Page 18 of Disarming Caine

Lucy picked up her laptop from the coffee table in front of us and showed me a zoomed-in copy of the painting peeking out from behind the master bedroom’s door. “I. Am. A genius.”

“Clearly.” I took the laptop and scrutinized the photo. It was far clearer than on my phone and sharper than it had been at Rhonda’s. “How’d you find it?”

“Most real estate sites are pretty secure with their backends, but this one’s rudimentary. I ran through some details on the console and some code inspections.” She picked up her lunch, the scents of garlic and ginger wafting over me as she moved, and inhaled a forkful. She pointed at the browser’s address bar. “The last part of the URL is the filename:house_25_large.jpg. But if you look at the gallery—the master listing of all the photos—it jumps from twenty-four to twenty-six.”

“So, you… guessed?”

“Sort of. Numbers just sort of jump out at me. The first five sites I found were hashed values, but—”

“Hashed?”

“Secure.” She shook her head and took another bite, covering her mouth as she spoke. “Do you really care about the details?”

I zoomed in on the dark photo and nudged her with my foot. “I guess I’ll have to keep you around longer unless I want to learn all your tricks.”

“Guess so!”

“Don’t suppose you have any magic tool to make the door blocking out half the painting disappear?”

“No, but I can brighten it so you can see it better. Blow it up and look at that signature.” She shoveled another mass of food into her mouth, dropped her empty container to the table, and took the laptop back.

Programs opened and closed. She typed and scrolled around, muttering about a Belgian photographer’s studio her parents took her to once. Sure the story was more for herself than me, I set about cleaning up our lunch.

Butterflies danced in my stomach as her speech grew faster and faster. That usually indicated things were going well.

John Constable painted small and large pieces. Based on the photo, this one was roughly two feet high, but we didn’t know if it was landscape or portrait, so it could be wider or narrower than two feet.

If Lucy could sharpen the image enough, I might be able to do a visual search through a stolen art database or possibly submit it for an AI comparison. As excited as I was, it was still possible it was a print or a copy. But why would they chase Rhonda away, then take the photo down from the real estate listing if that was the case?

No, there was something going on here, and we were getting to the bottom of it. Then I could call Elliot and show him what I could do. He wanted me to come back to the FBI and work for him, but that would mean leaving Brenton—and Antonio.

I didn’t want that. I wanted both.

Solving the thefts from Pompeii should have been my opportunity to negotiate an agreement which could keep me in Brenton while working remotely as an FBI contractor. But I hadn’t achieved enough there.

Maybe if we could add this Constable theft—if it really was a Constable and it really was a theft—to my list of accomplishments, I could use it as a bargaining chip.

I disposed of the last of our meal and brought the plastic dessert container and two forks over to the couch. “Any progress?”

“Boom!” She exchanged the laptop for the sweets. “This pie is all mine.”

“Amazing.” I took her laptop to the dining table and placed it next to mine. Dark trees covered most of the visible canvas, a cloudy sky hanging above.

“Meh.” She dug into the cherry pie we’d picked up and moaned with her first bite. “Oh my god, Sam, this is awesome.”

“You can have my slice.” A river cut up from the bottom, disappearing behind the bedroom door. One figure next to… I zoomed in closer. Next to part of a wooden structure. A flash of red for the figure’s shirt, one of Constable’s hallmarks. Above his head, a bit of white? And some light brown? “It’s a windmill!”

She bounced from the couch to my side. “What’s a windmill?”

“Here.” I pointed to the base and then the blade, little more than slivers in the digital image. “The rest of it’s behind that door, but it gives me data for my search.”

“Sweet. You sure you don’t want this pie? The crust is beyond flaky. And there’s sugar crystals on the edges.”

I nodded, opening the FBI’s Stolen Art Database.

“Do you think they made this crust with butter, shortening, or lard?”

Two Constables in their database, one mentioning a windmill, but sadly no photograph of the paintings. Next: Interpol’s database.