To Catch a Thief - Part 1

Brian pulled two paintings out of Justin’s cubby. One was breathtakingly beautiful, the colors and composition absolutely gorgeous. The other…

“Oh my God, Justin. That’s Brandon!” he couldn’t help but exclaim.

It was completely abstract but was as clearly a portrait of Brandon as Jessica’s had been of her. There was his strength, his grace, his humor, his physical presence, his sensuality, his loyalty, everything Brian knew and loved about the man was there, in the colors, the forms, the lines. It was truly remarkable. Brian smiled. There was no way Todd and Brandon would ever let this be sold to anyone else. Of course he would not tell Justin that because then he would just turn around and give it to them…

A minute ago there had been talking and laughter coming from the storage room. Now all was quiet. Were they having trouble getting the big ones out? After putting the two paintings on easels he joined them in the stench of turpentine. Justin and Jason turned toward him when he entered, and they had the strangest looks on their faces. Justin looked gutted, and Jason’s face was completely void of expression.

“They’re gone, Brian. All of them. Somebody took my paintings…” Brian walked to the very tall, comparatively narrow cabinet and opened the door. There were no paintings, though the smell of turpentine was strong and fresh. On the floor of the cabinet, there was a folded piece of paper. He picked it up and opened it. It looked like a bad imitation of a ransom note, the lettering cut out of a newspaper and pasted together.

He read it out loud. “You want them back, it’s going to cost you $100,000.00. Tell the police, and they burn.”

“What?” said Justin, as Jason grabbed the sheet of paper from Brian and read it aloud as well.

“I don’t have $100,000.00, you morons!” said Justin, taking the paper next.

Brian looked at Jason, who was livid. “Excuse me a moment,” Jason said, and he left the room.

Justin said to Brian, “This is ridiculous. Whoever did this is insane!” He looked so bewildered. Suddenly, coming from the corridor outside the studio was a loud scream of rage, as someone was beating or kicking something. Brian and Justin came out of the storage room wondering what was going on as Jason reentered the studio, sucking on a bloody knuckle.

“Sorry,” he said. “I have a bad temper.”

Brian made a note to himself never to piss off Jason, who still looked murderous.

Justin continued talking, “How can anyone think I could pay this much money! The paintings aren’t even worth that much!” He was standing close to Brian, and when Brian touched his waist, Justin rested his entire body against him.

Jason dismissed that. “Justin, you had what, twelve paintings in there? At an average of fifteen thousand each, that's $180,000.00. Probably more.”

“You guys paid that much because you are nuts. Nobody else would!” protested Justin.

Jason walked to the two paintings on easels. “This one we will price at seventeen,” he said about the representation of Brandon. “It is the most amazing abstract portrait, completely unique in my experience, and absolutely revolutionary in both the portrait and the abstract schools of painting. It is obviously (and why it should be obvious even to me who hardly knows him, I cannot begin to guess) your close friend and my mother’s favorite dance pupil, Brandon Bloomquist. Of course he will want to buy it. Who could blame him? And knowing you, you won’t sell it to him for what it’s worth… I’m not even sure what it’s worth.” He followed a blue line delicately with his finger. “It’s…priceless, really.”

He looked at the newest painting. “This one is the most visually beautiful thing you have ever produced. It’s Paradise, freedom, a reward, I don’t know. All these things at once. People are going to fight over it. But it’s only 4X4. We’ll price it at… 27? 30? Kinney. What do you think you’d pay for this one if you didn’t know Justin? Honestly, what would be your max?”

“It is gorgeous. And it feels…like something I’d like to feel everyday.” Brian kissed Justin hair. “I don’t know. To be able to own it, to own that feeling…$40,000.00?”

“Exactly. But of course, you’ve got money to spare. I think 27 is good. That New Years’ Eve one you did a while back, with the celebrating, the friendship, the sex, another great one, another easy sell. 20 I think.” Jason looked at Justin. Whoever took the paintings was no fool, Justin. One would pay $100,000.00 to get them back without hesitation.”

Justin sat down on a stool abruptly, looking forlorn. “At this point, they are only worth what I am able to pay. And it’s nowhere near that much. I simply don’t have that kind of money. You’re going to have to call the gallery and cancel the expo.”

Brian and Jason exchanged a look. Both knew Brian had that kind of money and would happily give it to get the paintings back, but they also knew that now was not the time to discuss the issue with Justin. Instead Jason said, “I’m not calling the Gallery. You have three in Pittsburgh, these two, that’s five. I have one, Kinney has four, and your company has one, that’s six, so eleven. Your newlywed friends have one…”

“Brandon has one and Daphne has one. That’s three more. We can probably borrow the Face of God from Sydney Bloom. Four,” added Brian helpfully.

“So that's fifteen. You have three weeks to paint two more. No matter what, you are doing the expo.”

“But I thought you said he wouldn’t take more than four privately owned ones.”

“What choice will he have when we explain to him what happened? You can, exceptionally, give him a percentage of any commission you get from the expo or a higher percentage from the sale of the seven you will have for sale. Galleries do not expect to sell more than half of what they show. He’s expecting to sell only six or seven anyway, if you show seventeen, four of them privately owned. Of course, if you don’t sell everything with a price tag, I’ll eat my Porsche, starting with the tires. So it’s still a win for him, Justin. Believe me. Even under these conditions, Bryce Kindall would not be doing us any favors. He will be begging for me to let him put on your next show.“

“Jason, I don’t understand,” said Justin, honestly. “How did my paintings go from 800 to 2000 dollars at Christmas to 12 to 27000 dollars three months later? It makes no sense whatsoever.”

“First of all, in Pittsburgh, even after I convinced your friend to double your prices, your paintings were grossly underpriced. She needed to multiply her original prices by ten, not two… But there would have been no way for me to convince her of that.

“Then, you refuse to read the reviews, so what can I tell you? It’s actually amazing how many critics Sydney is able to attract to his Podunk town every year. His expo, and more specifically you, had very positive reviews in Aesthetica, in Art Forum, and in Art in America. Jerry Saltz, the art critic for New York Magazine, actually wrote a small, incredibly flattering article about your paintings.

