CHAPTER 7
Will
I didn’t attend things like student art shows much anymore, but I did generally enjoy them. I’d never been gifted at making art, as much as I loved it, and the yearly show at the University of Maryland was always a favorite activity of mine when I was in school. Willowbrook’s show was clearly a much bigger deal than the show at U of M had ever been. It was opening night and a prime opportunity to show off for donors and parents alike.
I arrived early and took a look at all the paintings, impressed at the quality and the passion of the students. I was struck by a painting of a young man with hands open and waiting, the floor in front of it strewn with bits of what appeared to be trash. It was an interesting approach to draw the viewer into the work itself, and not the sort of thing one would necessarily hang on their wall in their living room and brag about owning, but I found the stark emotion of the piece to be incredibly moving. It was active in a way that made me think of Futurism, and I was impressed as hell by the talent and thought that went into it.
Still, my favorite was a simpler, much more subtle work. Watercolor was one of my favorite media—I appreciated the delicacy and the light touch involved, as well as the way the colors could blend to become bolder, sharper—and this one was masterful. There was a wash of slate through which I could just make out the textured material of the canvas, that gave the impression of hills and valleys. It was overlaid with greens, violets, and yellows in seemingly random distribution. The tag said Rain on the Mountainside, and I gave a delighted laugh, because that’s exactly what it looked like to me.
I glanced at the price tag, wondering if perhaps I could splurge and buy this piece. It wasn’t the price of, say, a Saska, but it wasn’t cheap. And it shouldn’t be. It was the sort of piece that came together so beautifully, so perfectly, that it looked deceptively simple. It would look lovely in my bedroom, on the wall opposite my bed. Buying it would mean sacrificing a weekend climbing trip or some new gear I’d had my eye on.
As I pondered my financial situation and the painting, I caught a familiar scent that made my entire body tighten with awareness. I didn’t even need to look to know exactly who’d materialized next to me.
“I should have known you’d like this one, William.”
“It’s Agent Fox,” I corrected, steeling myself to look over at Vaughn. He looked as wonderful as he always seemed to, his blue suit flawlessly cut, the color perfectly complementing his striking coloring. His hair wasn’t braided, but was worn in a low ponytail, making me think again of Lucius Malfoy. Evil wizard, indeed. “And I’m not sure why you think you are in any way qualified to know what my taste is.”
“You liked the Staunton,” Vaughn said, sounding charming as ever. His nearness, his scent, the memory of his hands on me and his voice in my ear…fuck. This was not the time to remember how powerfully attracted to him I was.
“This is nothing like the Staunton,” I said stubbornly. I narrowed my eyes at him. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“My delight far outstrips my surprise,” Vaughn drawled, and it was so unexpected that I felt myself smile before I realized I’d done it.
Only the slightest distance separated us. Somehow, that was more of a tease than feeling the heat of his body; it was as if the mere closeness was enough to scorch my skin. I would not take a step away from him and give him the satisfaction of knowing he was affecting me. Hell, I barely wanted to admit it to myself.
“So what brings you here, William? Is your role merely as a patron of the arts, or has some absolute scoundrel absconded with a piece of student work? If the latter, I’m gratified to learn that the FBI devotes such exquisite resources to up-and-coming artists.”
“I’m afraid my reasons for being here are confidential,” I sniffed. “And what about you? Figuring out whose work is going to be worth stealing in a few years?”
He grinned at me. “My, William, what a thing to say. No, I’m fundraising for the Willowbrook art department. I’m surprised your charming sister didn’t mention it, seeing as how her company is planning the gala.”
I pitched my voice low, and finally closed the distance between us. “I’m only going to say this once, Amory. I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing or what kind of games you seem so fucking determined to play with me, but you will not involve my sister. Is that understood?”
I might not have been physically imposing, but I knew how to pitch my voice and hold my body to make me seem like a threat. Vaughn, however, seemed the opposite of intimidated. His eyes caught mine and held, and the tension between us crackled and sparked in a way that made me as furious as it did hard.
“It’s not your sister I find interesting. Delightful and competent, I assure you. But not as…intriguing as her twin. You are twins, yes?”
I opened my mouth to say something—I didn’t know what—when someone called for me. My conversation with Vaughn had distracted me so completely that I hadn’t noticed the small space fill up with people. Now Curtis Loel was marching toward me like a man on his way to war, his face flushed and his mouth set. He barely looked at Vaughn.
“Mr. Loel,” I said, politely.
“Agent Fox,” Loel said, like my name was a curse. “I’m hoping you’re here to work, not socialize. My Saska isn’t going to find itself.”
