“They probably figured you’d jump on the stolen-gun story,” Myron said. “They figured you’d disposed of the rifle after the murder — that’s what most killers would do — and would come up with some weird excuse that would help them get you. So what happened? Did they ask to come in?”
“Yes. I told them I kept the rifle in my closet.”
“And they followed you there?”
Jackie Newton nodded. “I opened the closet and pushed back the big overcoat in the back and yep, there it was, the rifle, leaning against the wall. Then I said, ‘Nope, the stolen one isn’t mine,’ but they were already freaking out. One took out his gun.”
“What did you think was happening?”
“I didn’t have a clue. I said, ‘Whoa, whoa, calm down, the rifle isn’t even loaded.’ Then I saw that they had gloves on. The cop with the gun called for backup. The other told me not to move. I asked him what was going on. He asked me if I knew Ronald Prine. At that stage, I figured this was just more Prine harassment — that he’d sent them to torment me. I got mad and said, ‘Yeah, I know the prick. What, do you guys work for him or something?’ And then the cop asked again, slower this time, ‘Do you know Ronald Prine?’ and now I really didn’t like the tone in his voice. So I stopped talking. I said I wanted a lawyer.”
“They tested the rifle,” Myron said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Had you fired it lately?”
“No. No one has fired that gun since Dad took it to a shooting range maybe five, six years ago.”
“You said the rifle was in the closet.”
“Yes.”
“Like readily visible?”
“No, it’s way in the back behind my dad’s old overcoat.”
“So how often do you see it?”
“What do you mean, the rifle?”
“Yes,” Myron said. “We know you were set up. We know that rifle was the murder weapon. This means at some point the killer gained access to your house and took the rifle. So I’m asking when was the last time you saw the rifle.”
“I’m not sure. Months ago probably.”
“Okay, so the killer could have taken it anytime in the past few months. We won’t really be able to narrow that down, but we do know that they had to have returned it sometime between the murder and the time you got home. That’s a pretty narrow time frame. Our best guess is, the killer shot Prine, drove straight to your place, and put the rifle back into the closet. I assume your father’s home alone a lot. Would he hear someone sneaking in?”
“He sleeps a lot,” Jackie said. “He’s in his room most of the time with the door closed. Someone could have sneaked in if they had, I don’t know, a key or something.”
Myron turned to Gallagher. “The building have CCTV?”
“Only on the street.”
“We have to comb through all that footage.”
“It’s a busy street,” Kelly Gallagher said.
“But how many people would be carrying a rifle?” Myron asked. “I don’t mean out in the open. But they’d have to have it in a guitar case or something. It’s too warm for a long coat to cover it, but we could look for those people too.”
“Wait, if we can find video of Jackie taking public transportation to her TaskRabbit job and she’s not carrying a rifle—”
“Won’t help,” Myron said. “They’ll say she carefully planned this. She took the rifle from her closet days or weeks ago. She planted it near the spot where she would commit her crime.”
“Sorry,” Jackie said, “but this whole scenario is insane. Why me? I don’t mean this in a whiny way — but I’m a nobody. I mean, I’m less than a nobody. Why pin it on me?”
Gallagher looked at Myron. “That’s a good question. And I suspect you have a theory.”
“I do, but let me get to it my way, okay?” Myron turned back to Jackie. “Do you have any enemies?”
“Ronald Prine,” she said. “But my guess is, he didn’t do it.”
“Any others? How about an ex?”
“The last guy I dated was a pharmacist from Bryn Mawr. He dumped me because I spent too much time with my dad. Mr. Bolitar?”
“Call me Myron.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m trying to help you, Jackie.”
“Why are you so sure I didn’t do it?”
It was then that Myron felt his phone buzz. He had turned off all other settings. The buzz could only be used by his wife, parents, Win, or Esperanza and only for something urgent. He pulled out his phone and checked. It was a text from Terese.
Come out now. I’m across the street.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Win stood in front of four Vermeer paintings.
“What do you think?” Stan Ulanoff, the curator, asked him.
He was at the Frick museum, the original one located in the Henry Clay Frick mansion, on Fifth Avenue between 70th and 71st Street. The Gilded Age mansion was currently closed to the public for an expansive renovation project that was finally reaching completion.
There are debates on how many Vermeers exist worldwide. Some claim thirty-four. Others say thirty-five or maybe thirty-six. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, a stone’s throw away from the Frick (if you had an arm that could throw ten blocks), has the most Vermeers on planet Earth — five of them. The far smaller Frick owns an impressive three, all of which are now on the wall in front of Win.
“We used to keep the Vermeers in the West Gallery,” Stan explained, “but for this very special exhibition, we’ve moved them to this new spot. Our reopening gala will be the event of the season, and we hope you will accept being our guest of honor.”
“No, thank you,” Win said.
“I’m sorry?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t want to be our guest of honor?”
“That’s correct.”
“But we would like to recognize your generosity—”
“No, thank you,” Win said again. “Please continue your presentation.”
The smile faltered a little, but he got it back. He raised his arm, curator/guide style, and continued. “From the left to right — and also in chronological order from oldest to newest — we have Officer and Laughing Girl, then Girl Interrupted at Her Music, and The Mistress and the Maid, and of course, on this wall, by itself so as to highlight it, we can’t thank you, Mr. Lockwood, enough for loaning us...”
His voice tailed off as he looked at the Vermeer placed on its own wall next to these three. The Met owned five, the Frick owned three — and Windsor Horne Lockwood III, aka Win, owned one.
“...The Girl at the Piano.”
A voice next to Win whispered, “Great painter, not so clever with names.”
Win turned. It was his personal assistant Kabir.
The curator frowned. “Vermeer didn’t name his paintings. Others later attributed names to them based on—”
“Yeah, I know,” Kabir said to him. “I was joking.”
Kabir had just turned thirty years old. He had a long beard and as a Sikh American he wore a dark blue turban. Because we still jump to conclusions based on appearances, people often expected Kabir to speak with an accent or bow or something, but Kabir had been born in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, graduated from Rutgers, loved rap, partied like, well, a thirty-year-old living in Manhattan, but still, to quote Kabir, “You always have to explain the turban.”
Stan frowned at Kabir for another second before turning to Win and lighting up the smile. “Do you like it?”
Win would be honest enough to admit The Girl at the Piano, the centerpiece of the opening, was the smallest and least impressive of the paintings, but then again, Win’s Vermeer was the most notorious. Stolen decades ago, The Girl at the Piano and the tragic mystery behind the heist had only recently been unearthed. When Win finally got the Vermeer back, he decided to send it on a tour so that the world could enjoy it. The painting’s first stop had been Win’s cousin’s historic mansion-museum in Newport, Rhode Island. Alas, that too had ended in tremendous controversy, thus adding to the painting’s mysterious and dark allure.