Fall from Grace (16 page)

“I JUST WANT
to know one thing,” the assistant district attorney said, flipping through the papers in the manila folder on his desk. “What were you thinking?”

It was a good question. It was the same thing his parents wanted to know, the same question Zoë had asked the one time she had answered her phone. And it was the same question he'd been asking himself since he was facedown on the cold, hard ground, hands out to his sides where they could see them.

He had had a lot of time to think of an answer.

The hour he had sat alone in the back of the police cruiser at the art museum.

The three hours on that bench, next to the Black Friday shoplifters.

Standing against the gray wall for the mug shots.

Wiping the black fingerprint ink off his hands.

Waiting for the judge to read the charges.

Waiting in line to call his parents.

The hours and hours and hours sitting in his room at home, sitting at the attorney's office, sitting at the kitchen table as his parents talked and yelled and cried.

He had had a lot of time—and they had a lot of questions—but no one in the room expected him to have any answers. Not the ADA, not his attorney, not his parents.

Thing was, he had a good answer for every question they asked.

Why did he open the doors, why did he pour soap on the floor, why did he cut down the photograph, why did he put his whole future at risk.

And he had good answers for the questions they
didn't
ask, too.

Why did he help her steal the Model UN treaty, why did he cheat on the precalc test, why did he agree to drive her to the library that night when he knew she was going
to steal a painting, why did he help cover up the crime by kissing her when the police car drove by, why would he want to hang around with that girl in the first place.

So yeah, he had answers, but they would only make everything worse.

“I assume, Ms. Dixon, that you've gone over all this with your client?”

“We have. And thanks again for allowing the parents to sit in today.”

“No problem. As long as they understand that he's an adult and he'll be charged as such.” Then he looked past Sawyer and said, “I'm sure that this is a difficult time for you.”

Sawyer was tempted to turn around and look at his parents, but he didn't know if that was allowed, and he knew that if he did, somebody would start crying again.

“So, Sawyer,” the ADA said, leaning back in his chair. “You play basketball?”

Did he? Should he? Sawyer hesitated, glancing over at Ms. Dixon.

The ADA laughed. “It's not a trick question. I just want to be sure you know what I mean when I tell you that the case against you is a slam dunk.”

Behind him, Sawyer heard a sob.

“Uh, yes, sir. I know what that means.”

“Good. That'll make this a little easier for all of us. Let's go over some of the evidence. We've got video of you breaking in, you inside with your little friend—here's a couple screen shots to refresh your memory.”

Sawyer looked at the pictures for the hundredth time, Grace with her beret, him too stupid to pull down his ski mask. Not that it would have mattered. The printouts were grainy and overexposed. The clips from the video that they'd been showing on the news were better than these.

“We've got you coming out the door. Obviously. Oh, and you're the one that did that bit with the soap. You're lucky nobody got hurt. Or worse, knocked into one of those statues. We'd be having a different conversation if they had. We've got video of the guards falling on their butts,” he said, chuckling. “It was pretty clever of you.”

“Thanks,” Sawyer said, before his attorney's hand pressed against his forearm and he remembered to shut the hell up.

“Now we come to Miss Grace Sherman. How well do you know her?”

Sawyer looked to Ms. Dixon, and when she nodded
he said, “I guess not all that well.”

“See, that's another thing I don't understand. You've only known this girl, what, a couple of months? Less? Now, I can see if she asked you to give her a free ice cream or sneak her into the movies, but breaking into a museum?” He shook his head. “According to your attorney, you're not romantically involved with Miss Sherman, correct?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, we weren't going out.”

“How about physically?”

“Well, we went places together—”

“Were you having sex?”

“No, sir. It wasn't anything like that.”

The ADA shrugged. “Frankly, it would be easier to understand if it were. Anyway, about this first painting, the one you two stole from the Wood Library—”

“My client hasn't been charged in that case and he has nothing to say about it at this time.”

“Right, right, no problem. Sorry. We can talk about it later,” the ADA said, looking at a large color photocopy of
Moroccan Market
in the file. Somehow the paper copy made it look more expensive, like it
could
be worth millions.

“We found the painting hanging on the wall in Miss Sherman's room. Not like she was trying to hide it. The only thing on
any
of the walls in the whole house. You've been there, seen inside the place?”

Sawyer shook his head.

“How people can live like that, I don't know. Her room was different, but the rest of the house? Anyway, this painting. It's nice. Not my style, but there's something interesting about it.” He brought the paper up close to his face, then held it out at arm's length before handing it to Sawyer. “Here, your eyes are better than mine. See if you can make out the artist's name on the frame.”

Sawyer studied the picture, taking the time to read the small brass nameplate even though he knew what it said. “It looks like G. Ravlin.”

“Yeah, that's it, G. Ravlin,” the ADA said, then he looked straight at Sawyer. “
Grace
Ravlin.”

It took a second, but the ADA got the reaction he was expecting, Sawyer's eyes going wide, his mouth dropping open.

