CHAPTER 4: THREE MINUTES TO ASH
Two minutes and fifty-four seconds.
That was how long the museum gave us before the conservation wing sealed itself and released enough inert gas to suffocate anyone inside.
It was a system designed to save irreplaceable art from fire.
According to Eleanor Hawthorne, it had also been designed to erase evidence.
Adrian was already moving.
“Lieutenant Kim, isolate the wing. Override the purge.”
“I’m locked out.”
“Use master command.”
“Rejected.”
“External operations?”
“No response. The purge controller is running on a separate hardline.”
The countdown dropped.
02:41.
Four officers reached the east corridor.
Eleanor shouted from the balcony.
“Do not open the red door!”
Adrian ignored her.
I did not.
“Why?” I called.
“Pressure seal,” she said. “Once opened, the system expands the purge zone to the adjacent galleries.”
“How far?”
“The east wing. Possibly the central hall.”
A wave of panic struck the crowd.
Guests pushed away from the corridor. Someone knocked over a display barrier. A woman fell. Her husband stepped around her instead of helping.
Grant moved with the crowd but kept his eyes on me.
He was searching for an opening.
I pointed at him.
“Officer, keep Mr. Holloway in sight.”
A response officer shifted closer.
Grant smiled.
“Still obsessed with me.”
“You assaulted me, entered with stolen credentials, and knew more about the missing lot than you admitted.”
“I said I never saw it.”
“You also said we barely knew each other.”
“I said everyone knows the Vales.”
“You are losing track of your lies.”
His smile thinned.
The countdown reached 02:19.
Adrian came back from the east corridor.
“The red door is locked from inside.”
“Thermal?”
“One person moving deeper into conservation.”
“Could be Martin’s attacker,” Elaine said.
“Or someone trying to stop them,” Adrian replied.
I looked up at Eleanor.
“What is behind the door?”
She did not answer.
“Eleanor.”
Her pale eyes remained fixed on the countdown.
“Records,” she said finally.
“What records?”
“Objects never entered into the public catalog. Donations from families who required discretion. Transfers made during wars. Private acquisitions from governments that no longer exist.”
“Stolen art,” Elaine said.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened.
“History is often acquired before it is documented.”
“People use the same excuse for graves.”
Eleanor looked at her.
“You are not Beaumont counsel.”
Elaine did not deny it.
Grant noticed.
So did Helena.
“What are you?” Helena asked.
Elaine removed the gold band from her right hand.
Inside it, a tiny federal seal caught the light.
“Special Agent Elaine Frost. Cultural Property and Financial Crimes Task Force.”
The reaction was immediate.
Three guests stepped backward.
Peter Sloan sat down hard on a marble bench.
Senator Harrow said, “This is federal jurisdiction?”
“It became federal jurisdiction before most of you arrived,” Elaine said.
Grant’s eyes narrowed.
“How long have you been investigating the museum?”
“I did not say I was investigating the museum.”
“You did not need to.”
The countdown reached 01:48.
Adrian spoke into his receiver.
“Bring mechanical breach tools.”
Eleanor struck the railing with her cane.
“If you breach that door, the purge expands.”
“If we do nothing, the person inside dies and the archive is destroyed.”
“Some archives should be destroyed.”
“Is V-9 in there?” I asked.
Eleanor’s gaze snapped to mine.
That was answer enough.
I started toward the east corridor.
Adrian blocked me.
“No.”
“This building belongs to my family.”
“This wing was built before your family acquired it.”
“Then I need someone who knows it.”
I looked at Helena.
She had already taken off her heels.
“Mother,” she called, “what is the manual bypass?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Mother!”
“Gallery Four,” she said. “Behind the Saint Sebastian panel. There is a brass wheel.”
Helena moved.
I went with her.
Adrian swore under his breath and followed.
Elaine joined us.
Behind, the officers formed a barrier to keep the crowd from spilling into the corridor.
Grant shouted, “Mara!”
