Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(6)

None of the stolen works from either robbery has ever been recovered.

Until now.

“Any thoughts?” Young asks.

I had put up two empty frames in Granddad’s parlor, both as a homage to what was taken and a promise that his masterpieces would someday be returned.

Now that promise, it seems, will be at least half fulfilled.

“The Picasso?” I ask.

“No sign of it,” Young says, “but as you can see, we still have a lot to look through.”

The Picasso is far larger—over five feet tall and four feet wide. If it was here, chances seem strong that it would have been found already.

“Any other thoughts?” Young asks.

I gesture toward the wall. “When can I bring it home?”

“That’ll take some time. You know the drill.”

“I know a renowned art curator and restorer at NYU. His name is Pierre-Emmanuel Claux. I would like him to handle the piece.”

“We have our own people.”

“No, Special Agent, you do not. In fact, per your own admission, you grabbed a random person from the Met this morning—”

“Hardly a random—”

“This is not a big ask,” I continue. “My person is educated in how to authenticate, handle, and if necessary, restore a masterpiece like few people in the world.”

“We can look into it,” Young says, trying to move us past this topic. “Any other thoughts?”

“Was the victim strangled or was his throat cut?”

They exchange another glance. Then Lopez clears his throat and says, “How do—?”

“The sheet was covering his neck,” I say. “In the photograph you showed me. That was done, I surmise, to cover trauma.”

“Let’s not get into that, okay?” Young says.

“Do you have a time of death?” I ask.

“Let’s not get into that either.”

Shorter version: I’m a suspect.

I’m not sure why. Surely, if I had done this deed, I would have taken the painting with me. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I was clever enough to have murdered him and left the painting so it would be found and returned to my family.

“Do you have any other thoughts that might help us?” Young asks.

I don’t bother with the obvious theory: The hermit was an art thief. He liquidated most of what he pilfered, used the profits to hide his identity, set up an anonymous shell company, purchased the apartment. For some reason—most likely because he either loved it or it was too hot to unload—he kept the Vermeer for himself.

“So,” Young continues, “you’ve never been here before, right?”

Her tone is too casual.

“Mr. Lockwood?”

Interesting. They clearly believe they have evidence that I have been in this turret. I haven’t been. It is also clear that they took the unusual step of bringing me to the murder scene to knock me off my game. If they had followed the normal protocol of a murder investigation and taken me to an interrogation room, I would be on my guard and defensive. I might have brought a criminal attorney.

What, pray tell, do they think they have on me?

“On behalf of my family, I’m grateful the Vermeer has been found. I hope this leads to the speedy recovery of the Picasso. I’m now ready to return to my office.”

Young and Lopez don’t like this. Young looks at Lopez and nods. Lopez slips into the other room.

“One moment,” Young says. She reaches into her binder and pulls out another photograph. When she shows it to me, I am yet again puzzled.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Lockwood?”

To buy time, I say, “Call me Win.”

“Do you recognize this, Win?”

“You know that I do.”

“It’s your family crest, is that correct?”

“It is, yes.”

“It will obviously take us a long time to go through the victim’s apartment,” Young continues.

“So you said.”

“But we found one item in the closet of this bedroom.” Young smiles. She has, I notice, a nice smile. “Only one.”

I wait.

Lopez reenters the room. Behind him, a crime scene technician carries an alligator-leather suitcase with burnished metal hardware. I recognize the piece, but I can’t believe it. It makes no sense.

“Do you recognize this suitcase?” Young asks.

“Should I?”

But of course, I do. Years ago, Aunt Plum had one made up for every male member of the family. They are all adorned with the family crest and our initials. When she gave it to me—I was fourteen at the time—I tried very hard not to frown. I don’t mind expensive and luxurious. I do mind vulgar and wasteful.

“The bag has your initials on it.”

The technician tipped the luggage so I could see the tacky baroque monogram:

WHL3.



“That’s you, right? WHL3—Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third?”

I don’t move, don’t speak, don’t give anything away. But, without sounding overly melodramatic, this discovery has given my world a shove off its axis.

“So, Mr. Lockwood, do you want to tell us why your luggage is here?”