Already Gone

– 32 –



“You’ve made a mistake.”

Briggs ignores me. He picks up another file, opens it, and takes out several photographs. He holds the stack up for me to see, then lays them out across the table, one by one.

I move closer.

The photos are of Diane, all candid shots taken through windows, while driving her car, or just walking along our street.

I go through them and try to ignore the tears pressing against the back of my eyes. When I’ve seen enough, I look up at Briggs and say, “What’s all this about?”

“It’s about your wife, of course, and you.”

I stare at him, don’t speak.

“Mr. Reese, I’ve worked with your wife for several years. You see, I’m somewhat of an art lover, and I found her to be an invaluable resource while building my collection.”

“You were a client of hers?”

“A very good one, I’d like to think.” Briggs picks up one of the photos, looks at it briefly, then drops it back on the table. “We trusted one another, and that’s important when you’re dealing with hard-to-find items.”

“Hard to find?”

“Items that aren’t necessarily legal.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Works that have been listed as missing, or stolen, or perhaps lost in war,” he says. “I find them, collect them, then resell them to others. It’s quite a lucrative hobby.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Briggs frowns. “That’s surprising. I found your wife to be somewhat of an expert on the subject.”

“You’re telling me Diane dealt in stolen art?”

“Not exclusively, of course, but yes, if the opportunity presented itself, she did.”

I nod and try not to laugh.

Not Diane.

Briggs keeps talking. I can’t accept what he’s saying, but I listen and shuffle through the photos on the table. One of them catches my eye, and I pick it up.

There’s nothing special about it, just a photo of Diane walking down a crowded street, her hair pulled back and tied above her shoulders in a loose knot. She’s staring straight ahead, calm and happy.

The look on her face is familiar, and it touches something raw inside me. I reach up and run my finger over the image, and the ache in my chest builds. I focus on it, thankful it’s still there.

Far off, I hear Briggs say, “But that was before this latest incident. Now, unfortunately, things have changed.”

“What incident?”

Briggs stares at me. “She didn’t discuss any of this with you?” Before I can answer, he says, “Mr. Reese, how much do you know about your wife’s business?”

“She was an art buyer. She worked part-time at a gallery in the city.”

“Is that the extent of your knowledge?”

“What else is there?”

“More than you might expect,” he says. “Did you know she worked with your father?”

This time I do laugh.

“Diane never knew my father. He died a few weeks before I met her.” I start to toss the photo back on the table, but I change my mind and keep it. “You guys have really made a mistake.”

Briggs takes a piece of paper out of the briefcase and hands it to me.

I look at it, say, “I don’t know what this is.”

I try to hand it back, but he doesn’t take it.

“It’s a copy of the visitor’s log from Arrowhead Correctional. Your wife’s name is listed next to your father’s. She visited him in prison.”

I look at it again.

He’s right.

Diane’s name is printed next to my father’s, along with her signature. According to the date, she visited him a week before his heart attack, almost a month before we met.

For the first time, I feel a sharp ping of doubt in the back of my mind.

“I don’t understand.”

“They were business partners,” Briggs says. “I don’t know how often they worked together, but in this particular instance, Diane hired your father to hijack one of our trucks, the contents of which were quite valuable.”

“You owned that truck?”

Briggs nods, doesn’t speak.

“And you’re telling me Diane was behind it?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“She didn’t do it alone,” Briggs says. “We looked into it and discovered someone inside our company provided her with the truck’s route and shipment schedule. All Diane had to do was pass the information along to your father.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not important. It is what happened.”

I try to understand what he’s telling me, but it doesn’t makes sense. Diane wouldn’t even cross the street against the light, and now I’m supposed to believe she was an art thief who helped my father hijack a truck.

No, I don’t believe it.

“The heart attack was so sudden that we didn’t have a chance to speak to your father after he was arrested,” Briggs says. “We had nothing to go on until we checked the visitor log at the prison and found Diane’s name. Once we discovered her role in this unfortunate event, we knew she would lead us to the traitor inside our company.”

I turn and sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted my help finding the person responsible for cutting off my finger.”

“That’s exactly what we want. In this case, it just happens to be the same person.”

I don’t say anything, and Briggs stares at me for a long time. Eventually, his face softens, and he leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Mr. Reese, I understand this is a lot to take in, but I assure you it’s all true.”

“Why would this person want to cut of my finger?”

“I’m sure he assumed Diane was trying to push him out of the deal. You see, no one seems to know what happened to the cargo stolen from the truck. All he sees is Diane marrying you, the son of the man arrested, and he assumes he’s been deceived.”

“What about my father’s crew?”

“Disappeared,” Briggs says. “There wasn’t much to go on to start with. Your father’s face was the only one that showed on the surveillance cameras. From what I’ve heard, he was quite intoxicated.”

“You should be able to find someone.”

“Diane was our only lead. It wasn’t until the incident with your finger that we knew for sure someone else was involved.”

“You think he came after me to get to Diane?”

“That’s our theory. Use her love for you against her.”

I look away, silent.

“Honestly, Mr. Reese, we don’t care about the cargo. What we’re most concerned with is finding the thief working inside our company.”

“And you expect me to help you?”

“You will help us.”

“Is that right?” I shake my head. “I told you, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You’ll start with your wife,” he says. “I’m sure he’s contacted her. Have her tell you where he is, then you’ll tell us. We’ll handle the rest.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I clear my throat and try again.

“You want Diane to tell me where he is?”

“We have an idea where you can find her, but it’s—”

“Is this a joke?”

Briggs stops talking.

“You want me to ask Diane?” I stand up. “Who are you f*cking people?”

“Mr. Reese, please—”

“You think you have an idea where she is? I can tell you exactly where she is. She’s in a goddamn urn on a shelf at Pearson’s Funeral Home.”

I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you need to leave, now.”

All eyes are on me. No one moves.

“Did you hear me?”

Briggs turns to the table and shuffles through the photos. He picks one up, looks at it, then hands it to me.

I take it.

It’s a photo of Diane walking out of a building through a set of frosted glass doors and onto the street. She’s wearing black baseball cap with her hair tied back in a ponytail.

I hand it back. “What about it?”

Briggs reaches out and taps the photo with his finger. “That photo was taken almost forty-eight hours ago, less than five miles from this room.”