“Modern Art Notes had a feature about “The Face of God”, Sally Ballinger actually calling it the most amazing piece of art she had seen in a while. The New Art Examiner out of Chicago had a picture of Essengy as leader for their article, and though it was about the whole expo, it might as well have been about you personally for all the two lines the other artists got to share after they were done singing your praises.

“And of course there was that byline from Erica Boher, from Revolutionart. She called “You’re No Son of Mine” amazing, powerful, and the single most important piece of contemporary art in 2005, and she usually hates everything. When her article came out, there were dozens of letters to the editor, wanting to see the painting since she had not included a photo of it. Turns out Harold Compos, the art dealer, owns it. He no doubt plans on reselling it in a few years, and making a huge profit. He charged them more than he paid for the painting for the photo. They lambasted his greedy ass, but they paid… They put the photo in the response to the letters to the editor, and got a mountain of mail asking for a bigger picture, which they published in the last issue, on the last page.

“You are big news, Justin, and I haven’t even had to do anything yet. They are all waiting for your expo. Bryce cannot believe his luck. I had to work to convince him to take you on originally, but since then all this has come up. He’s been walking around with a hard on for two months now.”

Jason sat down on a stool next to Justin. “It never occurred to me that something like this might happen. More fool me. I should have taken all your paintings into my vault as soon as they dried. I thought you were safe here, in your cocoon of academia. I have had a ton of inquiries about you and have answered nothing, keeping, I thought, everyone in the dark. If anyone googles you, the articles come up, some gallery in LA comes up, Sydney’s expo comes up, but there is absolutely nothing about you personally.” He put his hand on Justin’s shoulder, apologetically. “I was hoping to keep it that way, keep your privacy intact at least for a while longer. Obviously, someone’s found you. I’m sorry, Justin.”

Brian had had no idea all this had been going on. He did not follow the art world at all. Suddenly, the theft made a lot more sense, though it also took on a more sinister aura. Also, he wanted Justin to succeed, but he certainly had had no idea Justin was becoming a celebrity in the art world. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, at all. Justin was his. He did not want to share with all these people who were going to want a piece of him…

He shook himself mentally. He was being stupid and selfish. It’s not as if the hot news of the art world became front page in People magazine. But they definitely had to keep this whole theft thing under wraps. This was something that kind of magazine would eat up, especially when the artist was young, talented, and as gorgeous as Justin was.

“Jason?” said Justin. “I’m glad people are excited about my art, but I don’t want to become some kind of celebrity. Thanks for not giving out information about me. What are the chances we can keep people out of my private life?”

Brian just wanted to kiss him.

Jason smiled at him. “We will do our best. It won’t be easy. After the show, we can announce you moved to a private secluded island in North Carolina…”

Justin laughed. Brian was glad. Apparently, learning about his status as hot new artist was distracting him a little from what had happened. Brian had to keep himself under control, at least as long as Justin was around. But someone had taken something from Justin. Someone had put that gutted look Justin had had on his face. That someone was going to pay, and pay dearly.

Lilah walked in, singing to herself. “Oh! Hi everybody!” She walked to the paintings and said, to no one in particular. “Isn’t this the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?” She was talking about the newest painting. Then she added, “Well of course there’s Summertime. It’s gorgeous too. And god, The Rainforest…and the blue one. She giggled. “They’re all gorgeous, aren’t they…?” She turned to Justin. “Did you see the hole someone punched in the wall out there? Justin? What’s wrong?”

She had innocently reminded Justin of what he had lost, and he looked so sad Brian wanted to weep.

“Somebody took my paintings, Lilah. Except for these two, which were in my drying cubby, they’re all gone. All of them.”

Lilah looked horrified. “Oh, Justin! Why would they do that? When? There is always someone here, and you need the code to get in! And the student ID… And your paintings are so big! Someone would notice! Did they break the lock?”

Brian thought these were all great questions… How the fuck do you walk away with a 7X7 painting?

“No. The lock was intact. They used a key.”

“Aside from you and me, who has your keys?”

“No one else.”

Brian had to ask. “Lilah, why do you have Justin’s keys?”

It was Justin who answered. “I have Lilah’s. It’s in case we forget them at home, or lose them. Lilah has all of our keys, from the brownstone. She is here a lot, and she never loses anything.”

“Do you have them here, Lilah?”

“Yes. In my bag.” She started digging, getting out sets of keys. “Petunia’s, Phuong’s, Rory’s, Andrew’s, James’, Dean’s, Cassie’s…” she dug some more, then turned her bag over, pens, Kleenex packs, wallet, different makeup items, change, subway tokens, her phone, a paperback, a pack of gum, three CDs and even a tampon falling out. She looked up, her face stricken. “Yours are gone, Justin. Oh my God. Someone got your keys from my bag and stole your paintings!”

Jason was looking at the pile of keys. “How do you know which are whose?” he asked, puzzled.

“From the key chains. I got them from this junk store on Roosevelt. The apple, that’s Washington. These are Andrew’s. The little iron from the monopoly game? That’s Phuong’s. You know? Chinese laundry? Of course she’s from Vietnam, but her parents have a laundromat. She thinks it’s funny. The edelweiss is Pete’s, petunia is his nickname, and any flower would have done. The portrait of Shakespeare is for Cassandra’s, obviously. The cup of coffee is Rory’s, because of that TV show Gilmore Girls? The daughter is called Rory and she and her mom drink huge cups of coffee all the time. The big bolt is for James. You know, Henri James, the Turn of the Screw. And this is Jerry Lewis, for Dean, obviously.”

“Some of these associations are pretty farfetched. How would someone know besides you whose are which? What was on Justin’s?” asked Brian.

Lilah blushed bright red and Justin cracked up. “Shut up, Justin. His is Tinkerbell,” she answered.

“From Peter Pan?” said Jason. “Why?”

