Among Thieves

Fi

Fi

“Nice,” Kozlowski said.

“Yeah,” Fi

The entire building was centered on the courtyard, with galleries and halls ringing the place on every floor.

“I guess we should find out who’s in charge,” Kozlowski said. He walked over to an information desk, off to one corner of the ground floor. The woman there blended well into the place. She appeared to be in her fifties; her dark hair was streaked with gray. Her clothes were respectable, demure, and prim. They were neither expensive nor shabby. She was looking down at the desk, motionless. Fi

“Yes?” she said. She still didn’t raise her eyes, giving the impression that whatever she was studying was far too important for her to be pulled away at the first effort.

“Can we talk to the manager?”

With the question, her gaze was drawn upward, and she looked directly at Kozlowski for the first time. Her head remained at a downward angle, as if she was still deciding whether he merited a shift in her actual body position. “Manager?” she said. “No. We don’t have a manager. We have a director.”

“He’s the person who’s in charge?”

“He is.”

“Is there any chance we could talk to him for a moment?”

This time she seemed to latch on to the we, and she craned her neck at an angle to get a line of vision around Kozlowski, examining Fi

“We have a couple of questions about the art theft.”

With the mention of the robbery, her posture straightened. Her brow knit itself tightly and her eyes narrowed angrily. “We don’t answer questions about the theft,” she said. “Not ever.”

“Never?”

“Not ever.”

Kozlowski’s voice became serious. “My name is Kozlowski,” he said. He took out the leather billfold in which he kept his private detective’s license and held it up. It had his picture and looked official. He kept his eyes on the woman’s and she took only a glance at the identification. “We’re chasing down a lead in a more recent crime that may be related. It would be helpful if we could talk to him just for a moment.”

The look on the woman’s face soured even further. “What additional information could you people need beyond what we’ve provided over and over again? It’s been twenty years, do you really think there’s anything more that anyone here has to say to the police?”

“Please, ma’am,” Kozlowski said. “It will just take a moment of his time.”

She shook her head in frustration, but picked up the phone and punched in three digits. She turned away from the two of them as she spoke, and her voice was swallowed up in the enormity of the marble lobby. Then she turned around and hung up the phone. “It will be a few minutes,” she said. “He’s very busy.”

“I’m sure, ma’am.”

“He said you can wait for him up in the Dutch Room, if you wish.”

“The Dutch Room,” Kozlowski repeated. He turned and looked at Fi

Fi

The woman let out a condescending sigh. “Up the stairs to the right,” she said. “It’s where the Rembrandts and the Flinck used to hang before they were stolen.”

“Ah, the Dutch Room,” Kozlowski said.

Fi

“Thanks very much.”

She was still shaking her head as the two of them walked up the stairs. She probably would have been muttering as well, if it wouldn’t have struck her as an unpardonable breach of etiquette.

The second floor was just as breathtaking as the first. It, too, was built around the huge courtyard, and it consisted of a series of gallery rooms lined up one after another, each looking out through ornate balconies down to the garden below.

They turned right at the top of the stairs and walked along the hallway to a large arched doorway that led into a huge room paneled in dark wood. It had towering ceilings and antique chairs upholstered in heavy fabric. The walls were covered in green silk and lined with large dark oil paintings, many of them portraits. The faces of the long-dead peered out from their places on the walls. For some reason, Fi

In a few spots there were empty frames hanging on the walls. The frames were, admittedly, works of art in and of themselves. They were heavy, ornately carved works painted in gold leaf. And yet, left alone, without the canvas and paint, they seemed sad and out of place.

Fi

He was old-Fi

“He’s fine,” a voice said behind Fi

“I’m Kozlowski.” He extended his hand.

The man shook it, though there was a look of reluctance on his face. “I’m Paul Baxter. I am the director of the museum, as well as the chief curator.” Fi

“Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Baxter,” Kozlowski said. He motioned to Fi