The Courier Brought His Lawyer and the Last Freight Manifest

Nathaniel didn't ask Ellis to come alone.

"Get counsel," he told him. "Then have your lawyer call our prosecutor."

I heard no promise of a clean slate. Ellis asked for one twice. Nathaniel gave him the same answer twice.

By one in the morning, I had gone home to the small apartment above my workshop. Ortiz called to say the agents had what they needed from my paperwork. I wasn't to visit the depot.

"I hadn't planned to," I said.

"Good. Try to sleep."

I sat on my bed in my shoes.

At three, Ruth called. She couldn't sleep either. We talked about ordinary things: the summer gnats, her old porch fan, the bakery that had closed near her house.

Neither of us said that two paintings might leave Georgia before dawn.

Later I learned what Ellis had brought with his lawyer: his original dispatch book, messages about changing crate numbers, and the freight manifest for Bay C at the sixth location.

The manifest listed two framed mirrors.

The backing sheets listed two collection numbers. Those numbers matched stolen paintings.

Ellis also explained the maps. Victor had kept records of art held as security for private deals. He distrusted computers for those locations and kept them hidden behind maps he displayed in a locked room. Ellis had moved the shipment after a roof leak. He hadn't known the damp would free the backings.

Once my treatment separated them, Victor had ordered everything burned. The loss of the maps cost him little. The hidden records could cost him his buyers and his hold over the people who owed him.

His own habits had brought the record to my table.

The agents used Ellis's account and the other evidence in a warrant application. A judge signed it before the planned departure.

At six forty, Nathaniel called.

"Thirteen," he said.

I closed my eyes.

"All thirteen?"

"Both were there. They were packed behind mirrors, exactly as Ellis described."

"And the truck?"

"Still parked."

For weeks, I'd wanted a loud victory. When it came, I asked whether the paint surfaces had been checked for rubbing.

"A conservator is already there," he said.

"Good."

"Calliope?"

"I'm here."

He stayed on the line while I cried. I didn't have to explain that relief could hurt.

Victor was arrested later that morning. The charges concerned the stolen art, the false sales, and efforts to conceal the evidence. Ellis was charged too. Cooperation would be considered; it didn't erase his part in moving the crates or threatening me.

Miriam came over at noon with a bag of oranges. She peeled one at my side table while I read a new set of papers.

The museum audit had found that Victor controlled the dealer through two companies. Bank records, obtained by the investigators, traced its money back to him. His signed conflict disclosure was false.

The board removed him from every position. Its lawyer filed a claim for the $240,000 deposit and gave the auditors access to earlier purchases.

"Will they get the money back?" I asked.

"They'll have to prove their claim," Miriam said. "But the assets are being secured. He can't simply empty the account tonight."

The loan records arrived that afternoon. Marsh Lantern belonged to Victor too. He had bought my debt shortly before delivering the maps. Its own file included my note with the thirty-day cure period, beside a draft demanding payment in three days.

Miriam added both to my civil case.

"Do I call the servicer?" I asked.

"I'll write. You keep paying what the note requires into the account we've arranged. No cash to anyone who comes to your door."

She showed me the column where each payment would be logged. I could manage a column. I couldn't manage all the people who might talk about me before dinner.

Ruth called as Miriam packed her case. The museum would send a correction to everyone who had received the forged report. Its board had approved an outside review of every purchase Victor had handled.

I put the call on speaker so Miriam could hear the exact words.

I still owed money. The bills hadn't vanished when the handcuffs closed. But now the person making threats had to answer questions under rules he hadn't written.

At dusk, Nathaniel brought the workshop key I had lent his team. The searches were done. The evidence was stored elsewhere.

"I'll still need you for testimony," he said.

"I'll be there."

We stood beneath the awning as warm rain came off its edge.

"I'd like to ask you something when this is over," he said.

My breath caught.

"Then keep the question."

He nodded, as if I had entrusted him with a sheet that could tear.

Six weeks later, I opened a court notice that Miriam had forwarded. It set a hearing on Victor's request to keep my records out of his criminal trial.

His motion said the pencil marks were mine.