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Callie gave him a confused look. "But you said the art down here isn't valuable or important."
"It's not."
He turned and strode back into the house.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, following him inside.
"Is there a basement?"
"I don't believe so."
He walked through the kitchen, the laundry room, back into the garage, looking for any entry point to a basement, but he couldn't find anything.
"Where did Arthur spend his time the weekend you were here?" he asked Callie, who had been dogging his steps.
"He was all over—the living room, the patio, his bedroom, the den. Oh, and he sometimes took calls in the bedroom at the end of the hall. He said he got better reception in there."
Flynn jogged quickly down the hall, following his gut like a dog sniffing out drugs. There was something about this house that had been important to Arthur, and his raving about the humidity level made him think the paintings they were looking for were somewhere in the home.
Entering the guest room that Callie had pointed out, he went straight to the closet. There were men's clothes hanging on the rails.
"I'm surprised Arthur kept clothes in this bedroom," Callie murmured. "He always called it the guest room."
"Did anyone sleep in here the weekend you were here?"
"No. We were all upstairs."
He shoved the clothes to one side and looked at a piece of decorative brick tile along the back wall of the closet.Why the hell would anyone tile the back wall of a closet?As he pressed his fingers along the tiles, something clicked, and a door in the wall suddenly swung open.
"Oh, my God," Callie murmured, peering over his shoulder. "There's a door."
"And stairs." He moved forward using the light on his phone to see the steps. When he got to the bottom, he saw a light switch and flipped it on.
His heart skipped a beat as Callie gasped in shock.
He'd expected to find a few paintings stashed away, but Arthur had set up what looked like his own private gallery. There were paintings on every wall, with individual lights over them, and in the middle of the room was a round dais upon which one could sit and view the paintings from any angle.
"It's like a museum," she murmured.
"Arthur's own private art world," he said, moving over to the first painting. "This is the Vega." He matched the photograph in his hand to the art on the wall. "And the one over there is a Monet. They're all here—all six of them, all stolen." A knot formed in his throat as his worst fears came true. Just like his father, Arthur was not the man he'd appeared to be. He'd stood for what was right, what was just. He'd punished people for breaking the law. He'd taken righteous delight in sentencing them for their crimes when he was a criminal, too.What a hypocrite.
"I'm sorry, Flynn." Callie put a hand on his arm, her eyes filled with understanding and emotion.
"What are you sorry about? You didn’t know this was here."
"I'm sorry he disappointed you."
"I should be used to it," he said harshly.
"You never get used to being disappointed by the people you love."
"Who did I love, Callie? Arthur was just an illusion."
He walked away from her, because her kindness was almost too much. As he moved around the room, he saw a large open crate leaning against the wall and inside were two paintings that had yet to be hung. One was by Gerard Bissette.Was it stolen, too?He was still thinking about that when he looked at the other smaller oil painting. The sight of it stole what was left of the breath in his chest.
"My God," he murmured, pulling out the painting of what appeared to be a beautiful flower, but he knew better. "Damn. Now I know why Arthur got spooked."
"Why?" Callie asked in confusion.