KALEIDOSCOPE II PART 7
By Cynthia Hatch
Over the next few days the mountain of files on her desk gradually eroded into a gentler, less intimidating terrain, and with the unexpected change of venue on the Bassano case, it was possible to entertain the illusion that the work was under her control instead of the other way around. Amazing what a little concentration and a positive outlook could accomplish. She faced each task -- not as a duty to be resented and grudgingly carried out, but as a challenge to be mastered, each tiny victory bringing her closer to the prize, and the prize was freedom -- freedom from the guilt of obligations unfulfilled, freedom from long hours of overtime that might prevent her from seizing the next magical moment when it came.
Without this demanding game of catch-up, it was doubtful that she could have stuck to her other resolution -- the determination not to put pressure on Vincent, to give him a chance to carry out his own responsibilities, flee from the whispers of her fears or discontent, her longing to call him always to her side. It was a small gift she was giving him, one she hoped he wasn't even fully aware of, but the closer they drew the more she realized how much he sacrificed for her, and how surely she must have caused him to compromise the other things he cared about. As accepting and forgiving as he was of others' shortcomings, she knew he allowed no such leeway to himself. He would simply work harder, give more of his time. his energy, of himself, in order to be all the things he was to all the people he loved.
For most of her life things had been handed to her, and she had accepted them, unthinking. It bothered her to suspect that the impulse was still there -- to unquestioningly take what was given without considering what it cost the giver. No more -- not with Vincent. She would not indulge the petulant voice within her that fretted about this time spent apart. Three days without seeing him, three days without the sound of his voice, his touch. Instead. she pulled out a file, stuffed with the rambling testimony of a particularly inarticulate car thief, and applied herself to gleaning some sense out of it.
By the end of the week she allowed herself a tentative pat on the back. Her cases pending were all up to date, she'd had time do to a little research of her own on the subject of art thefts, as well as meeting with the other operatives assigned to the case.
"Did they share, Radcliffe, or do the fair-haired boys want to keep girls out of the clubhouse?"
"I learned some things, Joe," she said, refusing to be baited by his cynical smirk.
"Yeah, well, I'm sure it was only what they wanted you to hear. Every one of that bunch would sell their grandmothers for a collar."
"So? Maybe while they're out there peddling their grannies, Ill be developing a few leads of our own. I just may start my own club, and it will be bigger and better than theirs."
"I wouldn't doubt it," he grinned, as she gathered up her things and started to leave. 'Hey, do I get to join?"
"No" she shot back. 'Not until you can play nicely with the rest of the boys."
The truth was she hadn't learned much that was new in the conference. It was possible that one of the agents might have a line on where the painting might be going or who was likely to be behind the theft, but if they did, it was strictly speculation at this point. Clues had been sparse, and she sensed that everyone was waiting for something to shake loose, to set them on the trail. It was true that her role was minimal, but that was due to the likelihood that the painting was out of the state by now, possibly out of the country. The crime was unlikely to have been committed by any of the familiar faces that passed through the New York court system, but it had happened here. It was a loss to the people of this city, and so, whether the agents trained to deal with this kind of crime liked it or not, she was involved.
There had been a happy feeling growing within her all day. Some of it might be attributed to the catching up on her work, but she thought -- hoped -- it was more. Why did she feel suddenly so certain that tonight would be the night when she saw him again? Surely not because she thought she'd earned it -- been a very good girl and so expected everyone to applaud and give her the treat she wanted. Was that it? She frowned slightly and halted in her preparation of a quick supper, searching her soul for some sign of that spoiled little girl. Did she want to see him? Oh, yes, more than she'd allowed herself to think about, but was that necessarily selfish? She was still puzzling over it, not tasting the sandwich she was eating when she noticed the glow from the balcony had dimmed to the lavender hue of twilight. Soon the days would be growing shorter again -- a definite advantage to the approaching season.
She showered and dressed in a skirt and blouse of soft, white cotton, intricately sewn in tiny pleats. Its simplicity had appealed to her, the almost peasant style. It had cost a fortune. She brushed her newly washed hair into a shine, still feeling an anticipation she was almost afraid to acknowledge. It was dark now, and no sound came from the terrace, but she moved to the doors, putting her faith in the certainty that the waiting was over.
Outside -- on the bench -- lay a folded piece of paper and across it. a single crimson rose. She hurried to pick them up. The note said simply that he would be waiting for her. She closed her eyes, inhaling the delicate fragrance of the rose, and let the floodgates open. Her need to be with him, the exultant joy that soon she would be -- she let them wash over her and continue their inevitable journey to him. Let him feel it, she thought, let him know how much this means to me; make this happiness his.
In minutes she had made her way to the cool, green shadows of the park, a shopping bag from the Metropolitan Museum swinging from one hand, the rose still clutched in the other. She set the bag down to trip the lever on the formidable door, and it slid open just as he rounded the corner from the far end.
The bars were still in place, and she forgot to open them in the thrill of watching his approach.
The amber light beyond lent a haloed effect to his hair. His cloak was pushed back to flow gently behind him, emphasizing every impossibly graceful movement of the powerful body. She was mesmerized, could not have been more fascinated by the sight of him if she were seeing him for the first time.
