"Portrait of a Lady" by Gustav Klimt (1916-1917), stolen 1997, recovered 2019 - value $60 million

Chapter Five

Geraldine called them that night.

Surprisingly, they agreed to start first thing the next morning. I couldn't help but wonder if their schedule was so open because of the scandal, that maybe it'd blown a hole in their calendar too, and not just their business.

I'd refreshed my memory after talking to Lena, flipping through news articles detailing the downfalls of a state representative, a disgraced ex-businessman, and the CEO of Greystone Security. Less reported, but still mentioned, was the widespread and connected corruption revealed in the state attorney general's office. Apparently, the attorney general himself hadn't been part of it, but I wasn't sure I was convinced. The articles didn't exactly inspire trust in our government.

My research heavily strengthened my doubts about the company, solidifying more and more with every article. Greystone had found itself embroiled in a political, convoluted mess in the past summer. It was enough to inspire uncertainty, at the very least. Their former CEO had been the definition of corrupt; he'd partnered with government officials in skeezy underhanded deals, and the aftershocks had rippled down to form cracks in the very foundation of the company. Even if Greystone was no longer Greystone, if a new name graced their building and badges, they were the same limping shell of what they once were. Rebranding could change a lot, but it couldn't change everything.

From what I understood, someone named Reed Sterling had been offered the CEO position in hopes of alleviating the power vacuum left behind. He was the one who'd worked with Lena, and undeniably the obvious choice for the role, yet he'd declined the promotion. In fact, he'd left the company altogether. It wasn't clear why, and while it could've only been a wish to distance himself from the poisonous reputation of the company, it seemed a bit suspicious to me.

Instead, a team leader had gotten the crown. I wasn't afraid to admit I knew very little about the legal details around transitioning and re-emerging companies, but I was sure it was boring and complicated. August might know, and would surely jump into a long winded explanation of legal rights and the process of rebranding if asked, but I wasn't eager to explore the nitty gritty.

There wasn't a lot of information about Simon Gatz online to soothe my suspicions, either. He was potentially a wild card, and my misgivings grew with every blank detail.

The next morning, I quietly made my way into work through the back door. I had no desire to confront the reporters still out front—especially once they caught wind of the way we were increasing security. Whitehill was already a star of the news, and the imminent announcement of new security protocols could go a lot of different ways. I wasn't sure announcing that particular security company's involvement would instill confidence the museum was protected, or that we wouldn't lose anymore works; if anything, there was a high likelihood it'd make us more of a laughingstock. Of all the companies to choose, the one rocked by a scandal a few months ago wouldn't be my own top choice. I'd personally avoid said company if my priorities were driven by fear of a thief's return, or fueled by a desire to patch tattered reputations.

But I trusted Geraldine.

She knew what she was doing, or if she didn't, she was incredibly skilled at faking it. That was good enough for me. She wouldn't let the museum fall.

I was only at my computer for twenty minutes before August texted me.

They're here. Come meet the cavalry.

I snickered, knowing August was just as unsure as I was. Lena did say most of the old team was still there, so I knew at least some of them were competent, but that didn't mean everyone was. We'd just have to see what level of competency the rookie CEO brought to the table. In all honesty, the last thing I needed was a Nancy Drew-wannabe messing with things he shouldn't. I needed the museum to recover public and artist relations so I could assuage the negative feelings that slithered and curled in my chest. They reared their head like a viper and spewed venom whenever I was at Whitehill. Stress didn't feel like an adequate way to describe it.

I made my way through the museum, heading to the entrance and wondering who or what I'd find. I was alone as I strode through the corridors, my brisk steps bringing me across wide patches of morning sun on the floor.

Walking through Whitehill always offered clarity.

Whitehill had high ceilings supported by white walls, paths of marble flooring under delicate chandeliers, and a refined air of royalty. Art museums never conformed to one style of how they should look; from hole in the wall galleries to sweeping architecture scraping the skies, museums followed the footsteps of the art they showed off. They displayed all shapes, sizes, and designs with gusto. From bold contrasts of contemporary, soft blends of modern, intimidating mights of neoclassical, or the harsh expanses of industrial, there was no one-style-fit-all with museums.

