Stolen Art

By Ruth Silver

Wanted for murder…

When an art heist goes bad, I end up on the run. Not because I stole something I shouldn't have, but because I'm accused of murder.

I didn't do it.

I'm innocent.

But who will believe me when my face is plastered all over the news?

I'm guilty of one crime already, it makes me the perfect target.

This sc-fi adventure features lots of action, suspense, a blossoming romance, and plenty of drama.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Slow Burn Publishing
• Release date: Jan 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201573720

Book preview

one

MADELINE

I shift my weight on the balls of my feet. Leaning against a lamppost, I blend into my surroundings. My silhouette cascades across the prestigious hotel.

The only light that is visible outside is right in front of me. My focus is on the building across the street, not the hotel but the museum's side door. The museum is heavily guarded, but it doesn't scare me.

I watch the guard rotation, study it. I wait for the precise moment. Besides, I’m not alone in planning the job. This one hadn't even been my idea.

I stare up above, watch the bulb sizzle and die. The corners of my lips curve upwards in a smile.

A distant bell chimes from the clock tower. It is six o'clock.

I have exactly six minutes.

Blending into the night, black on black, my clothes make me invisible in the darkness. I try the side door to the museum. As planned, it has been left unlocked. With a hint of a nod, I slip inside and let the door close behind me.

Black gloves cover my fingers. They match my attire. A mask covers around my eyes. It reminds me of the comic Cat Woman.

I stalk quietly up the back stairs to the third floor. What I want isn’t behind glass, yet. It is supposed to be put on display Wednesday. That's why I’m here now, Monday night, doing the heist before the ribbon ceremony and the unveiling of the valuable Chagall.

I have no time to waste, and now I’m down to four minutes.

It will take me two minutes just to leave the museum. Cutting it close is an understatement.

My heart pounds in my chest. I ignore the ache in my stomach. I live off adrenaline.

Although only sixteen, I've spent much of my life on my own, making ends meet. Most of the time I'd been too young for an actual job.

At twelve, a bakery owner had taken pity on me. He'd given me work until he caught me stealing baked goods. Earning three dollars an hour under the table hadn't been worth it. It didn't pay for my own food, let alone a place to sleep.

This is the job.

The one that will help me survive for the next six months. I’ll be rolling in dough if it all works out.

And it is going to.

Nothing will stand in my way.

Wooden crates line the back room. My feet shuffle along the cement floor.

Pushing open the lid, I peer down to examine the Chagall. It isn't what I expect. A silver heart shaped locket with a starburst in the center is etched with dragonflies along the edges.

My gloved hand grazes over the small piece of jewelry. This isn’t what I'd come here for.

I move the crate to the side, pushing open another lid.

I chew my bottom lip. My gaze darts back to the locket.

No one will miss it.

I slip it out of the box and around my neck. It takes a moment to clasp the matching silver chain. The chain and locket slide down my shirt, hidden. I now have one less minute. I’m running out of time, all for some stupid locket.

I set the crate lid on the floor and pull out the bright painting. The precious rarity that I came here to borrow. That's what I call it: borrowing. It’s hard to feel sorry for people that have it all, especially priceless antiques and artifacts.

I roll the masterpiece up, just like a scroll. It’s what I came here for, I leave the crate open and scurry down the back staircase. I’m running out of time. My mental clock screams that I have less than a minute until the alarm will be triggered.

My partner has done all the legwork. I don't know who he is. It doesn't matter. They found me, knew of my skills, and requested my expertise.

I hadn't done it for the money. Not for the 'I'm going to get rich' scenario. I'd have a hell of a time selling a Chagall, even on the black market.

No, this job is about paying for food and giving me a roof over my head and heat this winter. Something I've craved for the past four years.

My feet slam against the stairs. I hear the squeak of the metal door opening, and heavy boots pound the concrete. I move faster. The echo of walky-talkies envelope the enclosed stairwell.

Security is coming.

I can see the exit door and hold my breath as I slam it open.

What I don't expect is a half dozen cops, guns drawn, facing me.

