The Art of Stealing Hearts by Stella London

Author:Stella London [London, Stella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stella London Books
Published: 2015-09-28T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Monday morning, I arrive at Carringer’s to find police cars parked out front, their red and blue lights still flashing. The huge doors are propped open and police officers are milling about on the front steps.

“You can’t go in,” one of them says as he blocks my path.

“I work here!” I protest, digging out a security badge. He studies it suspiciously, then finally stands aside and lets me pass.

Inside, the scene is even more chaotic. There are at least a dozen more cops in here, speaking into walkie talkies, standing around looking official. There’s even a German Shepherd cop dog sniffing around.

What the hell happened?

I see Chelsea rush by, a panicked look on her face. “Hey!” I catch her arm. “What’s going on?”

“You didn’t hear?” She blinks. “There was a robbery, Saturday night, they think.”

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “What was stolen?”

“The Judgment of Paris,” she says as two cops pass us, carrying boxes of files.

“But what about security?” I ask, confused. “This place is like Fort Knox.”

“I know, right?” Chelsea leans in, whispering, “There’s no sign of forced entry, nothing suspicious on the tapes. It’s a total mystery.”

“The police must know something.”

“They have no idea what happened,” she says, looking around. “Everybody’s being interviewed, they were quizzing me for like, an hour.” She suddenly seems to realize who she’s talking to. “But they probably won’t bother with janitorial staff,” she adds with a smug smile. “It’s not like you’d know anything.”

We’re interrupted by Stanford, looking stressed.

“Chelsea,” he says. “Get back upstairs, now. Those papers need to be dealt with. And Grace, there is still filing to be done.”

“But…” I gesture at the police presence. Everyone is whispering, but the voices and footsteps echo through the big rooms and columned lobby. “Are you going to just pretend all these guys aren’t here investigating?”

“We are going to work as long as we can,” he says, shaking his head at me. “Now, get!”

I head downstairs. The basement is crawling with cops, too, and I have to squeeze through four different uniforms and show each of them my badge to get to the giant filing room. To my surprise, Lydia is here, directing the traffic flow of file boxes being carried in and out by policemen and Carringer’s employees. I’m about to ask if she needs help when a tall, rugged-looking man walks in. He’s wearing dark jeans and a crisp shirt, and although he looks casual, he’s clearly in charge. “Nick Lennox,” he says to Lydia, flashing some kind of badge. “Interpol, special projects.”

She doesn’t hide her impatience. “How can I help you?”

He clears his throat and plants his feet wider on the floor. “I need all your security footage from the last month as well as blueprints for the buildings. Plus a list of all employees and delivery drivers, and anyone else who had contact with this building in the last thirty days.”

Lydia looks stricken, and under better circumstances, I might enjoy her squirming. “Is that all necessary?” she asks. “I, uh, well, we’d like to keep this as quiet as possible.

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