Who Are You? (9780307823533) (6 page)

He shoots into a driveway, disappearing toward the back of the house, but he’s not fast enough. I get a good look at the make of his car and his license plate and memorize the numbers and letters.

He doesn’t follow me the rest of the way to my house. He doesn’t have to. I think about the photographs taken of me on our front lawn. He knows where I live.

I call a quick hello to my parents, who are both working with tax forms on the computers in the backup office they keep at home.

“Hello, honey,” Mom calls. She leaves her work and comes to greet me. Her hug is tight, and I feel a pang of guilt as I realize that she has worried about me. I steel myself to explain what I did, but she doesn’t ask. “I know you had to see Lindy,” she says quietly. “It’s all right, Kristi.”

I give Mom an extra hug. Sometimes we don’t need to say the words to know how much we’re loved.

She smiles at me and says, “I’ll finish this form within half an hour … or thereabouts.”

I laugh as she leaves. I’ve known those “thereabouts” to stretch over a long period. I wonder what Mom has learned from her client Edna. I’ll ask later. There’s something I have to do first.

I find Detective Jerry Balker’s business card in my wallet and use the extension phone in my bedroom to call his number.

“Homicide. Al Wilson,” a deep voice answers.

“May I please speak to Sergeant Balker?” I ask.

“Jerry’s not here right now. Do you want to leave a message for him?”

I could ask for Sergeant Nims. No. It takes only a split second to decide. “Yes, I’ll leave a message. Thanks.” I tell him my name and about being followed and give him the license plate number. “When will Sergeant Balker be back?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “I’ll give him the message.”

I start to ask something else, but he’s already hung up the phone.

On Sunday evenings we have what Mom calls a “pickup supper.” Tonight there are slices of ham and “lite” Swiss cheese, sliced tomatoes and fat dill pickles, and quart cartons of potato salad and coleslaw. Mom and Dad will take the leftovers to work tomorrow for lunch. At dinnertime we relax and talk as much as eat.

But tonight, while we eat, there are no corny
jokes from Dad. Mom tells us that her client Edna knew about Douglas Merson. He is a very wealthy man who travels a lot, mostly to Europe. His wealthy friends fly into Houston in their private jets for his parties. I can tell from Mom’s tone of voice that Edna was suitably impressed.

Hoping with all my heart that Edna knew all the answers, I ask Mom, “What does Mr. Merson do for a living?”

“Edna thinks he’s in financial investments.”

I sag with relief. “Oh. Then he’s a broker.”

“No,” Mom answers. “Edna said he’s probably living on the profits from investments he’s made, because he doesn’t seem to have or need a regular job.” I can hear the echo of Edna’s attitude in Mom’s voice again.

Dad looks up from his plate. He brushes a thin wisp of dark hair from his forehead. “From what she said about the amount of travel he does, they’d have to have been darned good investments.”

My fingers feel numb and clumsy, and I drop my fork. Carrying it to the sink and getting a clean one gives me time to get my feelings under control. Should I tell Mom and Dad about the suspicions of Mrs. Carmody’s maid? No. They’re worried enough already. If they think a drug dealer has an interest in their daughter they’ll be terrified.

I realize that Mom has stopped eating and is taking a good, hard look at me. She suddenly asks, “Kristi, you’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”

I stammer the first thing that comes to the surface,
surprising myself. Maybe it’s been lurking in my brain from the beginning, hoping I’d discover it. “The police said that Mr. Merson was robbed of his watch, so they’re thinking this was a random robbery that turned into attempted murder.”

Dad has put down his fork, and he’s studying me too. I take a deep breath to steady myself and let the rest of the thought pour out. “But I was wondering, why didn’t the robber go into the house? Mr. Merson has—I mean, since he’s so rich, he
must
have—a lot of valuable things in his house. He was home alone, and the door was open. All the thief had to do was run inside, grab what he could, and get away fast. But he didn’t. Why not?”

Mom sighs. “Honey, how can any of us know what a criminal is thinking? Please don’t dwell on the crime. It’s depressing.”

“I can’t help wondering.”

Mom reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Sometimes I worry that you’re too quick to let your imagination take over. Please, please, stop thinking about that crime. Fill your mind with something pleasant. Will you?”

Both Mom and Dad are looking at me with such pleading in their eyes that I nod. “I’ll try,” I tell them.

Dad begins talking to Mom about investments in relation to taxes. I tune out. I made a promise, so I’ll try to keep it. I stop thinking about the robbery and shooting and think instead about the black Ford sedan that followed me home. I tried to get a look at the driver, but I couldn’t. There was a glare
of sunlight on the windows, and I could make out only one shadowlike blur inside the car. One driver and no passengers. For some reason I got the impression that the driver was a man.

I don’t know why I was being followed. The idea terrifies me.

“Have you got all your homework done, Kristi?” Mom asks. She opens the refrigerator door and puts the cartons of leftover salad inside.

I awake to reality and see that I’m clearing the plates from the table. Have I eaten? I must have. “Uh—homework?” I answer. “Sure. I’ve finished it.” I take a deep breath, grip the edge of the counter for support, and say, “Mom, about that application for the summer art program Ms. Montero gave me for you and Dad to sign—”

“Oh, honey, I don’t want to get into that again,” Mom says.

“But I need to—”

“That art school is expensive. I wouldn’t mind the expense if it would lead you into something practical. But it will just make you more sure of your crazy idea that you want to major in art in college. When you go to college you’ll need to major in a subject that will put you into a job with a good salary. Like business, or accounting. I don’t understand why you can’t take a fair look at accounting. Didn’t you understand anything your father and I tried to explain to you?”