Justin answered, still smiling. “She’s a fairy…”

Lilah turned to him and cried, hitting him on the arm. “Stop it, Justin! You know it’s not even why. It’s because Justin looks about twelve, and obviously,” she hit him again, “acts about twelve, on occasion. He’s like Peter Pan. He never ages. But he’s been saying it’s because he’s gay every time it comes up. You are such a jerk,” she added, to him.

“Sorry, Lilah. You know I’m just teasing,” said Justin. “But I bet you that’s how whoever took my keys knew they were mine. They must have known I’m gay, and thought, Tinkerbell! The fairy!”

Brian did not want to make Lilah feel bad, but he would have bet good money that was true. Still. He wasn’t sure he would have known which set was Justin’s if presented with all of them.

“When could someone have gotten into your bag?” he asked.

“Gosh, anytime. I mean, at home obviously. I leave my bag downstairs with the coats, but here, too. We are constantly dumping our bags and leaving them alone. Everybody does it. At the cafeteria. Everybody just leave his or her bags by the door. Here at the studio. The only reason I brought it in is that my CDs are in there, and I want some music. When the whole class is in here, you don’t want your bag around. We all just hang them outside with our coats. My wallet’s in there. Everybody has stuff that could be stolen, their phone, their MP3, whatever. We all just trust each other. It’s part of the Pratt culture. Nobody ever has anything taken. It would be anathema, you know?”

“It’s true. I leave my bag with my wallet, my keys, everything, all the time. The only thing I have with me all the time since the beginning of the year is my phone.” Justin smiled at Brian, who realized his request for Justin to be reachable at all times was the only reason for that exception. He smiled back, relieved nonetheless that the loft’s security was completely keyless. He would not have liked to learn the keys to his home relied on “the Pratt culture” for safety.

“I wonder when the paintings were taken,” said Justin. “I put Summertime in there on Sunday, and they were all there. And I painted Wednesday, and Thursday.”

Brian had been wondering when they were taken as well, and if Pratt had security cameras. Someone would need a van to transport them. If they knew when, maybe they could get a view of the van. He hadn’t noticed any cameras in the building, but then again, he had not looked for them…But after hearing the little tidbit about the Pratt culture of trust, he doubted there was any security inside the building.

“I was here Monday night, really late, with Cassie. I know Rory was still here when I left Thursday night at almost ten,” said Lilah. “Anyway, it would be way more difficult after hours. You need the code to enter the side door, you have to leave your ID, and you never know who’s going to be here, and if they know you... If I had to do it, I’d do it during the week, in the mornings, while you’re at work.”

That was good thinking. This was an art school. People walking around with paintings would not be so unusual, and the way to the front door was a straight shot from here.

“But there are classes here every morning,” objected Justin.

“Yes, but even when there are classes going on people go in and out,” remarked Lilah.

“Two people? Carrying out twelve paintings? You’d think someone would object!”

“Not if they said they were from the Bryce Kindall Gallery, picking them up for your expo, and had the keys to your cabinet, they wouldn’t.”

“You’re right,” said Jason. “I bet a lot of people know you have an exposition coming up.”

“I was here on Monday, with Clark, for my acrylic class. Dean has beginning painting here on Tuesday mornings. Rory and Petunia are in that horrid pigment seminar you took last year on Wednesday mornings. Friday, Cassie’s in here for Reproduction of Masters. All of us know your paintings. All of us would raise a major stink if they came by one by one on their way out the door, without you or Mr. Kintzer there, I think. Plus you told Rory and me that you had two more weeks to add more, because they weren’t going to the gallery until the twenty-second, and that if you had more you’d have to pick which ones to take with Mr. Kintzer's help. You are at Pratt every afternoon. Someone would have to have some serious balls to steal your paintings when you’re in attendance. So that leaves Thursday morning. Advance oil, with Davenport. You took that last year, right?”

“Yes,” said Justin, obviously deep in thought about what she had just said. Brian was impressed. She was sharp. Her reasoning might be wrong, but at least she was trying to think things through logically.

“Do you still have his number?” she asked.

“Uh? Oh, Davenport’s number. No. I lost it when my old phone died. Rory was with me in that though. Maybe he does.” Justin was deep in thought again. Brian wondered what it was he was thinking of.

Lilah was already dialing.

“The fact that they used this young lady’s set of keys makes things a lot more personal,” Jason told him. “I was thinking it could be any art fan, who knew Justin was a hot commodity, but listening to her think out loud, even if she’s wrong, shows that the thief would have had to be very familiar with Pratt, and with Justin’s friends. It makes it more likely, sadly, that it’s another student here. Or a close friend or acquaintance of Justin’s ex-roommates…”

“I don’t know. You’ve seen the keypad downstairs. It’s completely exposed. Any weekend, it would take five minutes of watching to get the code to enter, and I bet it registers the student ID only. It does not check it against an actual roster of students. You could enter any eight-digit number and get in. Do it Sunday night at midnight, and you could take a break and have a cigarette halfway through, because there would be no one here.”

“I’m going to go try it,” said Jason. “You’re right about the code. I’ve been here four times and I know it. They don’t even change it. 3895. I’ll be back.” He was out the door, as Lilah started explaining to her roommate Rory why they needed Davenport’s number. He obviously had his own theories, because they talked for a long time.

Justin snapped out of his reverie, and looked at Brian with eyes so distraught it made him ache to hold him. He wasn’t sure what Justin needed though, closeness or space. Justin solved his dilemma by getting up and stepping into his arms. Brian held his Sunshine tightly, realizing he had needed to do so very much. His heart ached for Justin. Each of his paintings was a piece of his heart and soul. He could not even pretend to comprehend what Justin must be feeling.

Jason walked in. Brian had obviously been right. Any phony student number would let you in with the code. Lilah was still talking.