Instead, museums tended to be the canvas of the architect.

Geraldine had envisioned a classical style for Whitehill when she'd begun to fully craft her legacy. She'd wished to invite feelings of expansive Roman forums, shining Greek pavilions, and sturdy marble sanctuaries. She'd wanted guests to step off the street and into a world that scorned modern marvels, one that invoked feelings of blossoming peace and settling souls.

A welcoming pocket of timeless wonder.

That wasn't to say every portion of Whitehill was like that. We had a kid's center where rainbow splattered on the walls and refused to follow color theory, and a gift shop brimming with bright souvenirs and various knick-knacks. We had a garden around the back that flooded with radiant blossoms in spring and summer, reliable annually to show unapologetic flamboyancy. The very works on the walls themselves were windows of various hues. There was always color to be found, regardless if one was looking.

My steps echoed on the floors as I made my way to the wide-open foyer. Domed ceilings towered overhead, shaped voids that absorbed the bouncing echoes of even the most hushed murmurs. A small group stood in front of the welcome desk near the entrance, clustered before the wide barrier and flanked by velvet purple ropes. Guests could purchase tickets and ask questions there, or at another small desk in the back of the foyer. I hoped guests would soon visit those desks again.

I stepped through an opening in the ropes and silently approached the conversing circle.

On one side, August, Geraldine, and August's parents stood grouped in front of the desk like a welcoming committee. August looked even more like his father when he stood next to him, clearly a younger replica with longer, curlier hair and no grays softly encroaching yet. The rest was pretty copy-and-paste; he displayed the same lean frame, strong nose, and heavy brows as Mr. Whitehill. Mrs. Whitehill stood next to her husband. Her oak-streaked blonde hair was as curly as August's golden ones, and her eyes as piercing blue. The features passed down from her softened the harsher features of her husband seen on their son.

Geraldine stood on the end beside her daughter-in-law, a monarchal matriarch of unquestionable authority. The Whitehills were radiant, both on their own and side by side. They had it all; impressive looks, wealth, reputation.

Across from the Whitehills were two unknown men, both looking somewhere in their mid- to late-twenties. I hadn't expected them to be so young, and it made me even more curious how their time at the museum would play out. Surely, the CEO had to be somewhere else; he couldn't be one of the too-young men that stood in the entranceway.

One had short, dark hair and deeply tanned skin. Both men were tall, but he seemed the shorter of the two, if only by an inch or so. His demeanor was bright and his stance was relaxed, looking at ease despite the formal introductions and the imposing might of the family before him. He had a wide, inviting smile; his expression naturally crinkled into a radiant grin as he laughed at something Mr. Whitehill had said. It looked so easy and normal, like it was his usual state of being and his body was relieved to have been returned to it. He seemed kind. I hadn't met many able to give such a first impression.

My eye then caught on the other.

The other man's stance was firmly planted, stoic and sturdy, and his expression showed no hint of a smile. The seriousness carved into his features felt off, like it was too thick for what his own natural state encouraged, yet he still wore it well. Dark hair fell over olive skin and reached for strong brows set in an unreadable expression. I wouldn't say his hair was curly, but I'd be wrong to call it straight. It was something of its own, seemingly refusing to follow any one pattern as it fell around his ears and forehead before jutting out in a soft widow's peak.

If he'd been chiseled from marble, he surely would've been the work of one of the greats, because he had the breathless symmetry of beauty and grace. The angles of his face were defined yet gentle, like wisps of detail carved in stone that looked softer than one knew they were. It looked as if said features would be both delicate and hard to the touch, reminding me of draped cloth depicted on ancient marble figures; every dip and hollow striking, yet willingly curved. His straight and narrow nose sat beneath eyes that looked impossibly dark.

Especially when they turned to me.