When he reached her, he didn't speak or move the gate aside. He stood looking down at her, their faces almost touching through the bars. That look -- that clear, unsullied blue beneath a fringe of untamed hair -- was at once almost bashful and so astonishingly erotic, that she was grateful for the sturdy iron her hands were welded to. As seemed to happen more often lately, the power of speech eluded her. and she released her hold on the gate to touch his lips gently with the rose, He breathed in the offered fragrance, closing his eyes briefly as he did so. but when he opened them, it was to study her with such curious intensity that at last she found her voice.
"What?' she coaxed softly.
"Your face."
How had she managed to get through so many days without the sound of his voice, and how could it be that it was even more strangely seductive than she remembered?
"It's before me always -- in my mind's eye -- in my heart, yet when we meet, Catherine, your beauty.., it's as if I've never truly seen you before."
"Really?" Compliments tended to either bore or embarrass her, depending on the sincerity of the source. She'd long grown adept at turning them aside, but this -- this she thought she could listen to forever.
"Your eyes," he continued." The way they change, as the sea must, from green to grey and back again."
She smiled, willing him to go on. If he thought her beautiful, if that beauty gave him pleasure, then vanity be damned, she was grateful for the random stroke of nature that had given it to her, so that she could give it to him.
"And your lips, Catherine."
"What about them?" His words invited a boldness that moved her to challenge him. "Do you remember what I said they were for?"
"I remember." That look again. It held her, kept her from soaring weightless through the electrified air or plunging giddily downward in a free fall through the earth, either of which she felt in danger of doing, as he swung aside the barrier that separated them. Oh, if only every obstacle that keeps us apart could be removed so easily. But then she was in his arms. He was claiming the gift she had offered him, and everything else in the world lost all significance.
How easily he invaded all her senses, until it seemed it was his life force pounding within her, searing through her blood, willing her into some sublime region far beyond the limits of consciousness. She watched his mouth as he drew away from her. Kissing her trembling fingertips, she pressed them lightly to his lips. "I love you."
"I love you, Catherine." He pulled her close, and they remained interlocked, savoring the effects of the rapture that accompanied any contact between them, lending each other strength to subdue the insistent urge to explore it further.
When their heartbeats had slowed, she smiled at him. "I've brought you something -- a piece of last Sunday that I wanted to share with you."
He didn't question the peculiarity of such a gift, as she handed him the bag, and he closed the heavy door behind them.
"Thank you, Catherine." He tucked the package under one arm, drawing her close with the other. As they started down the tunnel, their steps unhurried, the pleasure of moving in unison, touching, gave the long journey downward a fascination of its own that neither was anxious to see ended. He told her of the progress that had been made against the encroaching water, and she explained what had been learned so far about the robbery.
"Security at the museum is very tight, Vincent; they claim it's second only to the Pentagon's. If a guard is out sick, the gallery where he's assigned is simply closed -- no one gets in. It's the same when a camera is broken or needs reloading. If what they call a 'lone wolf' enters a room, and there are no other people in it, he'll always be followed by a security person. There's no way anyone is ever alone and unwatched.'
"And yet?" She loved the spark of lively interest that flared in his eyes, delighted that she could bring him a story of intrigue from a world that was closed to him. As they entered his chamber, she continued, trying to make the telling of it as compelling as she could.
"And yet, sometime in the last few days, it was discovered that the painting -- the one that was stolen -- needed some restorative work. There was some slight deterioration in one comer, and it was removed and taken to the conservation area up at the top of the building by the domes of the Great Hall, and it was quick work for someone to gain access through the roof and make off with it.
"Someone who knew it would be there."
"Right. Of course, it seems like an inside job, because the thief had to know about the painting's removal and where it would be taken. Everyone from the docents to the staff to the guards themselves has been questioned and requestioned, but so far nothing's come of it."
"And you have another explanation." It was a statement, not a question. He knew her so well.
"Another possibility anyway. Everyone who has access to the museum is so carefully screened. They knew what would happen if they were ever involved in something like this. I mean, even the security guards' bags are checked when they enter and leave the building. They knew there'd be polygraphs, and it isn't like anyone's disappeared. All the personnel are accounted for."
"But there is someone else who knew the painting would be removed." It didn't surprise her in the least that his mind should have taken him so quickly to the point it had taken her some time to reach. It delighted her rather, gave her confidence in the theory she'd arrived at, musing in the office, while Greenwald and company were making life hell for the museum's staff. He laid the bag down on his writing table and pulled up a second chair, so she could sit beside him. "Please, go on, Catherine."
"Well, everyone assumed that this thing started when the thief learned that the painting had been moved to a relatively vulnerable place, that someone at the museum mentioned it to the wrong person -- or the right one, I guess, if there was really an accomplice, and the perpetrator took advantage -- a crime of opportunity."
"Some men make their own opportunities."
"That's what I thought." God, he looked adorable when he tilted his head like that. "I asked some questions about what could have caused the deterioration in the painting that required attention from the restorers, and it is possible, Vincent, that a slow acting solvent, something common and readily available could have the effect."
"You think the thief visited the museum some time before and ensured that the painting would be removed."
"I do. it's no secret that the museum does minor restoration work on their own pieces or that it's done on the top floor. The trick was knowing when something sufficiently valuable to make the risk worthwhile would be there. And I think it could be done. I think it is possible -- even with the cameras and guards -- that an anonymous looking person could inflict that kind of damage, something that would take a while to become noticeable, without drawing attention. I don't think he would have even had to touch the painting."