Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) Read Online Free PDF

gallery—the North Salon, the South, the men’s room—I lapped the damn building in a haze of confusion. I didn’t want to panic. There was a reasonable, plausible explanation for this. There had to be.
    I dove into my office, the spindly desk naked except for the few business cards some of the guests had left and a neat stack of invoices written in Peter’s elegant hand. No words uncovering the fate of JT. Only notes on which heads went where, how they were paid for, and what time to deliver. Donald Trump, Derek Jeter, the Bloomberg, Rudy, Riley Albright, Howard Stern…all of them sold and accounted for. I tossed the notes in a pile and hyperventilated for ten seconds.
    That head was worth fifteen thousand dollars.
    Then I put the brakes on useless thinking and got pissed. I took the stairs two at a time and knocked into Shep.
    “Hey. Slow down, man. I’m unwell.”
    “What the fuck did you do last night?”
    He held his toga closed with his fist and grumbled, “I don’t know. I thought we covered this ground already. Let’s move on.”
    “Justin Timberlake is gone, genius, and you had a piece of him on your dick.”
    He struggled to make sense of that. “The watch? It was part of one of those statue things?”
    “Yes, it was part of one of those statue things,” I mimicked. “Did you break it? Obviously you did.”
    “I…” He hung his head in his hands. Was that true remorse or was he channeling Othello? “Can I get a drink of water?”
    No. It was self-absorption. “Where is it? That thing is worth fifteen thousand dollars.”
    His head popped back up, his disbelief plain. “You can’t be serious. Jean’s stuff is that pricey? No way. Go Jean Luc.”
    “Where is it?”
    “I don’t know. Stop screaming. It’s like nails on a blackboard, Caesar. Mellow out, man.”
    Hard-pressed not to shove him down the stairs, I bit my jaw so tightly my teeth were creaking. I clomped back to my office to check the messages for the gallery. No text messages. I scrolled the gallery email on my cell and grappled with the facts. Could someone have paid cash and…brought it home in their own car? Oh dear God. But Peter would have said. He’d have left a note right on my desk. Maybe the sculpture was with him? On its way to New Mexico? He was drunk last night, he could have done anything. I’d have to wait for Peter.
    I stared out the tiny window facing the back alley, considering my options, which boiled down were: A) call the cops or B) call for Peter.
    If I called the police, well that could be free publicity for the gallery, and after last night, we’d make every blog on the east coast—but Peter would flip, and we’d lose our credibility. Peter would want me to speak with him first. No question.
    I drummed my fingers on the desk.
    You know, I wasn’t really the one responsible for the loss of Justin Timberlake. I could relax because none of this was my fault. I would have set the goddamn alarm. I could just point a finger at my boss, quit this place, and go work for the very lovely (and better paying) Mallory Albright. She’d take me under her wing. She might even allow me to occasionally have some creative input. Something other than dealing with overworked caterers and the fine-art transport guys from Long Island City—Peter could crate his own art and serve his own food. I’d be finally using my ninety thousand dollar education.
    But Poppy’s catering company would pay the price if indeed Shep had been fucked and then robbed by one of her staff. I couldn’t do that to Poppy.
    Outside my window, all was bright and shiny, though trash overflowed the small dumpster. Some insane impulse seized me. Maybe…maybe Shep and his new friend had broken JT and he was in the trash. I could fix it. Little hot glue, little floral wire, and no one would be the wiser. Dick Blick was only a few blocks away—art supplies just around the corner. How difficult could it be?
    I unlatched the hardware keeping the back