Christmas Male(50)

“And if someone interferes with that?” D.C. asked.

“In my experience, people like Shalnokov don’t deal well with interference. He won’t agree to see either one of us. He insists that any business we have can be handled by Dr. Meyers. She takes care of everything for him now. I’m meeting with her tomorrow morning to discuss transporting the Rubinov back to his collection after the exhibition closes.”

“I talked briefly with her at the National Gallery this morning just before I talked with Charity Watkins,” Fiona said. “They seemed to be having a disagreement. I couldn’t catch what it was about.”

“Maybe I can find out tomorrow,” Chance said. “I’ve also been checking into Arthur Franks. The warden at the Cumberland Security facility was very helpful. Franks has been there three years, and he’s been a model citizen. It turns out that the only visitor he’s had, except for the FBI, of course, was his great-niece Amanda. She came by in October, shortly after the initial press releases on the upcoming Rubinov exhibition first started.”

“No one else has visited him?” Fiona asked.

Chance shook his head. “Franks is very picky about the people he sees. The warden couldn’t get him to see me.”

Fiona’s brows shot up. “He has the right to refuse visitors?”

“That’s part of the deal he made with the FBI. In return for some pretty cushy accommodations in a minimum-security prison and a final say on who he talks to outside of the FBI, he’s consulting on major thefts here and in other countries.”

“Shades of Silence of the Lambs,” D.C. mused. “Only in that movie, the FBI tried consulting with a serial killer.”

Chance smiled. “With mixed results. They eventually got their man, but Hannibal Lector turned the whole scenario to his own advantage and escaped.”

Fiona tapped her fingers on the table. “Reality is often stranger than fiction. Perhaps Arthur Franks also offered consulting services to his great-niece and his grandson so they could rob the National Gallery.”

“Setting up that kind of operation would be next to impossible in one visit,” D.C. said.

“Perhaps he isn’t the mastermind. What if they just asked him to troubleshoot their plan?” Fiona turned to Chance. “Any phone calls?”

“I checked,” Chance said. “Franks doesn’t make them.”

“E-mails?” Fiona pressed.

Chance shook his head. “He doesn’t even have an account. But I did learn one thing from the warden. Franks has developed a hobby. When he isn’t consulting for the FBI and Interpol, he’s taken up oil painting.” Chance ran his hands through his hair. “I talked to someone I know at the FBI, and she says that they’re not even asking him about the Rubinov.”

“Because the theft was unsuccessful,” D.C. said.

“Correct. I thought of asking her to pull some strings to convince Franks to see you, but I wanted to check it out with you two first.”

Angling a chair, D.C. sank into it and stretched out his legs. “If he won’t talk to an insurance investigator, he’ll be even less enthusiastic about talking to a couple of cops. The question is who would he talk to?”

Chance’s smile widened. “Exactly.”

Fiona caught the look Chance exchanged with D.C. “What?”

“Just a little masquerade,” D.C. explained.

Fiona frowned. “What kind of a masquerade?”

D.C. continued to look at Chance. “We’d have to appeal to his ego. I’m assuming that it’s supersize.”

“Safe guess,” Chance replied.

“What if a local gallery owner has heard about his painting and is keen on giving him a showing?” D.C. tilted his head in Fiona’s direction. “The owner would even bring an art professor along to give her opinion on the work. Once we’re there, it would be only natural for us to bring up the attempted robbery and ask his take on it.”

“Wait. Time-out,” Fiona said. “If Franks has become a recluse and no one knows about his hobby, how would an art gallery get wind of it?”

“She has a point,” Natalie said.

“It would have to be through Amanda Hemmings,” Fiona said. And then she could have bitten her tongue. She was actually contributing to the crazy ideas being tossed around. Even worse, she was beginning to like them. “But she doesn’t have an obvious connection to an art gallery.”

“True,” D.C. said.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Fiona saw the idea come to D.C. at the same instant it came to her. They spoke in unison. “General Eddinger.”