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“Is it weird that he’s having all the pieces brought to the gallery instead of to his estate where the gala’s being held? Seems risky to move it twice.” Cal asked the question over his shoulder.
While Cal had his focus on the street, I’d been working on hacking Dasselaar’s security system for the gallery. For someone who was clearly dealing in stolen art, his system was fairly simple, which meant he was absolutely as arrogant as he seemed. It had taken very little time to set up a loop of the empty alley and prep it to be added to his camera feed when Cal and I accessed the gallery, and I had a program running to pull the code for the security alarm.
“Maybe he thinks the pieces are safer here since the gala’s guest list is a veritable who’s who of the criminal elite.”
“You think they’re more likely to make a play at his home?”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. My best guess is that he has a warehouse somewhere and he’s just shuffling things around in preparation for the gala. He could also be bringing in new merchandise for the gallery. If there are going to be big players in town, he might want to show them more than what comes up at the auction. I think whatever he auctions will be the highest-value items, and possibly the consolation prizes will be here, available for purchase from the gallery to legitimize the transactions.”
“If that’s the case, how do we know everything is actually coming here? What if it’s a shell game?”
It was a fair question. “We don’t. We see what we can find out tonight, and if we have to, we do a little more digging and scope out his other properties.”
“Assuming we can find them before the gala.” Julius and Felix were working on uncovering all Dasselaar’s holdings, but they’d run into some trouble. Besides the gallery and his estate, there were no properties tied immediately to Dasselaar. Julius was following the money, but it was a tedious process to untangle shell corporations and trace offshore accounts. For now, what we had at the gallery was our best lead.
“We will.” My laptop dinged. “I’ve got the code for the gallery’s security system.”
“Nice. Looks like the last truck is approaching.”
I sent the code for the security system to my phone and closed my laptop.
“Shit.” Cal’s tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Jack, Dasselaar is here.”
“What?”
“Come look.”
I approached the decorative wall, staying low, and peered over the edge. A black car identical to the one Dasselaar had arrived at the gallery in every day had pulled up behind the truck. One of the two men who’d been stationed at the rear door walked up to the driver’s side of the truck and knocked on the window. Words were exchanged, and the driver stepped down out of the truck. When he got to the rear rolling door, Dasselaar got out of his vehicle, then bent to say something to someone else in the car. He shook hands with the driver and handed him a thick envelope as Dimitri stepped out of the passenger side of Dasselaar’s car.
“Whatever is in that truck, it’s worth enough for Dasselaar to show up personally to pay off the driver.” Cal scowled. “And for Dasselaar to bring his toy. I don’t like that Dimitri is with him.”
“Me either.” I grabbed Cal’s sniper scope when he switched to his binoculars, and we watched as Dasselaar punched in the code to disarm the security system. From what I could tell, it matched the number I’d pulled. Dasselaar and Dimitri disappeared inside while the driver opened the rolling door, and the two guards climbed into the truck. The overhead door at the rear of the gallery opened for the fourth time that night.
Dasselaar came back out to the alley as his hired muscle maneuvered a large gray wooden crate to the edge of the truck. Dasselaar yelled something at the men, and they set the crate down gently, then jumped down from the truck before lifting it again and taking it into the gallery through the open overhead door.
A tingle ran down my spine. That box held the painting we’d been looking for. I knew it like I knew my own name.
“Jack, what’s up?” Cal had picked up on my emotions through our bond.
“That’s it.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“We need to get down there to confirm.”
“We will.”
The truck driver followed Dasselaar and his men into the gallery, and the overhead door rolled closed.
Ten minutes later, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang through the alley.
“The truck driver.”
Cal nodded. “No loose ends. If I didn’t believe that crate containedThe Evolution of Manbefore, I do now.”
We both must have been thinking the same thing—this wasn’t the first time someone had died over this painting.
