“Colin Mack is the accomplice,” Jane says, “or at any rate, he’s a jerk who stole from me. The proof is that you’ll find three umbrellas in the offices of Buckley St. George, who, frankly, I don’t trust either. Maybe St. George is behind the whole thing. Maybe he positioned his daughter and his nephew here so they could steal the art, and Colin, being an arrogant ass, couldn’t resist stealing my art too. Please note,” Jane adds with desperation, determined to tell the whole truth, “that all of this is conjecture, based on a look in Colin’s eyes and possibly also my inability to accept the slaughter of my umbrellas. But I think I’m right,” she finishes.
One of the police officers clears her throat. “We are investigating the theft of two pieces of art, worth, on the underside, over a hundred million dollars,” she says. “You’re talking to us about umbrellas.”
“Colin just told me that the umbrellas were destroyed,” says Jane. “That means that if those umbrellas are in Buckley St. George’s offices, then Colin lied to me so he could steal them. Are you looking for a thief or not?”
*
The police are at the house most of the day, despite the fact that it’s gala day. Jane plays some distracted chess with Kiran in the winter garden, and waits.
In late afternoon, the news comes through that the umbrellas have been found. Two are smack in the middle of Buckley St. George’s desk and Buckley himself is discovered walking through Soho with the third, the speckled eggshell, in the rain. According to the police, Buckley is charmed by Jane’s umbrellas. The pale blue with brown speckles matches his bow tie. He’s intended to purchase that one from Jane personally. He’s astonished to learn that Colin’s made up a story about them having been destroyed; he insists Colin never told him. “Damn stupid boy!” he says, and then, when he hears the part about Lucy and the Vermeer, he stops talking.
The police lead Colin away. He tries to look dignified and amused by this turn of events, but his face is bloodless, his eyes frightened. Jane watches him go with Kiran at her side. There is contempt in Kiran’s expression that could freeze a star.
But still there’s no sign of the missing Vermeer.
*
Later that day, the police ask Jane to come to New York to identify her umbrellas. Kiran comes too. The police don’t need her, but she wants Jane to have access to the Thrashes’ city apartment while she’s there, and Jane senses that she’d rather be anywhere than at the gala.
The light is falling as they board the boat. The gala is beginning; incoming boats sparkle on the water like stars.
Kiran unfurls a little, like a fern, as the police boat enters Long Island Sound and the Manhattan skyline appears. The city night fills her eyes, makes them clearer. Soon, the New York State Police barracks appear, on a strange, wooded patch of land in the East River called Ward’s Island.
Inside the noisy, yellow-lit building, an officer named Investigator Edwards places the umbrellas on a desk and asks Jane if she recognizes them. He has a voice like a man stranded in a desert and a face like John Wayne. It seems silly to Jane, this emergency nighttime journey to the city to identify umbrellas she could easily have identified by photo or even by description. But, with her umbrellas before her, Jane is relieved she came. He lets her pick them up, touch them, inspect them, even hand them to Kiran, who tells Jane that each one is beautiful. They’re in the same condition they were in when Jane saw them last.
“When can I have them back?”
“When we’re done with the investigation,” Investigator Edwards rasps, then adds, not without sympathy, “They’re evidence. That means we’ll take good care of them.” His eyes, Jane notices, gray and clear, are surrounded by fine laughter lines. Then she notices a slight brown discoloration in one of his gray irises and even though she knows it’s irrational, she trusts him with her umbrellas, implicitly.
“Your positive ID of the umbrellas will justify a search warrant of Buckley St. George’s office,” Investigator Edwards says as Jane hands the umbrellas back to him. “And his correspondence and his financials too. If he’s got other stolen property, we’ll find it.”
Kiran’s eyes slide to the investigator and lock on his face. Buckley St. George, Jane remembers, isn’t just Colin’s uncle and Lucy’s father. He’s Ravi’s boss. Ravi is going to lose his job. “You’re sure Buckley St. George is involved?” Kiran asks.