"Good morning, El," August greeted. I smiled and took my place beside him, directly across from the man with those depth-deceiving eyes. They were still steadily trained in my direction; flooded with thinly-veiled curiosity and careful observation.

I intentionally kept my attention on the Whitehills.

"Morning. Nice to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Whitehill, welcome back. I hope your trip to New York was enjoyable."

"As great of a trip as always." Mr. Whitehill returned my smile, until it slipped a fraction of an inch and his eyes clouded. His tone was more somber as he added, "Until the end, that is."

"It's good to be back, Eleanor. Although, of course, not the best circumstances to return to," Ms. Whitehill agreed with her husband. She sighed, stepping forward to give me a delicate hug. I also greeted Geraldine, providing a 'good morning' she politely returned. She was only ever polite these days.

"Eleanor, this is the CEO of Riverwide Security and his head analyst. Gentlemen, this is Eleanor Vaycker, one of our exhibit coordinators and a close friend of the Whitehill family," Mr. Whitehill introduced. Surprise lightly lit at the confirmation the heads of the company were so young, but I ignored it, and shoved it down in current company.

Still, they couldn't have been much older than August and I. I had to admit, it was almost amusing such a well-known company had fallen into the hands of surely green apprentices. Untimely demise of order had clearly thrust young foot soldiers into higher positions befitting generals. Neither August or I could hope to achieve those ranks ourselves for at least another decade, and for good reason. We still had a lot to learn. I wondered if the other guy Lena had mentioned, Reed Sterling, was any older. If not, then the previous CEO really mustn't have expected to lose his grip on the company so soon.

If only he'd made better choices. Now his company was in the hands of former team leaders who looked barely old enough to wear their new job labels.

"Beck Ramos, head analyst. Nice to meet you, Ms. Vaycker." The first man shook my hand and flashed a warm grin. I was starting to think my initial impression had been correct, that he really was a smile-y person. He had to be, his toothy display was too easy to slip on and too weightless to maintain. It was a comfortable personality trait to be around.

"Please, call me Eleanor." I stepped back as he nodded, still smiling. It was starting to get rather impressive.

My eyes found the other man again. I didn't think his own had moved from me yet, and as I stepped forward to extend my hand, I found myself unable to blink. His eyes were even darker up close, pools of obsidian framed by thick lashes almost too long and too unabashedly curled.

My job was to find and cherish art, celebrate beauty, and encourage the appreciation of what sparked emotion.

As a professional, I can confidently say he's beautiful.

"Simon Gatz, CEO of Riverwide," he said. His deep voice tumbled in the air around us as his hand clasped mine in a strong shake. It was just long enough for me to feel the callouses on his fingers and palm, scraping my skin and causing goose bumps to scatter.

"Pleasure." I held his gaze for a stretched moment before slowly dropping his hand and stepping back to August's side. Simon blinked and looked away, and whatever rapture of beauty I'd found myself caught in faded as I forced myself to do the same.

For a moment, I panicked, thinking someone had possibly noticed me staring too intently, or acting strangely. But the moment that'd seemed long to me had only been a normal introduction to the others, and no one around us seemed to have batted an eye.

I shook it off, not pleased by my distracted and potentially awkward behavior around the stranger. I was more than accustomed to being around finely dressed and attractive men, a fortunate side effect of my job and social position, so it should've been par for the usual course. I brushed off my odd reaction as nothing more than a result of stress.

It was unusual—nothing else.

"Owen Lach, our head of security, will be down any moment," Geraldine said. "A few things had to be handled first thing this morning. When he finishes up, he'll guide you through the security systems already in place and our current guard schedules."

Simon nodded. "We look forward to helping any way we can. Our analyst team has already began their research into previous stunts of this sort. We want to ensure we have a complete understanding of known possible vulnerabilities that've lead to other missing works, whether here in the U.S. or internationally."