Stop right there! BPD! a burly officer on the right shouts. Put your hands up!

My eyes dart from the left to the far right. There is no escape.

Across the street, the lamppost light flickers back on.

I've made it out in under six minutes.

I've been set up.

The arresting officer isn’t particularly bright.

Sure, he reads me my rights and pats me down a little too intimately, if anyone asks, but he’s failed to seize all the stolen goods. I feel the cold metal of the cuffs dig against my flesh and wince.

The officer took the treasured Chagall and bagged it as evidence. I half-wonder if my co-conspirator will be breaking into the evidence vault to retrieve it.

The necklace sits nestled against my chest, hidden from view. I’m grateful the officer doesn’t notice it. The ride to the station took more time than the six minutes of my failed Chagall caper.

Six is usually my lucky number, but something obvious went wrong, evident from my arrest.

I listen to the officer, his name is Moore. He calls into the station alerting them that he has the suspect in custody.

I swallow my nerves. My stomach bubbles. How long until I spew up the contents of yesterday's lunch?

Maybe the museum is too big of a job for me. I'd broken into homes since I was twelve and hotels before then.

Hotels were the easiest as a young kid. If you were seen, employees always assumed you were lost and looking for your family. Luggage was the simplest to scout. Bellhops were constantly taking bags up and down the elevator. It isn’t hard to snag one off the cart.

Getting older, things got tough.

Officer Moore escorts me out of the police cruiser and into the station in handcuffs. With my head bent down, I feel as though everyone is staring at me.

Ushered to an interrogation room, will I be tossed in a cell and forgotten? There is no way I could afford an attorney, and I’m smart enough to know that any court-appointed lawyer would be a new kid with ideals, but no chance of winning a case.

I bite my bottom lip hard. This isn’t so bad. At least they haven't taken me to a holding cell. It meant they weren't booking me and charging me with anything, yet.

The arresting officer removes my handcuffs. Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly, the officer says and he shuts the door behind himself.

I try my best not to look shocked that the officer who brought me in isn’t questioning me. I'd seen a few procedural dramas on television while at the hotel. This isn’t quite what I expected.

I walk along the length of the room, trying the handle to the door. It’s locked. I’m not surprised, disappointed is a better word for how I feel. I pace along the edge of the room, coming to pause at the one-way glass. My reflection staring back at me.

Anyone coming in here? I ask. I’m curious about who stands on the other side of the window, watching and evaluating my movements. Finally, I sit at the cold metal table, waiting for someone to arrive.

An older gentleman in a suit opens the door and steps inside. I'm Detective Bennett, he says. What's your name?

I glance down at the table, my fingers tapping the surface anxiously. Madeline. I don't offer a last name.

Madeline. The detective tilts his head slightly to the side. Do you have a last name?

I don’t want to give it, but I also want to get out of here tonight. Madeline Keen.

And where do you live, Madeline? he asks.

I uh, I stammer, wondering how to answer. In all my years of thievery, I've never gotten caught. I don't want to go to jail. The idea of it terrifies me.

I stole so I could survive.

I’m not a criminal.

The museum job had been an act of desperation. Now I had to pay the price for what I'd done. I zip my lips and lay my hands flat on the table. I want a lawyer.

We haven't charged you with anything, Madeline. At least not yet. I have my boss breathing down my throat, along with the arresting officer, that you should be booked and charged. The thing is, I know this isn’t your idea. You're a kid. He tries to make light of the situation. Down on your luck probably and just looking for a way out.

I glance up into his warm brown eyes.

All we need are the names of the people who hired you. Give us the information and we can cut a deal.

A deal? My heart pounds in my chest. I don't know who they are. The men found me.

It is the truth. I don't have a phone or a way for them to call me. They'd shown up at my home. Ordinarily I'd have been frightened with thugs showing up where I lived, but it isn’t exactly my house. I’ve been squatting in the abandoned building for months. Perhaps they’d followed me and gotten wind of my thievery.