“Do you have Davenport’s number? Yes… Thanks…” She wrote something down. “Well that’s the only morning that one of us isn’t in here… Yes, Cassie, for Masters… He wouldn’t?... Are you sure? Ask him…” She waited for a short while. “…See, I told you. He may not know Justin, but he hears us talk about him all the time. He would know Justin wasn’t done with the seventeen paintings, and that they couldn’t be picking them up already, especially… What?... Why?... What the hell, he’s not even legal yet… Well, did you give him hell?... Just one beer? No way! He’s a big guy! And he’s had a couple at the house and was just fine… That’s just weird… yeah. Stevens… I have it somewhere… Yeah… Thanks, Rory.”

Justin took a deep breath and turned in Brian's embrace, facing his friend, but obviously having no intention of stepping away out of Brian’s arms.

“I have Davenport’s number. You want to make the call?” asked Lilah.

“Sure,” said Justin, getting his phone out. Lilah gave him the gum wrapper she had jotted the number on.

“Why do you guys have your teachers’ private numbers?” asked Jason, puzzled.

“Well, we’re not supposed to abuse it, but it’s part of Pratt’s policy of total support to the student. We work alone off hours, and if we need advice, they are available. I don’t think anyone ever calls, really. But we could,” explained Justin, dialing.

Brian was impressed by the dedication it represented on the teachers’ parts. This really was an amazing school.

“Professor Davenport? This is Justin Taylor… I’m fine sir… Well, this is not a painting question, actually, though I appreciate your not pointing out to me that I haven’t been your student for a year… My paintings were taken out of my cabinet… yes, stolen… thanks… that’s what I’m trying to figure out… Exactly… Yes, probably…No? OK then. Thanks for your help… Thanks. Bye.” Justin sighed as he closed up his phone.

“Well, that’s that. Nobody removed any paintings from the studio on Thursday morning. He did say that if they had come and said they were from the gallery, and they had my keys, he probably would not have batted an eye when they took them out… So at least we were right about that.”

Justin sounded defeated. Once again, Brian wondered about video surveillance of the parking lot. He wanted to go talk to campus security as soon as they left there.

“We need to call Stevens too,” said Lilah. “Apparently Dean went out with Andrew and that jerk Aidan on Monday night, and he got falling down drunk. So Dean was too hung over on Tuesday to come to class. He was puking his guts out all day. Being a good big brother, Rory stayed home with him. I’ll call her. You never had to take that class since you transferred with all those painting credits.”

She scrolled her phone book, and pressed Talk. ‘Well, I guess it can’t hurt,’ thought Brian.

“Good afternoon, Professor Stevens. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Lilah…” she giggled. “Yes m’am. I guess my hair does make an impression… Titian? I thought his were more Venetian blondes than carrot tops…” she laughed. “Exactly!... Well, this is going to sound weird but did someone come to get some paintings out of storage during your class?”

She suddenly sat up, tense. “Yes?... The Bryce Kindall gallery?... Justin Taylor, yes… I know, it’s amazing. He is so gifted. I paint with him all the time… You did?... Yes, I know. I call it “Summertime”though I’m not sure what he will actually call it… Yes. Total, carefree happiness, that’s right… I know… I know… Well, I guess you are going to hate to hear this, but they were not really from the gallery. His paintings were stolen…”

She pulled the phone slightly away from her ear, making a face, as Professor Stevens apparently had a hissy fit on the line. “Uhu…Yes, I’m sure… Yes… But… of course not!... I’m sure… No! No no no… Yes.” Lilah put her phone on speaker mode and put it down. The Professor’s voice sounded thin and far away, but was perfectly clear.

“…There were two men. One young , tall with acne, who spoke English well, and one older with a grey mustache who did not seem to speak English at all. They wore white overalls, and white baseball caps. They were very sweet and polite, apologizing for disrupting my class, which they weren’t really because I was done lecturing and everyone was painting. Oh, god. I took them to the storage area myself. What an idiot! They had his keys, though! and they knew which storage cabinet it was, counting fourteen from the wall.”

“Professor Stevens? My name is Jason Kintzer…”

“The Jason Kintzer?”

“I guess so… I am Justin Taylor’s agent…”

“I am so sorry. God, please tell him I didn’t know! I am so excited for him. I tripped over myself helping these people! I am so, so sorry…”

Justin said, “Professor? This is Justin. There was no way for you to know…”

“Oh! Justin. I am so sorry…”

“Really. You could not have known. Can you answer a few more questions?”

“Anything. Anything I can do to help. Your big painting? Summertime Lilah called it? Oh my god, Justin. I had them stop and show it to the class. It’s… it’s…just breathtaking. Absolutely beautiful. And you can feel it, in your soul… After they left we bagged the painting and just talked about it… I’m sorry. I do go on, don’t I. What do you want to know?”

Jason rolled his eyes comically and asked, “Do you know what language the men were speaking?”

“Hm. Not Russian or Polish. My grandparents spoke both and it was different… but some Eastern European language. Czech? Croatian? I have no clue. But they were Catholic, I think, because when we were all looking at that painting, the older man said something and crossed himself, and the young one translated. He said his grandfather hoped this was a picture of heaven, because this was what he wanted it to be like. And I could only agree…”

Brian said, “They did not seem in a hurry, or worried in any way?”

“No, not at all. After a while they said they had to go because Mr. Kindall expected them at the gallery’s warehouse and it might take a while to get to Queens with traffic, and they picked up the painting and left.”

“Thanks, Professor.”

“I’ll be happy to talk to the police…”

“They left a note in my cabinet, Professor. It says that if I call the police they will burn the paintings. So we’re just not going to call the police just yet. But thanks for your help.”

“I’m so sorry, Justin…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get them back. It might be just a prank,” said Justin, obviously trying hard to make her feel better.

“Oh, I hope so! Do invite me to your show, please?”

“I’ll be glad to… Bye, Professor.”

They were all quiet for a while. The theft had occurred on Tuesday morning. Brian’s mind was going in fifteen different directions at once. He needed to think more calmly, but he was too upset to do so, too concerned with Justin’s well being to be rational. He wasn’t sure why, but at this point he wanted to get out of the studio.

