Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(44)

Professor Ian Cornwell’s office in Roberts Hall faces Founders Green and, beyond that, Founders Hall, where the Vermeer and Picasso had been taking up temporary residence when they were stolen. I wonder about that, about Cornwell’s office view of the building where he’d been tied up whilst the two robbers went to work. Does he think about it often or, after a while, does the view simply become the view?

Ian Cornwell tries too hard to look professorial—unruly hair, unkempt beard, tweed jacket, mustard-hued corduroy pants. His office contains half-crumbling stacks of papers on the shelves and floor. In lieu of a proper desk, Cornwell has a large square table that seats twelve, so that he can hold student seminars in an intimate setting.

“So glad you could visit,” Cornwell says to me.

He has me sit in front of brochures related to the political science department. I look up at him. His face is eager, ready to pitch me to support financially some sort of study or class. Kabir has no doubt hinted that I would be interested in funding so as to expedite this appointment. Now that I’m here, I nip this hint in the bud.

“I’m here about the stolen paintings.”

His smile drops from his face like a cartoon anvil. “I was under the impression you’re interested—”

“I might be later,” I say, cutting him off. “But right now, I have some questions about the art heist. You were the night watchman on duty.”

He doesn’t like my abruptness. Few people do.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” I reply, “I’m well versed in how time works, thank you.”

“I don’t see—”

“You know, of course, that one of the two paintings has been found, correct?”

“I read that in the news.”

“Terrific, so there’s no need to play catch-up. I’ve combed through the FBI file on the heist extensively. As you might imagine, I have a personal interest in this too.”

Cornwell blinks as though dazed, so I continue.

“You were the only security guard on duty that night. According to your testimony, two men disguised as police officers knocked on the door to Founders Hall. They claimed there was a disturbance that needed to be investigated and so you buzzed them in. Once inside, they subdued you. They took you to the basement level, duct-taped your eyes and mouth, and handcuffed you to a radiator. They rummaged through your pockets, pulled out your wallet, checked your ID, and told you that they now know where you live and how to find you. A threat, I assume. Have I got all this correct?”

Ian Cornwell slumps into a chair across the table. “It was a traumatic experience.”

I wait.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Professor Cornwell?”

“Yes.”

“My family lost two priceless masterpieces on your watch.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“I will if you refuse to cooperate.”

“I’m not refusing anything, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Terrific.”

“But I also won’t be bullied.”

I give him a moment or two so as to save face. He will capitulate. They always do.

A few seconds later, he offers up a contrite “I don’t know anything that will help. I told the police everything a hundred times over.”

I continue undaunted: “You estimated that one of the two men was five nineish with a medium build. The other was slightly over six feet tall and heavier set. Both were white men, and you believe that they were wearing fake mustaches.”

“It was dark,” he adds.

“Your point being?”

His eyes go left. “None of this was exact. The height, the weight. I mean, they could be accurate. But it all happened so fast.”

“And you were young,” I add, “and scared.”

Ian Cornwell grabs hold of these arguments as a drowning man does a life preserver. “Yes, exactly.”

“You were just an intern hoping to make a few extra dollars.”

“It was part of my financial aid requirement, yes.”

“Your training was minimal.”

“Not to pass the buck,” Cornwell says, “but the school should have provided your family with better security.”

True enough, though many things about the case and the investigation bothered me. The painting had only been scheduled to be on loan for a short time, and the dates were fixed only a few weeks in advance. We had indeed added security cameras, but this was before the days of storing digital video in the cloud, and so the recordings were kept on a hard drive on the second floor behind the president’s office.

“How did the thieves know where to find the hard drive?” I ask.

His eyes close. “Please don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“You don’t think the FBI asked me all these questions a thousand times back then? They interrogated me for hours. Denied me legal counsel even.”

“They thought you were in on it.”

“I don’t know. But they sure acted like it. So I’ll tell you what I told them—I don’t know. I was duct-taped and cuffed in the basement. I had no idea what they’d done. I spent eight hours down there—until someone came looking to replace me in the morning.”