“So someone jammed the entire system, including the cameras, for three minutes while they made the switch,” D.C. said.
“That’s what Chance believes. He figures they went in through a service door at the back of the room.”
“Would they have still needed a recording of Shalnokov’s voice?” Fiona asked.
“Chance says yes. But a good digital recording would do. And since Shalnokov has never personally visited the exhibit, that’s likely.”
Fiona glanced down at the newspaper photo. “Dr. Regina Meyers would have one of those.”
“Yes, she would. Chance has run another background check on her, and she’s clean. She’s been with Shalnokov for ten years, ever since he acquired the Rubinov. If she wanted to steal it, she would have had many opportunities. I spoke with her before the news conference. She was intensely grateful for the fact that the robbery was prevented. Any updates on your end?”
“We’re in Amanda Hemmings’s apartment, and we’ve found a file of press clippings—a collection of everything that’s been printed on the exhibit to date. It looks as if she was fixated on the necklace,” Fiona said.
“Good work,” Natalie said. “Keep in touch.” Then she disconnected.
Neither D.C. nor Fiona spoke for a moment. Then Fiona said, “I’m sitting here trying to convince myself that Amanda might not have been the only one who collected articles on the Rubinov.”
“She probably wasn’t. The stone seems to fascinate a lot of people.”
“Right. But this file can also be read as more evidence that she was involved in the robbery. And I’m trying to view it in a way that makes her look innocent.”
D.C. began to gather up the clippings. “First of all, this file is just another piece of evidence. Did you ever do any connect-the-dots puzzles when you were a kid, Fiona?”
She met his eyes. “Yes. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“When I’m investigating a case, I think of it in terms of that kind of a puzzle. But a jigsaw puzzle would work equally well as an analogy. We don’t have all the dots or all the pieces yet.”
“We’ve got a lot of them—the necklace in her pocket, a visit to her master thief great-uncle and the clippings.”
He covered her hand with his. “These clippings aren’t what’s bothering you.”
Fiona turned to meet his eyes. “I’m having trouble being objective. I want to be on Amanda’s side. I keep thinking of the way she looked lying there on the ground last night. And the way she looked in the hospital. And…it’s interfering.”
“You’re bothered because you can’t quite keep your personal feelings compartmentalized.”
“Exactly.” She could hear the frustration in her voice and struggled to control it. “Usually, I can. I do.”
“Caring doesn’t make you less of a cop. What does your gut tell you about Amanda Hemmings?”
“That’s exactly what Natalie asked me last night. I told her I needed more information.”
“And now you’ve got more.”
“No matter how damning the evidence is, my gut still tells me that there’s some explanation—that she’s innocent.”
“Why are you questioning your instincts?”
The matter-of-fact way he was asking the questions was calming her. Letting her gaze sweep the room, she gathered her thoughts. “I’m identifying too much with her. Both of us lost our parents at a young age and grew up in the system.”
“And survived it.”
“We’re alike in other ways, too. I saw the police academy as my path to independence. I’m betting Amanda saw joining the armed service in the same light. I walk in here and I see the first place I moved into once I was on my own. My apartment was even smaller than this. I know how much time she spent picking out the desk and the table.”
The sofa creaked again.
“And this totally impractical sofa. The one I chose was a love seat. The frame was carved cherry, and I bought it at an antique shop.” She ran a hand over the arm. “It was of better quality—but absolute hell to sleep on. And there’s no Christmas tree. In fact, there are no holiday decorations at all.”
“Christmases in foster care have to be tough.”
She turned to face him, and found herself staring into those gray eyes that saw so much. When he took her hand, linked his fingers with hers, feelings sprang to life inside of her again. Sharp, insistent. She couldn’t name them, couldn’t even begin to understand them. All she could be certain of was that they didn’t have to do with Amanda Hemmings or the case. This time, it was D. C. Campbell who had triggered the flood of emotions.