“You really are good, Kat,” he told her.
“Do you mean good as in skilled or just . . . good?”
He smiled. “You know what I mean.”
Kat watched Nick walk away, until the police car carrying Arturo Taccone pulled out into the street, blocking her view. As far as she knew, Nick never looked back. Which wasn’t fair, Kat thought. Because, from that point on, she was going to be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life.
Kat sensed more than saw the black limo that pulled slowly to the curb beside her. She heard a smooth whirling sound as the dark glass of the back window disappeared and a young man leaned out.
“So that fella there is the one who robbed that nice gallery?” Hale asked, his eyes wide as he pointed to the disappearing police car.
“It appears so,” Kat said. “I heard he actually slid the statue through a hole in the wall and into that vacant apartment.”
“Genius,” Hale said with a tad too much enthusiasm.
Kat laughed as Hale opened the door, and she slid inside. “Yes,” she said slowly. “In theory. Except robbing a gallery tends to make the police spend a lot of time at the gallery. . . .”
“And then how does a guy get his statue?”
Kat knew it was her turn—her line. But she was tired of playing games. And maybe Hale was too. Maybe.
He glanced down the street where Nick had disappeared. “You’re not leaving with your boyfriend?”
Kat eased her head back onto the soft leather. “Maybe.” She closed her eyes and thought that perhaps this flirting thing wasn’t so difficult after all. “Maybe not . . . Wyndham?”
She heard Hale laugh softly then call, “Marcus, take us home.”
As they eased into traffic, she let the warmth of the car wash over her. She didn’t protest as Hale slid his arm around her and pulled her to rest against his chest. It was somehow softer there than she remembered.
“Welcome back, Kat,” he told her as she drifted off to sleep. “Welcome back.”
25 Days After Deadline
Chapter 37
They did not go to Cannes for Christmas. Uncle Eddie claimed he was too old to travel—too set in his ways to be persuaded to change. So Kat and her father joined the throng that descended upon the old brownstone.
Inside it was stuffy, as it always was in winter, with a fire blazing in every room and Uncle Eddie’s old stove burning in the kitchen. So when Kat stepped out onto the stoop, she didn’t mind the chill.
“I thought I might find you here, Katarina.”
For a brief second she panicked, then realized the voice wasn’t Taccone’s. It was too gentle. Too kind. Too happy.
“Happy holidays, Mr. Stein.”
“Happy holidays, Katarina,” he said, tipping his hat.
She gestured toward the door. “Would you like to come inside?”
He quickly waved her away. “Oh no, Katarina. I have found the person I was searching for.” He took a step back. “Would you mind accompanying an old man for a short stroll?”
It was an easy question to answer—one of the few she’d heard in a very long time.
“You’ve made an enemy, my dear.”
Kat turned up her collar against the icy wind. “I could have given them back and stolen them later, but—”
“Your father’s unfortunate incarceration?” he guessed.
Kat shrugged. “My way seemed more efficient at the time.”
The first time she had met Abiram Stein, she had seen him cry. There was something beautiful, Kat thought, about watching him laugh.
“I read a nice article about you,” she told him.
“The Times?”
“No, the London Telegraph.”
He sighed. “There have been so many. Evidently I am something of an—what is the phrase—overnight sensation?”
She laughed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
They strolled together on the quiet street, with only the few stray snowflakes that fell as company. “I feel as if I should thank you, Katarina. But that”—he stopped and placed his hands in his pockets—“that is far too small a thing to do.”
“Are they . . .” Kat hesitated, her voice breaking, “home?”
“Some,” he assured her. “There are a few families— survivors—that my colleagues and I have located. You have read their stories, yes?” Kat nodded. “But for the others, Katarina, I’m afraid their homes”—he struggled for words— “are gone.”
The snow picked up, falling more heavily as he continued, “But the paintings live. People know their stories now. A new generation will hear their tales. And they will hang in the great museums of the world and not in a prison.” He stepped closer. His hands gripped her arms as he kissed her once on each cheek then whispered, “You have set them free.”
She looked down at the wet sidewalk.
“One was missing.” She hadn’t said a word about the fifth painting—the empty frame—but somehow she knew Abiram Stein would understand. “There were only four. I tried, but—”
“Yes, Katarina,” he said, nodding. “I know this painting.”
“I’ll find it. I’ll get it back, too.”
There was a growing sense of urgency coursing through her, but Mr. Stein was calm as he spoke. “Did your mother ever mention why she came to me, Katarina? Did you know that your great-great-grandmother was a very fine painter in her own right?”
Kat nodded. She did know. Who else could have forged the Mona Lisa that hung in the Louvre?