“Are you ready to go home, Justin?”

“What time are we meeting Steven and Scott?” Justin asked.

Brian had almost forgotten about that. “We are meeting them at a place called Soho Billiards at eight-thirty.”

“Do you mind if I stay here and paint? I could be home before seven-thirty, so there’ll plenty of time to get ready. I really kind of need to, right now.”

Brian wasn’t sure. On one hand, he would be able to strategize what he wanted to do about this better without Sunshine around, on the other hand he hated to leave him, somehow craving contact with him.

“Come on, Kinney. Let the man paint. I’ll give you a ride home,” said Jason.

Brian got the distinct impression Jason wanted to talk to him alone, which was perfectly fine. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that offer. Let me say goodbye to Justin, and I’ll be right down.”

Jason could take a hint. “Justin, I’m taking these. Fool me once and all that… Don’t fret. It will all work out in the end. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“See you later, Jason. Bye.” Justin turned to Lilah, who was readying her paints. “You’ll be here till seven, won’t you?” he asked.

“At least. Max’s out of town. What else am I going to do? You never take me out anymore…” the last said with a pathetic look. Justin chuckled, and Brian was really grateful to Lilah for being such a great friend.

“I’ll walk you out,” said Justin, and Brian smiled when, after leaving the studio, they went in the opposite direction to the door. There was a hole in the wall where a fist had gone right through the plasterboard. Brian and Justin looked at each other.

“Let’s remember to always be nice to Jason,” said Justin.

“Let’s. We like Jason to be happy,” Brian answered, and they laughed for a while, longer than the silliness warranted, but unable to stop themselves.

They walked into an empty classroom, and leaning on a desk, Brian took Justin in his arms. It felt so good to just hold him. Justin looked up at him.

“I’m all right, Brian. I mean, I’m upset, obviously, and pissed off, and confused, and whatever, but the bottom line is that I’m all right. You love me, Gus loves me. We have great friends, we are all healthy, the rest is just icing on the cake, you know?”

Justin’s blue eyes were clear, his expression earnest. He really meant this. And he was right, of course. Brian lovingly traced his eyebrow, his cheekbone… Brian wished he had that kind of strength, to remember the things in his life that made it a blessing when something unfair and awful happened to him. But he was not Justin. Once he had his heel on the neck of the person responsible for this, he would find the ability to be grateful. But not before… He did love the fact that Justin had automatically included Gus’ love at the top of his list. He thought about Justin being officially Gus’s second Dad, of marrying this beautiful, talented, generous man he was so in love with, and he smiled to him.

Justin smiled back, that heartbreakingly beautiful loving smile of his, and Brian kissed him, just needing the intimacy of it. Justin sighed and kissed him back, lovingly, sweetly, their tongues gently caressing each other. There was the long beep of a car horn, and they parted, chuckling.

“We must not make Jason mad,” said Justin.

“We want a happy, happy Jason,” replied Brian.

They walked back to the Studio, and smiled at each other.

“Later,”

“Later.”

Brian sat in the Porsche’s passenger seat. Jason was on the phone, conducting business, but started the engine nonetheless.

“I want to go to campus security,” said Brian.

Jason nodded in acknowledgement, and started his GPS, entering Pratt/Campus security with one hand, speaking on the phone held against his ear by his shoulder, and driving off the sidewalk, going deeper into campus. The GPS was very good, already highlighting the way. They were there in about five minutes, Jason parking in a spot that said, “Campus security vehicle only” and turning off the engine. He finished his conversation and hung up.

“If they have video surveillance, how are you going to convince them to show you the tape?”

Brian did not know yet, but he was not worried. “I’ll figure something out…”

They went in. There was a young woman sitting behind a desk, filing paperwork, dressed as a campus cop. Not ideal, but it could have been worse. It could have been a straight guy. Brian said to Jason, “Let me try this my way, OK?” Jason shrugged.

The young woman looked up. Brian turned on the Kinney charm. Please, god, let her not be a lesbian. He approached the desk, smiling at her all the way. Luckily, she was kind of cute, and would not be suspicious of his flirting.

“Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Brian Kinney. This is my assistant, Jason Kintzer.” He got a card out of his wallet. “I am an Advertizing Executive for Plexus Advertizing.” He waited a moment, expectantly.

“Oh. Cathy West. Campus Security.”

Brian flashed her a warm grin. “We are filming a commercial for a new fragrance aimed at college age young women. As I’m sure you would have guessed, there is a kissing scene involved, and we thought it would be cute if it was caught on a campus security camera, you know, to add visual interest, showing some of it live, so to speak, and some of it on a campus security monitor.” Brian was giving her his special, 'You have captured my attention in more ways than one, I have been waiting for someone like you all my life' look. Surely if he could convince a trick to take a nine and a quarter inch cock up his ass after giving him head with that look, he could convince a young female to give him some advice…

The young campus cop smiled. “That does sounds cute. It’s not raunchy, is it?” She was crinkling her nose in distaste. That meant ‘I am a nice girl, you will have to buy me flowers and romance me before we fuck.’

Brian smiled an intimate smile. “No, no. Not at all. It’s actually ridiculously romantic,” and the smile meant, 'I call it ridiculously romantic because I have to, being a guy, but I love it, because inside, I am ridiculously romantic…’

The young woman was charmed. “How can I help you?”

Brian shook himself a little, as if he was remembering why he was there, and deciding to get business out of the way before asking her out. “Well, for the scene to be convincing, we need an accurate visual of a video surveillance room on a college campus, and I was hoping you could show me yours.”

“I’d be glad to,” said she, smiling. She obviously understood he had to take care of this business matter, but that they both knew there would be a more personal discussion before the end. She put a sign on the desk, “BE BACK IN 5”, took her walky-talky and walked down a short corridor to a room that said Monitoring.

Jason shook his head at Brian, and rolled his eyes. Brian smirked at him. Cathy knocked on the door. The room was small, with a bank of twelve video monitors, a computer, a control panel, two desk chairs and a gangly guy doing an architectural sketch.