"It's been several years since something this high-caliber occurred," Mr. Whitehill informed with a grave look. "A loss like this isn't unheard of, but a lot of galleries are hit by thieves taking items off the wall in the middle of the day. Or smashing windows and making a run for it. Cameras or employees usually catch them during or after the fact, and the works are often recovered."

Mrs. Whitehill shook her head in disapproval, reproach clear in her warbling tone. "You won't believe how many Picassos are just plucked off the wall and tucked under someone's arm."

"I did find several of those cases, ma'am, and I was certainly surprised. There doesn't seem to be much forethought or planning in those particular circumstances." Simon paused, before adding, "This case must've taken considerable planning and casing of the area beforehand. May I ask, has there been any progress with locating the painting?"

"Not yet," Geraldine answered. "But I'm sure our Widow will be well taken care of until she finds her way home."

"We want to ensure this doesn't happen again," Mr. Whitehill stressed, glancing at his mother with the cautious air of a son's worry. "Whatever expertise you can offer, weak spots you may see, need for increased patrols, anything of the sort. Please share it. We want to protect what's left."

"Of course, sir. We look forward to helping cover more ground. We'll offer aid as long as we're needed."

"At least a few weeks of increased security presence. That'll give us time to determine if we need a larger permanent team or just a more efficient system. Your company's expertise, along with Owen and our existing team's, will ensure we're in a more secure place moving forward. You may see Agent Gallick of the local FBI art division branch around occasionally, as well. I'll be sure to introduce the two of you next time she's back for the investigation."

Mr. Whitehill swung his arm out in front of him, checking his watch that promptly lit up with alerts and messages. While he had plenty of money for a Rolex or Philippe, Mr. Whitehill enjoyed technology. And with his wealth, it was only ever the newest, or even the yet to be released, models of phones, watches, cars, and appliances.

"Owen will be down any minute. In the meantime, I would offer to start the tour, but our board has called yet another emergency meeting. We'll find you gentlemen after. Eleanor, would you mind beginning the tour? Owen will show them the more in-depth portions, but you can get them started on the exhibits."

"Of course, sir."

"August, I want you in the meeting with us. If anything, times of crisis offer plenty of learning opportunities." Mr. Whitehill sighed as he clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. August glanced at me, then at the Riverwide men. I was sure he'd much rather do a tour than sit in a board meeting, but he did what he'd always done. He nodded and agreed.

"If you'll excuse us," Mr. Whitehill said to the men before me. Geraldine, August, and his parents walked away, heading up the wide front marble stairs to a meeting sure to last a good chunk of the morning. As the group disappeared into the upper halls, I turned back to the men of Riverwide with a perfectly professional smile pasted on.

"Well, welcome to Whitehill. Have either of you been here before?"

"I have," Beck said. "My girlfriend, Gabby, loves doing things like this. We came here on a date a few months ago."

A real grin grew on my face. "That's great! Your girlfriend has good taste."

"It was a lot more fun than I'd thought it would be. No offense, of course," Beck added hastily. "We actually came when the 'American Woman' exhibit was still up."

"None taken. I know the reputation museums have. I hope more will find we're not nearly as boring as people think. And that's great you got to see that exhibit, it was one of my favorites! All those photographs were by women, too. A lot of interesting perspectives on gender, social roles, and progress, I thought," I earnestly spoke.

"Yes! It was very moving," Beck agreed. His expression grew serious, and his smile fell away. I wasn't sure which was more jolting. "I'm sorry about the Widow. I remember it. It was a beautiful painting."

The viper reared and twisted.

"Is. It is a beautiful painting," I corrected softly.

Beck's smile returned, but this time it was sad and sorrowful. It was a smile that matched the one seen on the Widow we spoke of. "Right. It'll turn up eventually."

I pressed my lips together but shook off the topic, dodging a reptilian strike I wasn't sure I'd survive. I turned to the other man with us, who'd stood silent and watching while Beck and I talked. His eyes met mine.

"What about you? Have you ever been here before?" I asked.

