[MAX]
The Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza — more commonly, the Thyssen — is located in the heart of Madrid. It is part of what's known as the Golden Triangle of Art; a trio of art museums in Madrid which encapsulates European art history across centuries. The Thyssen in specific started off as a private collection, and has a combination of historical and contemporary art pieces. It's considered extraordinary by artistic standards, with three floors full of paintings, and big name artists like Van Gogh, Monet, Kirchner, and Caravaggio.
Part of Tinsley de Loughrey's 'vacation' to Madrid involved visiting the Thyssen. Her fascination with art was something that the greater media only really understood on a surface level; they didn't realize that she was obsessed with collecting the most expensive, most difficult to obtain pieces in the world.
Every rich person has their thing. Aside from her general hunger for money, Tinsley's was art.
And that obsession was what had driven her to meeting with the head curator of the Thyssen, deep in the employees only section of the building, in order to discuss what it would take for her to get her hands on Paul Gauguin's Mata Mua — one of the most expensive paintings in the world at around four hundred million U.S. dollars.
And it was Tinsley's bad behavior which had driven Harper and I to sneaking into the same space in order for Harper to begin her psych-eval of the young, self-indulgent, self-obsessed billionaire.
Fun times all around.
The head curator was, fortunately for Tinsley, an older gentleman who seemed perfectly content to endure her snobbish behavior. Whether it was for the sake of taking her money, or just because she was outwardly pretty, I wasn't sure. But he hadn't so much as flinched when she'd swept into the room, decked in Louis Vuitton from head to toe, heels clicking across the tile, whining about something that I didn't quite catch due to exchanging texts with Reznor.
Harper scoffed at whatever Tinsley had said before she sharp green eyes my way just long enough to give an eye roll. Then her focus returned to the young woman below.
Harper and I were tucked away out of sight in a balcony-type area which Reznor had directed us to because it was a limited access area which, so far as he could determine, was utilized perhaps once in a blue moon. The security in the space was nonexistent (begging the question of what it was usually used for), which worked in our favor, given it was one less thing Reznor had to do to ensure we went undiscovered. From where we were positioned we had a bird's eye view of the entire room below. It looked like it was a conservation room — which would explain the humidity that Tinsley had now begun to grumble about — and had several large paintings on one wall, along with rolling chairs, and giant tables covered with papers, cloths, and microscopes, as well as several other objects throughout the room which I couldn't have identified even if I'd been up close and personal.
Even from our position, the chemical smell was strong. I would've placed it as something close to the scent of disinfectant if I didn't suspect that they were using much more complicated preservation and cleaning materials than that.
My fingers thrummed against the back of my phone as I watched Harper for a moment. Whenever she looked directly at Tinsley, she frowned a little. Not the cute puppy-like pout she'd use if she was generally upset, but the perturbed sort of frown which caused her eyebrows to furrow and her nose to scrunch up.
When I finally traced Harper's gaze downward, I began to make my own observations.
Tinsley's clothes betrayed her age. At twenty-eight, she lived in a world of big businesses and bad decisions, but the lifestyle hadn't been enough to force her to maturity. Her top was white, sleeveless, skintight, and cropped, revealing a lot of tanned skin, as well as the bottom of an expansive floral tattoo that — too many magazines had flaunted — was sprawled across almost her entire left rib cage. Her pants were loose and flared, giving way to simple, shiny, black spike-heels.