“This is Jasper,” she said to Brian. He is a work-study student, and is supposed to watch the monitors, not do his homework.

“C’mon, Cath… there’s, like, nothing happening.”

“Nonetheless…” she said, with a significant look.

Jasper sighed and put his sketchpad in his bag.

“Do you mind if I ask Jasper here a couple of questions? I don’t want to keep you away from your desk too long… as long as you’ll be there when we head out, so we can say goodbye.”

Cathy smiled at him. “I am not supposed to leave for more than a few minutes. Ask Jasper anything; I’m sure he will be grateful to you for alleviating his boredom. I’ll see you on your way out.” She picked up Jasper’s bag with a phony smile. “I’ll keep that upfront for you, Jasp. I wouldn’t want you to become distracted…” She walked out.

“Bitch,” said Jasper, without much venom. Then he said to Brian, “This is the most fucking boring job on earth. Please, ask any question you want before my brain dry rots, and my head falls off.”

“You could always jerk off,” remarked Brian.

Jasper guffawed. “Now, there’s an idea…”

Brian sat down in the extra chair. “So. Do you have cameras in the buildings?”

“No. Pratt prides itself on the respect of privacy of the teachers and students, and of it’s own culture of trust. We have like, no thefts. It’s actually pretty cool.”

“What do you monitor then?”

“The campus entrances, the public areas, building entrances, parking lots. At night, we monitor the walkways so girls can feel safe. 47% of the students are housed here at Pratt, and the majority of them female. We rarely have any problems.”

“Is it just live monitoring, or do you have tapes?”

“It’s taped, and is kept a week. So right now, the history goes back to last Saturday at this time, and it erases last week’s record as the new record is taped. Well not tapes, really. It’s all digital, you know?”

“So you could recall any event that happened this past week then.”

“Yes. Of course, NOTHING ever happens…” Jasper grinned.

“Could you show me the entrance to the Fine Arts building on Tuesday morning, around, say, ten?”

“Sure.” Jasper typed some commands on the computer keyboard, and the entrance to the building appeared, filmed from across the street. A white van was parked in front. “Ooooh, look, how exciting! Illegal parking!” said Jasper.

“Can you speed it up until you see guys with white overalls coming out?”

“Sure.”

At 10:17AM, two guys appeared carrying what looked like a …4X6 probably.

“Can you get closer?”

“It’s useless, the resolution is really low.” He did it anyway, and true enough, you really couldn’t make out the faces any better when you zoomed on them.

The guys went back into the building, and Jasper sped things up until 10:33AM when the guys came out again, this time with a 7X7. They closed the back of the van, got in and drove off. At no point from this angle could you see the license plates.

“Jasper, can you show us a view from a camera placed so we could see the license plates?

“Hm. Yeah. But as they enter, not as they leave.”

He sped the image backwards, the men running into the building with paintings, then walking backwards to their van, and leaving in reverse. The clock said 9:23AM. They had been in the building for over an hour, leisurely stealing Justin’s art.

Jasper typed something on the keyboard, and they were now facing the entrance to the campus. He started at 9:15, and sped forward. At 9:19AM a van arrived at the turn, blinker on, waiting for traffic to clear. At 9:20, it came in and faced the camera. When it got as close as possible, Jasper froze the frame.

The license plate was perfectly clear: ACX 7518. He backed up a little, and when the car was passing in the quick shadow of the red light’s support, the face of first the driver, and then the passenger were seen clearly, before they were hidden away again by the sun’s reflection.

He typed some more and three sheets came out of the printer. One with the plate, and each of the others with a face. He folded them in four and handed them to Brian.

“I have no idea how you got Cathy to let me show you this. I certainly did NOT give you printed stills of these images, since you are not law enforcement, and don’t have a warrant. It did look to me that those guys absconded with paintings they did not create, and that does not sit well with me. Whatever’s going on, good luck. Here is my cell number. I doubt you’ll be able to get back in here again, but if you need any help, I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Jasper.”

“See you.”

In the corridor, Brian said to Jason, “Dial my cell phone. As soon as I start talking to her, press send, OK?”

Jason got out his phone and complied. Back in the main room, Brian approached Cathy’s desk with a smile.

“Thank you for that. It was exactly what I needed. Say, now that…” His phone rang. “Excuse me a minute, won’t you?” He flipped his phone open. “Kinney... Yes… Definitely… They’re on their way right now?... I’m thirty minutes away. Keep them entertained, I’ll be there as soon as I can… Yes! … Of course we can…”

Brian took a Campus security pamphlet from a pile and put it on Cathy’s desk, miming writing something. She smiled, and wrote down her phone number. He looked at it, smiled at her and put it in his pocket, continuing his one-way fake conversation on the phone until he and Jason were back in the car. Jason was laughing as they left the campus.

“Kinney, you are awful. That poor girl is going to sit by the phone every night for a week.”

Brian shrugged. “She was pretty cute. I’m quite sure she has other options… I needed the information we got. It seemed the most expedient way to get it. Sue me.”

“Am I right in assuming that you will gladly fork out the hundred grand when the time comes?” asked Jason.

Brian did not even bother answering. “The only problem will be to get Justin to take the money.”

“Make it a loan. With monthly payments and interest. He’ll repay you after the expo, I’m sure. I am truthfully expecting him to sell absolutely everything. The paintings are beautiful, so there will be a lot of private sales, but dealers are going to bet on his star rising high, and will pick up the cheapest ones, probably the ones from Pittsburgh. Even after my cut and Bryce’s commission, he’ll probably net $150-160,000.00.”

“I hope he’ll take a loan. He might have some objection to borrowing from me, though. Our unequal financial situation is a touchy subject for him.”