“Not sure of anything,” says Investigator Edwards. “We don’t think Buckley St. George knew that Colin Mack intended to steal the umbrellas. But we did find those two perps and the boat, entering the East River from the Sound. They could’ve been on their way to Buckley St. George, intending to deliver the Vermeer.”
“You said you found the guys,” Kiran says, “but you didn’t say if you found the Vermeer.”
His face splits into a grin. “Yeah.”
“That’s funny?” says Kiran.
Reaching down, Investigator Edwards retrieves something from a drawer. “The chief petty officer did find a parcel on board,” he says, “just the right size for the picture. But when he opened it, there was a blank canvas inside, and this.” He lays a flat, transparent plastic bag on the desk before Kiran and Jane. It contains a paper napkin on which someone has written, with a felt pen in block letters, the words BITE ME, YOU DESPOT.
“Huh,” Kiran says. “That is funny.”
“Yeah,” says Investigator Edwards.
“You think Lucy or Colin wrote that?”
“It appears to be Lucy St. George’s handwriting.”
“And you think it’s a note to her father?”
“Possibly.”
“So, what? You think Lucy stole the Vermeer at her father’s instruction, kept the Vermeer for herself, then sent that napkin to her father as a message?”
“It’s a theory.”
“And where’s the Vermeer?”
“No idea. Lucy’s not saying. Neither is Colin, who, by the way, still insists he’s got nothing to do with any of it. Unfortunately for him, we found the prints of his boots in the ramble. Stepped in mud from the recent rain, we assume, while serving as Lucy’s lookout this morning.”
Kiran rolls her eyes dismissively at this mention of Colin. “What about the two guys in the boat?” she asks. “You couldn’t arrest them. It’s not illegal to carry a paper napkin wrapped up to look like a stolen Vermeer.”
“You’re quick, Miss Thrash,” he says. “You might like detective work. You’re right, it’s not illegal. But guess what else?”
“You want to play a guessing game?” Kiran asks mildly.
Investigator Edwards smiles a dazzling smile. “Guess,” he says. “It’s about one of the guys, the tall, skinny one called J.R. Turns out the J is short for Johannes.”
“Johannes?” says Kiran. “Is that really his name? Like Johannes Vermeer?”
“Johannes Vermeer Rutkoski is his name,” says Investigator Edwards. “His parents hoped he would aim high.”
“He’s the forger?”
“Yup.”
“Here’s his workshop,” Investigator Edwards says, then shows Kiran and Jane a big, glossy photo of an easel in a cluttered room. On the easel is an unfinished painting. Jane has seen it before, in the west attics of Tu Reviens, where Mrs. Vanders is cleaning it.
“That’s our Rembrandt self-portrait,” Kiran says. “Or, it’s going to be!” She clutches her temples. “Octavian has never done a thing about security,” she says. “No alarms, no cameras. Ever since Charlotte disappeared, he doesn’t even lock the doors. He can’t bear to.”
“Well, it is an island,” the investigator says. “But that doesn’t make it inaccessible, and you do have all those parties.”
Inspector Edwards shows Kiran and Jane one more big photo: a whole row of canvases, leaning against a dirty wall, all painted to look like the Vermeer picture Lady Writing a Letter with Her Frog. “His practice attempts,” says the inspector.
“Johannes Vermeer Rutkoski is a prodigious talent,” says Kiran tiredly. “Makes me think there should be a museum somewhere of all the finest forgeries.”
By the time Jane and Kiran get to the Thrash family apartment, Jane is so exhausted that she collapses onto the proffered bed without even removing her clothes. It seems impossible that her scramble through the forest was only this morning.
Kiran comes to her doorway. “Good night, sweetie,” she says.
“Kiran?” says Jane. It’s the first time they’ve been alone all day. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” she says. “But I’ve been worse. Don’t worry about me, just get some sleep. You’re the hero of the day, after all . . .”