Page 24 of Abra's Acquisition
“Because I think you’ll appreciate it as much as I do, and I want to prove to you how much I trust you. You could send me to jail with what I’m about to show you.”
The elevator door opens to reveal my greatest secret. Rows upon rows of glass display cases containing a variety of items from jewelry to rare artifacts. Valuable paintings cover the walls. There are no windows on this floor, but the room sparkles under the overhead lights.
“Holy shit,” Rey says as she moves into the room and twirls around as she takes in the beauty and history surrounding her. “This looks like a museum. Where did you get all of these?”
I don’t immediately respond as she moves through the space, admiring the pieces under glass. She loses herself in the beauty and doesn’t realize I haven’t answered her question. I watch her face as she studies the pieces, while I wait for the inevitable. Several minutes pass before her look of wonder turns to suspicion as she turns to face me. There it is—the look I was expecting.
“Where did you get all these pieces?” she demands again. Her tone shifted from one of awe to one of accusation.
“Let me tell you a story,” I offer, taking her hand and drawing her toward the far wall, where a sombre painting of a young woman dressed all in black. The artist painted her under an oak tree with her young son asleep at her feet. “Jean-Baptiste Greuze painted this in the 18th century. The young woman is a widow. Her husband was a soldier who died fighting in a war. He titled it La Veuve en Noir, The Widow in Black. Like the Harlequin figurine, a noble family smuggled this painting from France into the French Quarter during the French Revolution. It remained in the family for several generations until a disgruntled servant stole it during the Great Depression.”
Rey turns to face me and raises an eyebrow for me to continue. “How did you get it?”
I grin at her. “I stole it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: REY
I look Abra up and down with what I’m certain is a skeptical look. “How did you steal the painting a hundred years ago? Are you a vampire or something?”
Abra chuckles as he takes my hand and brings it to his lips to kiss my knuckles. The predatory look on his face and the feel of his hot breath on my hand cause me to shudder.
“No, I’m not a vampire. I stole the painting from the descendant of the man who stole it back in 1920.”
“Seriously? How? Why?”
Abra’s eyes flick back to the painting, but he retains his hold of my hand. “When I performed as Lucifer’s Heir, I was often the guest of honor for parties held by the rich and powerful. At one of these parties, I saw a man hitting on a very young and pretty female member of the waitstaff. He backed her into a corner and slid his hand between her legs. I was on my way over to help her, but before I reached them, she had dumped her tray of drinks on him and kneed him in the balls. He tried to retaliate by backhanding her, but another member of the wait staff intervened. The asshole ranted and raved for several minutes. He demanded that the catering company fire both of them. I don’t know how, but the owner of the company calmed him down.”
“Did she fire her employees?” I ask with concern.
Abra shakes his head. “No. I talked to the owner later and learned she not only didn’t fire the two servers, but gave them both a bonus.”
“That’s good. But what does it have to do with the painting?”
“I’m getting to it. Later that night, I maneuvered the asshole who assaulted the girl into a conversation. He was drunk. I got him talking about himself.”
“Why?”
“I’ll reveal all when I finish my story,” Abra chides me. I roll my eyes, but roll my fingers to get him to continue. He leans over to bite my bottom lip before she speaks.
“This man, Peter Porter, told me the story of how his great-grandfather provided his family with the means to flourish during the Depression. The grandfather had worked as a servant for a prominent family in the French Quarter. He overheard his employer speaking with his wife about how they needed to let some of the staff go. Rather than be left poor and without a job, Peter’s grandfather stole several valuable items from his employers, including this painting. He sold the jewelry and the other pieces of art so they could purchase land to build cheap apartments. It’s how they made their fortune. Peter said they kept the painting as a reminder of how smart they are. He showed me the painting, which hung in the room where we gathered.”
“And you stole the painting from him?” I surmise.
He grins. “I did. That very night.”
I gasp. “Didn’t he suspect you?”
Abra nods. “He did, but several people saw me leave long before the painting went missing. I waited until the guests and caterers had all left. It helped that Peter had imbibed throughout the night. He passed out in a chair only a few feet from the painting. I snuck in and slipped it off the wall without disturbinghim. He tried to accuse me of the theft, but he had no proof. I had so much fun stealing it that it became my new hobby.”
I frown at him. “What do you mean?”
Abra squeezes my hand before leading me to a display case. Inside is a collection of antique jewelry featuring rubies set in gold. The pieces are elaborate. They’re obviously antiques that would have been worn with pride by someone long gone.
“I don’t know the origin of these pieces, except that they were family heirlooms handed down through several generations. The young man who inherited them sold them to pay for his wife’s surgery. He had no idea how much they were worth, so when the pawn shop offered him several hundred for them, he took the money. I overheard the pawnbroker bragging about how he swindled the young man and would be selling the pieces to a lawyer for millions. Before he could make the deal, I broke into the pawnshop and stole them. Every item in this room has a similar story. I stole each piece because those in possession of them stole them from their original owners.”
“So you stole them because they were already hot?” I ask with a smirk. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone building a collection with that in mind. It does make each piece a little more interesting. But, aren’t you afraid of the cops discovering your collection?”
“Are you planning on turning me in?” Abra asks with a saucy grin.