“I’ll tell my mother about the ‘artnapping’ and the ‘ransom’. I won’t have to say anything more. You know how she is, she will have everything figured out in two minutes flat. She will know Justin might not take even a loan from you, and I’m sure she can make him an offer he can’t refuse. She’s scary like that, my mother…”

They were driving into a garage under a building and soon parking in the most convenient spot in the garage, right next to the elevators. On the wall in front of the car it said, Reserved. Jason Kintzer. He opened the door and got out, walking to the rear of the car.

“Take one, I’ll take the other,” he said to Brian, as he opened the trunk. The paintings were carefully wrapped in some cloth lined foamy material, which apparently Jason had in his trunk at all times. Brian carefully pulled the top painting out of the wrapping. It was Brandon. Jason grabbed the other, closed the trunk, set his alarm and called the elevator.

He deactivated a different alarm before entering his agency, and once in his own private office opened the storage closet Brian had seen before and placed both paintings inside. “Too little too late,” he said. “Oh, well.” He looked at Brian. “Now what?”

“Now, you figure out which central or eastern European country is Catholic, while I give a friend of Justin’s a call.”

Without annoying questions, Jason went to work on the internet. Brian looked up Detective Hamill’s direct number.

“Detective Hamill speaking.”

“Hello, Detective. This is Brian Kinney, Justin T…”

“Please don’t tell me your little boyfriend send a big bad guy to the hospital again!”

Brian chuckled. “No, ma’am. Not that I know of. I am calling to ask you a hypothetical question. Do you have a minute?”

“I have a shitload of reports to write. You bet I have a minute. Ask away…”

“I am asking you this hypothetical question, because of your professional knowledge. This is definitely not a police matter. In this hypothetical situation, police involvement would have disastrous consequences, you understand.”

“Oooo-Kay. Completely hypothetical, definitely no police involvement. Got ya.”

“Say a young man is an artist. A painter perhaps. He is getting ready for his first expo, and all his paintings get taken for ransom. Say his boyfriend manages, through underhanded, potentially illegal means, to obtain the license plate of the van in which the paintings were taken. How could he find out details about the van?”

“Well, if the hypothetical young man had someone in the police force amongst his acquaintances, someone who liked him a lot and had admired his paintings previously, the boyfriend could call that acquaintance and give him or her the plate number. Then the boyfriend would get a phone call back a while later with information that might prove useful to him.”

“Let’s say the plate number was… ACX7518 from New York, and the van was white. Would that be all the information the friend of the young artist would need?”

“Yes. Yes it would.”

“Well thank you, detective. I believe this answers my hypothetical question. Thank you for your time.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Kinney.”

Jason was looking at Brian when he hung up.

“What?” asked Brian.

“You are a resourceful man, Kinney.”

Brian told him the simple truth. “I am getting these paintings back, no matter what it takes, whether it’s $100,000.00, or me pulling every string I can. And if I can find out who did this to Justin, I intend on making sure they won’t ever dare to even think about him again.”

Jason nodded in understanding. “I cross referenced recent immigration data with the three main Catholic countries in northern and central Europe. Croatia seems like your best bet, followed by Slovenia and Slovakia. I also googled the Croatian Catholic Churches in New York City. I’m assuming that's where you were going with this. Here are the phone numbers.”

“Exactly. Thanks.” Brian dialed the first number. He was given details about service times, catechism classes, AA meetings, and English as a second language classes, everything repeated in a foreign language. Then after everything else was a direct contact number for the church’s secretary. He hung up, and dialed.

“Sts. Cyril & Methodius, this is Sue, how can I help you?”

“Hello, Sue. I have a small moving job to man for my company, and a friend of mine recently, last Tuesday I think, hired two workers who I think may belong to your church, a tall young man and his grandfather. The grandfather did not speak English at all, but the young man did. They transported some paintings for him, and he was very complimentary. He doesn’t have their names though. Does that ring any bells?”

“Gosh… no, not really. You know, people who want to help recent Croatian immigrants by offering them small, unqualified jobs actually usually call the Croatian Alliance. It is located in the basement of St. Raphael. Why don’t you give them a call?”

She gave him the number.  He dialed.

“A tall young man and his grandfather? Hm. No, that doesn’t ring a bell. They didn’t come from us or belong to St. Raphael's. Did you try St Cyril & Methodius?”

Brian sighed. He was drawing a blank. Jason passed him a piece of paper with another number for Our Lady of Vilnius Lithuanian church community support.

“There are a lot of different churches, but apparently that’s where new immigrants can get help,” he explained.

Brian dialed, and gave his spiel.

“Oh, yes. Bryce Kindall, was it? Nice of him to recommend them. It was the Mostiets, Matas and his grandfather, Carolus. Fine people. I’ll just give you Matas’ phone number. You might want to actually meet to talk about the details of the job. His English is fair, but it is a lot harder for him to understand telephone conversations than face-to-face ones. You know how that goes…”

Brian looked at the phone number in his hand. These men were honest people, new immigrants trying to make a buck. They obviously had had no idea they were stealing the paintings, taking their time, letting the class look at Summertime, admiring it themselves. He felt bad for them. He called the number.

“Alo?”

“Matas Mostiet?”

“Yes?”

“I have a job for you. Can we meet?”

“Oh, yes please! Where?”

“Where are you?”

“Chelsea, at the Lithuanian Alliance Hostel”

“When would you like to meet?

“Now? Now is good, no?”

“Sure. Now is great.”

“There is a pizza restaurant? Pizza Suprema? 413 8th Avenue? Is easy to find. I wait there now?”

“We can be there in … twenty minutes.”

“I go now. I wait.”

“Ok. See you there.”

“Good, good. Very good.”

Brian hung up and sighed. “Now, for this guy, I feel bad. He is so eager for a job. Shit.”

“I wonder if he can circulate with a tray of champagne. I seem to recall my mother mentioning a party at her house the day before the gallery opening, and maybe needing a couple of extra hands…” He smiled at Brian who dialed Jessica’s number on the way back to the Porsche.

“Boxer and Digger Funeral Homes.”

Brian chuckled. “Nice one, Mrs. Hammon. You have caller ID, I hope?”

Jessica laughed. “Maybe...”

