the chase

I shuffled into the meeting, late as usual, though my disheveled appearance kept anyone from making a snide remark. I was still miserable, and my mind was reeling from my partner John's disappearance. All the seats were already taken by museum executives, lenders, and the police officers on the case. I stood at the back, directly opposite of the owner of the most recent masterpiece to be artnapped. Mr. Belgrove was on the phone and sounded furious. His English accent sharpened his already cutting words. He was a far cry from the bald, rotund man I was expecting, looking to be about only 26 or 27. He was calm, serene, content even. I suddenly realized he was staring back at me, so I shifted my attention to the notes that John has left on his desk. I pulled them close to me as an officer peered over my arm to try and read what I'd gathered. He frowned and looked away as I blocked his view. After all, we were hired by the museum to sort out this mess, no