Wow. I fixed him with the flat stare that said I had no sense of humor and didn’t respond to barbs. “I can assure you that I’m doing my job, Mr. Loel. If there’s anyone here you’d particularly recommend I speak to, I hope you will let me know.”
“If I knew who it was, I could have taken care of it myself,” he snapped.
When people said this, I always wanted to ask them why they thought suggesting vigilante justice to a federal agent was a good idea.
Loel must have finally noticed who was standing next to me, because his entire demeanor changed. He smiled, greeted Vaughn with a handshake, and said he hoped Vaughn would enjoy the show. After a pointed look at me, he walked quickly away.
“So you know him,” I said to Vaughn.
“Again, I’m raising money for a Willowbrook capital campaign,” was Vaughn’s answer.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means the Willowbrook art department is in need of new facilities, and I’ve committed to raise enough money to see that they get them.”
“Are you and Loel friends?”
Vaughn smiled at me. He knew what I was doing. “I wouldn’t say we were, no.”
Did you take his painting? I didn’t ask. I doubted he’d tell me anyway. “Loel told me you had lunch with him the other day.”
“I did, yes,” said Vaughn. “Development officers like to introduce the money to the faculty and administration. Tedious, and often involving an affront to my culinary sensibilities, but necessary.”
Vaughn clearly cared about the finer things, but I didn’t think terrible food could be enough to make him steal a painting. I was thinking about how to question him that might actually get me anywhere when the whole feel of the room changed.
Whispers began, then voices steadily rose. Students drew phones from their pockets and tapped away intently, some with wide eyes, others with hands cupped over their mouths. I tracked them with my eyes, looking for the threat, the air gone suddenly electric. But they moved like a murmuration, swirling around an invisible center, and I couldn’t make it out.
Finally, I saw what they were circling around. It was an easel, though only visible to me from the back. It didn’t seem out of place in an art show, but the shocked looks on the faces of the crowd insisted it was making an impression. Was I about to witness a student get screamed at by a dean for a lewd nude, or an offensive send-up of a professor? A part of me kind of hoped so.
I walked toward it, vaguely aware of Vaughn trailing after me. Standing next to the easel was a thin boy with a cocky grin and a lot of tousled blond hair. He tipped his chin up at Vaughn flirtatiously.
“What a generous contribution to the arts from our most supportive benefactor,” the young man said, and then coughed “Douchebag.”
I followed his hand to the easel. There sat—
Loel’s missing Saska.
Next to it on the easel was a small plaque that read, “Lost and Found: An Installation, courtesy of Dean Curtis J. Loel.”
The price was twenty-five dollars.
All around the gallery, people were taking pictures and their fingers flew over their phones.
A shout came from behind me and I turned to see Loel barreling toward me. “That’s it! That’s my painting!”
“Of course it is, sir,” the boy said. “It says so right here. What an amazing gesture.” He blinked innocently up at Loel.
“Novack,” Loel hissed. “I should have known you’d have something to do with this.”
The boy—Novack—raised his palms. “Sir? Something to do with what? I’ll say, though, I would absolutely like to purchase the installation for twenty-five dollars. The easel is part of it, right?” He turned to Vaughn, eyes dancing with delight. “I don’t suppose you could spot me a twenty, could you, daddy?”
He treated Vaughn to an X-rated wink and I turned just in time to see the amusement on Vaughn’s face as he slid his hands into his pockets.
“I want that painting fingerprinted,” Loel hissed into my ear. “I want whoever did this to me found immediately, Agent Fox, do you hear me?”
Around us, cameras flashed and other students got in on the game.
“But Dean Loel,” one girl said, clearly filming as she spoke, “It says right there that the installation is courtesy of you.”
Loel squirmed, only his desire to avoid scandal and humiliation keeping his fury at bay. He grimaced at the crowd and glared at me, and eventually the students trailed away, laughing among themselves.
I took down the names of people to interview—students who worked on the show, venue personnel, professors in attendance, the Novack boy—as I waited for the forensics department to show up and dust for prints. But I knew they wouldn’t find any. Once again, a painting had vanished and reappeared. Once again, money had nothing to do with it. It didn’t take an FBI agent to see the similarities. But once again, I doubted there would be anything I could do about it.
I sighed, finding a quiet place to call the deputy director and fill her in on the details as I waited for the forensics team. It was going to be a long night. Several times I found myself scanning the room looking for Vaughn, even though it annoyed me to admit that was what I was doing. A few times our eyes would meet, across the room, and the pull between us was a tangible thing….a tangible thing I was more determined than ever to ignore.