Mom’s eyes are tired, and her face sags with exhaustion. I know that the news we got about Mr. Merson’s folder frightened her, and she’s worried about me. I shouldn’t have brought up the application
again. I realize that. For once, I don’t argue. I gulp down the lump of disappointment that tightens my throat and turn back to the sink, scraping the plates and putting them into the dishwasher.

Into my mind comes the picture of Mr. Merson, his head wrapped in bandages, his eyes closed and still. Mom and Dad will be mad at me if they learn I went to see him. But I need to know.
Who are you?
I silently ask, even though no one can answer.

I have art appreciation class first period, which is the perfect time for it. In the early morning my mind is open, clear, and fresh. It’s not cluttered with math problems, and history dates, and gossip, and even zapping thoughts about Jonathan Stockton, who is a really terrific guy in my art class and who so far has paid almost no attention to me.

Ms. Montero takes roll. Then she asks, “How many of you noticed the item in the
Chronicle
this morning about the painting, worth over a million dollars, that was stolen from the Louvre Museum in Paris?”

Only two hands go up. Neither of them are mine. The only way I’d have time to read the newspaper before school is if I got up half an hour early. There’s no way I’m going to do that.

“How could someone steal a valuable painting from a big museum like the Louvre?” someone asks. “They have guards and security, don’t they?”

“Apparently not enough,” Ms. Montero tells us. “Theft is a huge problem at every museum. Even
with electronic alarms and armed guards, thieves consistently manage to make away with priceless pieces of art.”

Jonathan speaks up. “I don’t get it. What kind of market is there for stolen museum art? It’s so high profile everyone would recognize it and know where it had come from. The thieves would be arrested if they tried to sell it, wouldn’t they?”

Jonathan’s voice is low and smooth and is just right for him because he’s tall and slender and moves quietly. I’ve drawn sketches of Jonathan, which he doesn’t know about. Even if he someday asks me out … even if he someday falls madly in love with me … I’ll never show him the sketches. They’re a secret part of my life where no one else is allowed to go.

“That’s a good question, Jonathan,” Ms. Montero says. “Unfortunately, there’s a large market for expensive masters made up of certain unscrupulous private collectors. Some art thefts, in which a collector wants a particular painting, are even committed on order.”

Beth Smith gasps. “You mean a painting that hangs in a museum for hundreds of thousands of people to see and enjoy can end up in someone’s house, hidden away?”

Ms. Montero nods.

Andy Wright screws up his face as he thinks. “With so many people watching, I can’t see how anyone can steal a painting from a museum.”

Ms. Montero sits on the edge of her desk, leaning forward. “According to the newspaper story, the
painting came from a room that doesn’t have television surveillance. The thief knew that the painting wasn’t monitored. Apparently no one else was in the room when he removed the canvas on its stretchers from the back, leaving the frame and glass behind. The same thing happened in the Louvre on a busy Sunday in May 1998. With over thirty thousand people visiting the museum that day, a nineteenth-century landscape by Camille Corot,
The Sevres Road
, was taken in that very same way.”

“And nobody saw?”

“Nobody saw.” She shakes her head. “Let me tell you about another theft that took place at the Louvre back in 1911. Leonardo da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
was stolen.”

Some of the kids gasp, and I say, “But they got it back, didn’t they? It’s hanging there now.”

Ms. Montero smiles. “I’ll tell you what happened. A group of art forgers found six American collectors who had no ethics or principles. They told each of them, individually, that they were going to steal the
Mona Lisa
and offered it for three hundred thousand dollars, which was a great deal of money at that time.”

“It’s a great deal of money right now,” Jonathan says under his breath.

I grin to let him know I enjoyed his joke, but he doesn’t look in my direction.

“The forgers made six copies of the
Mona Lisa
,” Ms. Montero says. “Then they—”

“How?” Beth asks. “How did they copy it?”

“At that time painters were allowed to set up their easels right in the museum so they could work. Many artists learn by copying the masters. This method of study has been practiced for centuries.” She pauses, then explains, “Artists are still allowed to copy paintings in museums. However, because of so much forgery in the art field, most museums in Europe no longer allow artists to make copies the same size as the original.”

“Do they have that rule in the United States?” Beth interrupts.

“I’m afraid not,” Ms. Montero says.

I speak up. “But people could recognize a forgery, couldn’t they? New canvas and paint. You told us once that some paints weren’t in existence until the mid-eighteen hundreds, like zinc white. Before that time, they used lead white.”

“That’s correct,” Ms. Montero answers. “Tests can be made of the paint. But many forgers buy old paintings just to get the canvases and stretchers. They remove the paintings or paint over them.”

She pauses. When no one asks another question, she says, “Now, to go on with my story … a thief named Vincenzo Peruggia and two of his associates entered the Louvre on a busy Sunday afternoon and hid in a storage closet.

“The museum was closed for cleaning on Mondays, so the next morning they dressed in workmen’s clothes and joined the other workers. On Mondays paintings were occasionally photographed in a special room of the museum, so no one questioned the thieves when they wrapped the painting
in a cloth and took it out of the room. They left by a side door that was unguarded, and the theft wasn’t discovered until the next day. The six forged paintings had already gone through U.S. customs, and they were soon delivered and paid for. Each of the collectors thought he had received the original
Mona Lisa
.”