Simon's eyebrows raised, a look that asked 'do I look like I would go to a museum' clear in his gaze. I wondered if he thought museumgoers fell into a type, a type he believed he just didn't match. He was wrong. Though, I had to admit I'd found myself doing that discriminatory sorting too sometimes, a subconscious profiling just like I'd done with Detective Graves. I'd thought him too rough and angry for art.

Maybe those were the type of people who needed art the most.

"No. Never been," Simon said evenly. His eyes left mine to look around the sweeping foyer, where entrances to hallways could be found shooting off on either side. His expression was sharp, and his dark eyes absorbed every detail, from the chip on the first step of the stairs to the black pens sprawled across the welcome desk. I was quickly gaining the sense he was as astute as he was handsome.

"Sounds like you need the full introductory tour, then. Sorry, Beck, you've already seen most of the works and exhibits, so it'll be a repeat in some places. But at least the museum is closed, so no guests or groups will be in the way," I said. "Unfortunately, the American Women exhibit isn't here anymore, since it was a only temporary set-up, but coincidentally we do have another photography exhibit right now. It's the first we've had since the one you went to. Hopefully you'll enjoy it just as much, it's Jon Leehaven's works."

"Never heard of him," Beck said brightly, "but I'm looking forward to it."

"There are four main exhibits and some smaller sections in between. We can get started."

I led the men through the ropes, our shoes making loud echoes as we walked. A few people milled about, but for the most part the entranceway was empty. Our guards were stationed and patrolling, and some employees scattered, but most everyone was in their offices.

We headed to the first hall on the right, but I first made sure to stop at the large work in the middle of the foyer. It was a large piece, and impossible to miss, but I paused and allowed the men to read the informational stand next to it. It was often crowded on days the museum was open, and I doubted Beck would've gotten a good look while he was here before. Then, he would be able to see it without rubbing elbows or having to wait for a turn. I could tell Beck almost verbatim what the card said, but he looked engrossed as he flicked his attention between the stand and examining the work itself. Simon hung back and stood next to me, maintaining his position half a step behind. He joined me in watching his coworker in polite silence.

I was glad there was interest being shown in the art. I knew the Whitehills would be, too. It would've broken my heart if they'd swept in and ignored the work they were here to protect. It would've been understandable, but I felt there was a special desire to protect art if one also appreciated it; it was a feeling I was sure most of the museum employees felt. I was glad the men of Riverwide appreciated the works. Or, at least, Beck did. Simon seemed like he might be a heartbreaker in that regard. He still hadn't stepped forward, keeping his distance even when Beck stepped back and allowed space for him. I was surprised, because while the tour was a chance for Beck to get a closer look at works he'd seen before, for Simon it was all new.

That didn't seem to concern him in the slightest.

My head turned to look at the man beside me, his eyes on Beck and his hands tucked in the dark gray pockets of his suit. He didn't look too thrilled to be here. I couldn't help the words that nudged out of my mouth, disrupting the business-like silence we held.

"I hope you find something you like while you're here," I said quietly. His dark eyes, so heavily curtained by thick lashes, flickered to me. For a moment, he seemed to be thinking — what, I couldn't tell. I could only tell there was something behind those impenetrable eyes.

Right as I began to look away, thinking he had no intentions of responding, he spoke in a voice as quiet as mine had been.

"I'm sure there's lots to find, Eleanor, but there are plenty of things I already like."

You can find the downfall of Greystone security (although this book obviously contains spoilers) in my other book, "In Love and Diplomacy". Reed and Avery's romance is featured in that book as well!

Also, this isn't important, but as a fun behind-the-scenes tidbit of info, this chapter wasn't supposed to be posted until next week. The chapter that was supposed to be posted today was tucked away, along with a later chapter I had written for this book. I won't say they're scrapped completely, perhaps they'll pop up as bonus chapters at the end, but it was a pretty radical last minute decision on my part. Part of the fun of writing, eh? Sometimes the puzzle pieces just don't fit in the order we planned (as my ILAD readers may know).  [Bonus chapters were posted in their originally intended positions as of September 2022.]

- H