This wasn't just any painting.

Chapter 4

I had nothing but questions. It had been over eighty years since the heist. Why now? Had some new information come to light? Why did the official report state that ten paintings had been stolen, when in fact it was eleven? Was something being covered up? If my great-grandfather was so anxious to get rid of it, why leave a note for his son to find later? Why not just be done with it?

It suddenly dawned on me that I had to go to work in the morning. I made a copy of the article and put the original back in the envelope inside the book. The gallery receipt and letter I kept. Then I carefully wrapped the book and put it back in the cardboard, then set it on my bookshelf. My thinking was that if someone broke in, they were going to ransack the place looking for it. But if they found it with little trouble, they might leave without doing too much damage. By putting the original article back in, they might think that was all there was. It was worth a try.

I got to work the next morning at my usual time of 7:00, and was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling of stagnation. I hadn't liked my job for many years, but I had never had this sensation. I suddenly had thoughts of quitting, this time without the accompanying fear of the unknown. Really, how much worse off could I be? I'd have the freedom to look for something interesting. I had always been frugal, and had accumulated enough in my savings to keep me going for a while. And now, with my father's house, I could either sell it or take out a mortgage on it and use the cash to live on. No matter how I looked at it, there were no downsides to quitting. I would just have to find the right time to quit, and then would give my notice.

The right time came at 9:30 when I got a call from my alarm company that the burglar alarm in my apartment had just gone off. I told them I was on my way. Upon leaving the office, I found myself grabbing a few of my personal belongings. This was my notice. I was never coming back. How easy was that?

I got to the T station with a mixture of elation and fear. The fear part had more to do with how much damage I'd find in my apartment. I didn't keep any cash in there—not that that was what they'd be looking for—and my gun safe was in a secure place, so it was more a question of how quickly they would find the package and leave. Luckily, with the alarm screeching at them, they wouldn't be long. And God help them if Mo was home. She and Seymour each had a key to my apartment, and the last person in the world I would want to see bursting through a door and coming at me would be Mo.