“Could your staff use the help of a couple of untrained but willing hands for the party?”

“Actually, yes. Brook was asking for some busing and plunging help. We need a couple of people apparently.”

“Not anymore. I have some very eager workers I can hire for the occasion.”

“Fabulous. I’ll tell Brook. Just make sure they are freshly showered with impeccably clean fingernails, or Marthe will have a fit…”

“I will mention that. What time should they be there?”

“Hold on.” Brian was treated to 'Don’t Cry', by Guns 'n Roses as he waited patiently.

“Brian? 3:00PM. She mentioned the fingernails again…”

Brian laughed. “Clean fingernails. Check. All right. Thanks, Jess… Mrs. Hammon.”

“Have I not given you permission to call me by my first name, Brian?”

“I honestly can’t recall.”

“Well you have it now. Just don’t use it in vain…”

Brian hung up chuckling. “Your mother is a trip, Jason.”

“Don’t I know it. What are you hoping to get from these guys?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll see.”

Brian had expected that parking would be an issue, but Jason just pulled up onto the sidewalk right in front of the restaurant between a mailbox and a streetlight.

“Do you ever get a parking ticket?”

“Never. Bloomberg drives a red Porsche and his license plate is EAL 1372. My license plate is EAL 1273. The more outrageous my parking job, the more convinced parking enforcement employees are that this is Mayor Mike’s personal car. It’s great.”

Entering the restaurant, they immediately spotted their quarry sitting in a booth facing the door, drinking a soda. Matas sprang up to his feet eagerly as soon as they made eye contact, and walked toward them.

“Hello, Hello! I am Matas. Please sit down. This is my Grandfather Carolus. He is a very hard worker. Maybe you have a job for him too, yes?”

“Perhaps. I need you to answer a few question about your previous job first.”

“OK, OK, no problem… We do paint for the church, we wash windows, we unpack crates of cans and boxes for supermarket, we weed alleys in Public Park, we help move things, we do anything. We learn fast, no problem.”

“Tell me about your very last job.”

“Oh. Sorry. Lastly we move paintings for Gallery exposition. Beautiful paintings, we take great care. We stand up on side with blanket around, and strapped to van side, so it not move at all. Pick up in Pratt Art School, we bring to Gallery storage in Queens. Bryce Kindall the owner. Very easy for us. He speaks Lithuanian very well.”

“But not a Lithuanian?” asked Brian.

The grandfather was saying something to Matas. “No. Grandson? My grandfather says educated, old fashioned Lithuanian from before war.”

The grandfather added a sentence finishing with something that sounded like ‘Zydu’.

“My grandfather says a Jew.”

Jason asked, “How can he know that?”

Matas spoke quickly to his grandfather and translated his response. “He said Mr. Kindall used a few Yiddish words. My grandfather knows a little Yiddish, he used to Shabbos goy for a rich family in Vilna.”

“Can you describe him?”

Matas suddenly grew suspicious. “Why? You do not have job! You want to speak about Mr. Kindall. Why?”

Brian smiled at him. “I do have a job, on Friday the twenty-sixth, to help with a big party in a fancy house, starting at 3:00PM until 3:00AM. Long night. Pays $250.00 dollars. Each.”

“250 dollars! We take job! Yes, we take.” He spoke quickly to his grandfather, who smiled a nicotine stained smile, nodding vigorously.

“Very well. Here is the address, and a phone number for directions and if you have questions. Before you go you have to shower and make sure your nails are very clean. The rules about that are very strict.” He looked at Matas’ hand. His nails were short and perfectly white. Aside from the nicotine stain, so were his grandfather’s.

“Your grandfather won’t be able to smoke as he works.”

Matas translated for his grandfather and they both laughed at his grandfather’s response. Smiling, Matas translated, “For $250.00, he’ll stop smoking altogether…”

“Now. Will you be kind enough to describe Mr. Kindall for me?”

“Short, young, like 25, well dressed in suit, blond not too curled hair to under ears, friendly smile. We drive to warehouse, not unload. Just park. He waits in front. He pays us, and gives subway token, and says OK, leave. We go. That’s all.”

The description did not sound like anyone he knew, but maybe Justin would have a clue.

“You left a note in the closet. Did you know what it was?”

“Mr. Kindall say to leave the receipt in closet for painter. Why do you ask all the questions about Mr. Kindall?”

Jason pulled out a copy of Revolutionart cover from seven years prior, showing a smiling man in front of the Bryce Kindall gallery, with the byline of ‘New and exciting gallery opening this month.’

“This is Bryce Kindall, Mr. Mostiet. Is that the man you met?”

Bryce Kindall was in his forties in the picture, completely bald and wearing fancy rectangular glasses, a black turtleneck and rust colored trousers. You could tell he was easily 6’ tall or more. Matas looked confused. He spoke rapidly to his grandfather who looked at the picture closely and immediately became extremely agitated, saying things rapidly to his grandson.

“My grandfather says we stole the paintings for the man who said he is Kindall, we going to be deported! Oh, my God! We not know, I swear! We don’t steal! We honest people”

“Matas, Matas, calm yourself. I know all that. I gave you a job, didn’t I? You will not be deported. The police don’t know. We will find the paintings. It’s going to be all right.”

Matas translated for his grandfather who hid his face in his hands for a moment and said, in a gravely voice with a terrible accent, “You need, ask, Carolus help, yes?”

Brian smiled. “Thank you very much, Matas, Carolus. We will see you on the 26th, and I will call you if I need more help.”

“Yes. The 26th. We are sorry for your paintings. They are…more bigger word than beautiful, you know?”

“I am not the artist. My boyfriend is. I think his paintings are more than beautiful as well.”

Matas frowned for an instant, probably making sure he had heard right. “Boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“You say him, the paintings talk to heart. My grandfather talks all the time about paintings. Say we are very, very sorry.”

“I will.”

Back in the Porsche, Jason asked, “Now what?”

“Now we go to my loft, have a drink, and think."

To be continued...