing in her world makes sense anymore.”
Her last sentence echoes in my head.That’s it!I think.
“Don’t call the police,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I think I know where she is.”
CHAPTER73
“FIFTH AVENUE ANDEighty-Second,” I tell the cabdriver. “The Met.”
The guy glances at me in his rearview mirror. It’s subtle but unmistakable, the annoyance in his eyes:Really, lady? It’s only a dozen blocks. You can’t walk it?
No, buddy, I can’t. Not right now. Because right now I need to get to that damn museum as fast as possible.
So many people believe in fate. I’ve never been one of them. Everything doesn’t happen for a reason. It was nothing but a coincidence that I just happened to be wandering around the Upper East Side close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art at the exact moment that Miss D called me. Of all days and all times. Yeah, okay, on second thought…
I might believe in fate.
Twelve blocks later I hand the guy a twenty for a ten-dollar fare. I see a slight smile of forgiveness on his face before I jump out of his cab and sprint up the crowded steps of the Met.
One of the perks of working at the House of Echelon: free entry to all major museums in Manhattan.
I fumble for my employee ID and hold it up for the attendant, who scans the barcode on the back. Never mind that I quit my job a couple of hours ago.
I’m in and I’m walking. Then I’m running.
There are at least two places where you’re not supposed to run: pools and museums. Let’s just say lifeguards hated me when I was a kid.
I haven’t reached the room yet, but I can picture Michelle as clearly as the painting: She’s standing in front of Jackson Pollock’sAutumn Rhythm,trying to block out the world around her and the anger that’s grabbed her like a rip current. She’s staring so intently… so desperately.
She’s drowning.
I weave in and out of the throngs of people as they drift from one exhibit to the next. Finally I get to the room where the massive painting hangs. My eyes scan the crowd, and there she is.
