To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Two: Missing for Who?

"Torero" by Pablo Picasso (1949), stolen 2018 - value $45,000

Chapter Two

The pale glimmer of an imminent dawn threatened us outside the museum. Exhausted officials conversed in quiet murmurs in the halls, their faces drawn and pallor pale.

It was gone. Really, truly, gone.

The museum had been combed top to bottom, but no hiding thieves were found. The grounds had been searched, but no obvious criminals roamed or cowered. Nooks and crannies were swept, but no pieces of art were discovered tucked away. Now, their best chance for finding the painting would be heavy investigations and watchful eyes on smuggling chains. Or skillful deep pressing on sore spots in criminal links. They said it was likely the culprits would try to get the painting out of the country, and alerts had been sent to databases across the world.

The Weeping Widow had joined an impossibly long list of stolen, unretrieved items for officials to watch out for. It'd taken a place on the FBI's National Stolen Art File, a collection of fine art and property that numbered over fifty pages. From historical letters, paintings, swords, statues, and even Superbowl rings, some of the artifacts had been on the list for a very long time. Interpol's stolen art database numbered over fifty-two thousand items as well.

The Widow joined their sullen ranks.

There were a number of high-profile smugglers and traders that either dabbled or specialized in stolen art, and the FBI would keep a watchful eye on them to see if the Widow traded hands. It was the best contender for hope, along with dim optimism a tip would come through, or an informant would shuffle forward.

But there isn't much of a chance for that to happen.

"Here." A cardboard cup clunked down in front of me, thudding against the wooden surface of my desk. August stood above it, looking as tired as I felt. It was an exhaustion that felt wired with electricity, but no jolt or zap could lift the heavy weight on our bodies. It wasn't only from a lack of sleep.

"Thanks. Where's Geraldine?" I numbly reached forward for the coffee, feeling the warmth burn against clammy fingers as August settled in one of my chairs. He slouched in the seat and tightly gripped his own cup.

Geraldine had disappeared after our conversation, standing with tight shoulders and a firm set to her mouth as she told me she was going to find the detectives. I was sure she'd be held by their questioning and updates for a while, and then the big dogs would surely arrive and begin the process all over again. If I was lucky, I would escape any more questioning until tomorrow. They'd eventually sniff me out, but I'd hopefully paid my dues, at least for the night.

"Still talking with the detectives," August replied. "I asked her to finish up soon. I don't want her up all night, and she can answer the rest of the questions tomorrow. I think she's done all she can for now." His worry for his elderly grandmother was clear in his heavy brow and slumped shoulders, but there'd be no convincing Geraldine otherwise if she wanted to stay.

"Have you called your mom and dad? Or anyone else?"

"Yes. But they're still in New York, so they won't get here until late tomorrow. They tried calling Gramma, but I watched her hit decline. That was a fun thing to tell them," he said, slightly exasperated.

Even with the heaviness of the situation, my lips turned upwards at Geraldine's antics. She loved her son and daughter-in-law, but she also drove them crazy. My lips flattened as I realized another reason she probably didn't want to take the call. She wouldn't want to step away from the investigation at such a critical time.

"What happens now?" I asked. I took a long sip of the coffee, ignoring the scald on my tongue and savoring the sensory jolt that would help wake me up. I was tired and awake, panicked and calm, and a million other contrasting feelings that strung out my mind and smothered my sanity.