I did not turn.
“You are running toward the place someone wants you dead.”
His tone was almost amused.
I looked over my shoulder.
“Then you should be disappointed I’m not taking you with me.”
The east gallery was colder than the auction hall.
Climate-controlled air moved across rows of Renaissance paintings and medieval reliquaries. Red emergency lights pulsed along the floor. At the far end, a steel door stood beneath a painted sign: AUTHORIZED CONSERVATION STAFF ONLY.
01:14.
Helena led us into Gallery Four.
“Saint Sebastian,” she said, scanning the walls.
There were three.
One by a Florentine workshop. One Spanish. One anonymous panel from the sixteenth century.
“Which one?” Adrian asked.
“My mother did not say.”
I looked at the frames.
The Florentine painting had been moved recently; the floor beneath it showed clean marks. The Spanish panel carried fresh screws. The anonymous work hung slightly crooked.
“Third,” I said.
Adrian and Elaine lifted it from the wall.
Behind it was a brass wheel set into the stone.
00:52.
Helena grabbed it.
It did not move.
Adrian joined her.
The wheel resisted.
“Clockwise?” Elaine asked.
“Manual systems usually close clockwise,” Adrian said. “Open counterclockwise.”
They pulled.
Nothing.
00:39.
I saw a narrow key slot at the wheel’s center.
“It needs a key.”
Helena searched the recess.
“No key.”
My mind went to the missing miniature.
Bog-oak frame.
Three inches tall.
A portrait small enough to conceal something.
“Lot 117 is the key,” I said.
00:27.
Adrian stared at the countdown.
“We don’t have it.”
“But the person inside does.”
I ran to the red door.
He caught my arm.
“Mara.”
“If they are carrying the portrait, they can stop the purge.”
“They may have started it.”
“Then they already know how.”
I struck the door with both palms.
“Listen to me! The portrait opens the bypass. Use it in the brass wheel behind Gallery Four.”
No answer.
00:15.
I hit the door again.
“Whoever you are, you will die in fifteen seconds.”
00:10.
A metallic sound came from the other side.
A lock turning.
Adrian pulled me back.
The red door opened three inches.
Cold air rushed through the gap.
A hand emerged.
Pale.
Blood on the fingers.
It held an oval miniature portrait in a black wooden frame.
Helena gasped.
The painted woman had dark hair, gray eyes, and a blue dress.
My mother’s face.
The hand released it.
I caught the portrait before it hit the floor.
The door slammed shut.
00:06.
I ran to the brass wheel.
At the bottom of the frame, hidden beneath the black wood, a narrow metal stem protruded.
A key.
I inserted it.
Turned.
The wheel unlocked.
Adrian and Helena spun it counterclockwise.
00:02.
00:01.
PURGE ABORTED.
The red lights stopped pulsing.
For a moment, none of us moved.
Then a heavy impact struck the other side of the conservation door.
Once.
Twice.
A body falling against it.
Adrian pulled the door open.
A woman collapsed into his arms.
She wore a catering uniform. Her hair was hidden beneath a black cap. Blood ran from a cut along her temple.
I recognized her as the server who had stood near the fountain with the champagne tray.
She looked at the portrait in my hands.
Then at me.
“Mara Vale?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled with terror.
“I tried to get it to you.”
“Who attacked Martin?”
Her lips trembled.
“The same person who poisoned your glass.”
The corridor seemed to narrow.
“I did not drink anything.”
“No,” she said. “But someone else did.”
A scream tore through the central gallery.
We ran back.
The crowd had opened around a man lying on the floor beside the fountain.
Senator Malcolm Harrow.
His pearl-covered wife knelt over him, sobbing.
Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth.
Beside his hand lay a shattered champagne flute.
On the rim was a clear print of silver lipstick.
The same shade I was wearing.
Grant stood above him.
He looked at the glass.
Then at my lips.
“You sealed us in with a killer,” he said.
And one by one, the guests began backing away from me.