At least I hadn’t stolen from them. That would have gotten me killed. Besides, I could always move, find someplace else to live. Florida is nice this time of year.

Detective Bennett smiles reassuringly. Tell us everything you know. How they contacted you, and how you were supposed to give them the painting.

They'll come after me, I say. I feel a hint of fear creeping into me. You'll have to protect me.

We will, the detective says. He pushes a small pad of paper and pen across the desk. Write down everything you know about the men that are involved in the heist.

There isn't much, I say.

I lift the pen from the table and stare at the blank pad of paper. This is my ticket out of here. I have to give them something.

They showed up on my doorstep. I don't know how they found me or knew where I lived. I try to keep off the radar. After escaping two neglectful foster homes, I learned I could take care of myself.

Let's start with where you were supposed to deliver the painting. His brown eyes offer a warm smile as the corners of his eyes crinkle when he speaks. They didn't expect you to carry it on the subway, did they?

No. I laugh softly. They were supposed to pick me up in a van.

Okay. Detective Bennett nods. That's a good start. What else? What did the men look like and how many were there?

I provide him with everything I remember about the two men—their masks and hats, their fake accents, and their average builds. But it isn’t much, and the detective doesn’t look pleased.

A white van, I say, remembering the plan. They told me they'd be waiting outside. Instead, you guys were waiting for me.

I see.

I’m not sure he does see. How had they known I was inside?

The alarm system was supposed to be disabled for six minutes. A loop of video should have played while I traveled the staircase. I wasn’t supposed to get caught. Well, I don't, I say. I can't contact them and you have the painting.

Seems like a problem.

Agreed, I mutter beneath my breath. Now what?

I see two options, Madeline. Detective Bennett speaks in a firm voice. We can book you on account of your involvement, or I can look the other way. If, and only if, you go back into the foster care system.

I groan. It is the last place I want to be. I'm almost seventeen.

Great. Detective Bennett smiles. In a little over a year you'll be out of there. I know it's not ideal, but I can't have a kid living on the street.

"I'm not a kid, I say. I've been raising myself since I was seven."

Let me guess, your parents died and your foster parents were abusive? He sighs.

No. My foster mother didn't give a damn about me. She took the money the system gave me, then threw me to the curb. My top lip snarls in disgust. You want me to live with another hoggish family? All they care about is the monthly payment. Not me.

Bennett sighs. It's not always like that, he says.

You don't have to sugarcoat it. I roll my eyes. I've been on the street practically my entire life. I was left on the street as a baby. I mean, I was made for this life.

Listen, Madeline. I know you don't want to go to a group home, but this is the best I can offer you. It's that or we book you and you get put in Juvenile Detention.

A group home it is, I say. I do my best to muster up a smile. I'm not happy about being put back into the system.

I manage on my own well enough. Maybe it isn’t perfect, but I find enough food to survive. I don't have to pay for rent. Squatting is working out for me, and I don't have to depend on anyone but myself. I like it that way.

Detective Bennett lets out a sigh. Good. He pushes the chair away from the table, and it squeaks against the hard floor. Any idea where the Chagall painting is supposed to go after they pick it up?

I nod weakly. There is a buyer who they were transporting it to, a something Sawyer. He is paying four point two million for it.

Bennett grabs the pad of paper, writing down what I tell him. Do you remember anything else?

They live upstate, I say. I'm sorry. That's all I know.

Bennett gestures for me to stand up. It's okay. I mean, it's not okay what you were involved in, he says. Do you have any idea how important that painting is to the museum?

I sigh. I know it's priceless. I’m not an idiot.

It's more than that, Madeline. It was stolen from the Nazi's during World War II from a Jewish family in Latvia. The paintings, not just this one but fourteen hundred in total were found in a Munich apartment. This painting is a part of history, where it has been, and what it has been through. On Wednesday there is supposed to be a ceremony displaying not only the Chagall, but also a dozen other works from the stolen lot.

I didn't know, I whisper. I didn't have any idea the history behind what I'd taken.

"Well, you do now. At least we've