“And no one in the building knows who he is?”
“Not so far,” Young says, “but we’re still going door-to-door.”
“So the obvious question,” I say.
“That being?”
“Why am I here?”
“The bedroom.”
Young seems to expect me to reply. I don’t.
“Come with us.”
As we start to the right, I can see the view of the Natural History Museum’s giant round planetarium across the street, and to the left, Central Park in all its glory. My apartment too has a rather enviable view of the park, though the Dakota is only nine stories high while here we are somewhere above the twentieth floor.
I am not easily surprised, but when I enter the bedroom — when I see the reason why they brought me here — I pull up. I do not move. I just stare. I fall into the past, as though the image in front of me is a time portal. I am an eight-year-old boy sneaking my way into Granddad’s parlor at Lockwood Manor. The rest of my extended family are still out in the garden. I wear a black suit and stand by myself on the ornate parquet floor. This is before the family destruction or perhaps, looking back on it now, this is the very moment of the first fissure. It is Granddad’s funeral. This parlor, his favorite room, has been over-sprayed with some kind of cloying disinfectant, but the familiar, comforting smell of Granddad’s pipe still dominates. I relish it. I reach out with a tentative hand and touch the leather of his favorite chair, almost expecting him to materialize in it, cardigan sweater, slippers, pipe, and all. Eventually, my eight-year-old self works up the courage to hoist myself up to sit in the wingback chair. When I do, I look up at the wall above the fireplace, just as Granddad so often did.
I know that Young and Lopez are watching me for a reaction.
“At first,” Young says, “we thought it had to be a forgery.”
I continue to stare, just as I did as an eight-year-old in that leather chair.
“So we grabbed an art curator from the Met across the park,” Young continues. The Met being shorthand for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “She wants to get this off this wall and run some tests, just to be positive, but she’s pretty certain — this is the real deal.”
The hoarder’s bedroom, as opposed to the rest of the tower, is neat, tidy, spare, utilitarian. The bed against the wall is made. There is no headboard. The side table is bare except for a pair of reading glasses and a leather-bound book. I now know why I was brought here — to see the only thing hanging on the wall.
The oil painting simply called The Girl at the Piano by Johannes Vermeer.
Yes, that Vermeer. Yes, that painting.
This masterpiece, like most of the only thirty-four Vermeer paintings in existence, is small, a foot and a half tall by a foot and four inches wide, though it packs an undeniable punch in its simplicity and beauty. This Girl, purchased nearly a hundred years ago by my great-grandfather, used to hang in the parlor of Lockwood Manor. Twenty-plus years ago, my family loaned this painting, valued in excess of $200 million by today’s standards, along with the only other masterpiece we owned, Picasso’s The Reader, to the Lockwood Gallery in Founders Hall on the campus of Haverford College. You may have read about the nighttime burglary. Over the years, there have been constant false sightings of both masterpieces — most recently, the Vermeer on a yacht belonging to a Middle Eastern prince. None of these leads (and I’ve checked several personally) panned out. Some theorized that the theft was the work of the same crime syndicate who stole thirteen works of art, including works by Rembrandt, Manet, Degas, and yes, a Vermeer, from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.
None of the stolen works from either robbery has ever been recovered.
Until now.
“Any thoughts?” Young asks.
I had put up two empty frames in Granddad’s parlor, both as a homage to what was taken and a promise that his masterpieces would someday be returned.
Now that promise, it seems, will be at least half fulfilled.
“The Picasso?” I ask.
“No sign of it,” Young says, “but as you can see, we still have a lot to look through.”
The Picasso is far larger — over five feet tall and four feet wide. If it was here, chances seem strong that it would have been found already.
“Any other thoughts?” Young asks.
I gesture toward the wall. “When can I bring it home?”
“That’ll take some time. You know the drill.”
“I know a renowned art curator and restorer at NYU. His name is Pierre-Emmanuel Claux. I would like him to handle the piece.”
“We have our own people.”
“No, Special Agent, you do not. In fact, per your own admission, you grabbed a random person from the Met this morning—”
“Hardly a random—”
“This is not a big ask,” I continue. “My person is educated in how to authenticate, handle, and if necessary, restore a masterpiece like few people in the world.”
“We can look into it,” Young says, trying to move us past this topic. “Any other thoughts?”
“Was the victim strangled or was his throat cut?”
They exchange another glance. Then Lopez clears his throat and says, “How do—?”
“The sheet was covering his neck,” I say. “In the photograph you showed me. That was done, I surmise, to cover trauma.”
“Let’s not get into that, okay?” Young says.
“Do you have a time of death?” I ask.
“Let’s not get into that either.”
Shorter version: I’m a suspect.
I’m not sure why. Surely, if I had done this deed, I would have taken the painting with me. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I was clever enough to have murdered him and left the painting so it would be found and returned to my family.
“Do you have any other thoughts that might help us?” Young asks.
I don’t bother with the obvious theory: The hermit was an art thief. He liquidated most of what he pilfered, used the profits to hide his identity, set up an anonymous shell company, purchased the apartment. For some reason — most likely because he either loved it or it was too hot to unload — he kept the Vermeer for himself.
“So,” Young continues, “you’ve never been here before, right?”
Her tone is too casual.
“Mr. Lockwood?”
Interesting. They clearly believe they have evidence that I have been in this turret. I haven’t been. It is also clear that they took the unusual step of bringing me to the murder scene to knock me off my game. If they had followed the normal protocol of a murder investigation and taken me to an interrogation room, I would be on my guard and defensive. I might have brought a criminal attorney.
What, pray tell, do they think they have on me?
“On behalf of my family, I’m grateful the Vermeer has been found. I hope this leads to the speedy recovery of the Picasso. I’m now ready to return to my office.”
Young and Lopez don’t like this. Young looks at Lopez and nods. Lopez slips into the other room.
“One moment,” Young says. She reaches into her binder and pulls out another photograph. When she shows it to me, I am yet again puzzled.
“Do you recognize this, Mr. Lockwood?”
To buy time, I say, “Call me Win.”
“Do you recognize this, Win?”
“You know that I do.”
“It’s your family crest, is that correct?”
“It is, yes.”