“Heck of a coincidence, don't you think? I mean, Grace is not exactly a common name. Maybe it was in 1917 when that was painted, but now?” He went back to flipping through the folder. “I'd bet the odds of
somebody named Grace
stealing
a painting by an artist named Grace—totally at random, without knowing in advance the name of the artist—well, I'd bet they'd be pretty darn low, don't you think?”

Sawyer knew that he was the one who had spotted the painting, that he had pointed it out to Grace. But then she was the one who had insisted that they drive twenty miles out of town to go to that library, that they work in that room, at that table, arranging it so that he sat in the one chair that would put
Moroccan Market
where he couldn't miss it.

The ADA flipped more pages, stopping now and then to read something he didn't share. “Grace Ravlin. Grace Sherman. That's a nice coincidence. Oh, and here's another one you might find interesting. It involves that photograph you stole—I'm sorry, you've been
charged
with stealing. Here's a photocopy of it from an art book the museum loaned us. Remind you of anybody?”

Of course it did. He had noticed it the first time he saw it—same kind of hat, same short haircut, same backlit eyes, that same knowing smile that was in her mug shot.

“The resemblance is uncanny. Not so much in the newspaper, but in person you can't miss it. That's probably what she'll look like in a few years. Very pretty.
According to the museum, it's a self-portrait of the artist. Any guess on the artist's first name?”

“Grace?”

“That would be something, wouldn't it? Both works of art created by someone named Grace,
stolen
by a girl named Grace? That's the kind of coincidence that makes you realize it's no coincidence. But that's not the case here. Nope, the artist's name is not Grace. It's Cindy,” the ADA said, smiling at Sawyer. He paused, sharpened his smile. “Cindy
Sherman
.”

The ADA had telegraphed it, swinging in wide like a roundhouse punch you saw coming but couldn't duck, and when it hit, Sawyer didn't move, didn't react, but his ears were ringing and his head felt numb.

“Let's recap, shall we? We have a stolen painting by
Grace
Ravlin, recovered in the bedroom of
Grace
Sherman, the same Grace
Sherman
who goes on to steal a photograph by Cindy
Sherman
.” He slapped shut the folder and leaned in. “Sawyer, in my business, I've learned that there's no such thing as a coincidence.”

The bottom of his stomach dropped out next, then his left leg started bouncing in time with his racing pulse. The ADA opened another folder. Sawyer saw his
own name typed out on the tab.

“As I'm sure you and your parents recall, some police officers stopped by your house that Friday afternoon with a search warrant. They didn't find anything there that looked suspicious. Good for you. But your phone records and these texts”—he shook his head as he scanned a list of dates and phone numbers, every word of his text messages printed in sequence—“these won't help your cause.”

He picked up a second folder, this one thick and worn, notes written on the outside and forms stapled to the back. A white sticker on the tab read
SHERMAN
,
GRACE
.

“The officers also searched Miss Sherman's home. Let's see. The painting you already know about. This other stuff.” He raised an eyebrow but kept reading. “Information on the Wood Library, on the art gallery, bios on the artists, hand-drawn maps and floor plans. Quite detailed. Impressive. Lots of books. Here's a whole box of electronic gear, spy cameras. Celebrity magazines,
hundreds
of those. And best of all—what will probably be my Exhibit A—step-by-step detailed plans for both burglaries.”

Grace's voice whispered in his head.
Don't mock my
methods. Planning's the best part.

The ADA skimmed down a lined sheet of paper with block paragraphs written in tight cursive. “Sawyer, do you know a Vicki Alva?”

Sawyer thought for a second, then shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Grace never mentioned her? Never brought up her name? Interesting.” He read some more, then slipped the paper back in the folder. “This Vicki Alva, she's a long-distance flight attendant with United. Lives in an apartment on the west side, a small complex, eight units, back behind an old strip mall. We found her work schedule on Miss Sherman's computer. And we also found a key that fits the apartment. No idea how she got ahold of that. Anyway, the flight attendant is pretty upset, as you can imagine. Last week she found a diet cream soda in the fridge and she
knew
she didn't put it there. But she also says that nothing appears to be missing.”

I gave her my word I'd be good.

“I'm sure there's a connection and we'll find it,” the ADA said, fanning pages of the folder. “But what we don't have, Sawyer, is any connection to you. We've been through it all, the notebooks, the computer files.
You're not mentioned once. Not even hinted at. And we haven't found your fingerprints on anything we checked. Frankly, I don't think we will.”

I would never rat you out. That's not my style.

“So you're admitting you don't have a case against my client.”

“Nice try, Ms. Dixon. No, we have a great case. But that doesn't mean that I'm happy about it.” The ADA leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands on his desk and looking right at Sawyer as he spoke. “I think you were used by a very clever, very resourceful young lady who got you to do what she wanted you to do. It was all part of her plan. Your attorney says you've only known Miss Sherman for a couple of months. Ask yourself, how did you two meet, what did she do to win your trust? You said it wasn't sexual. Fine. But somehow—and in a very short time—she got you to commit—”

“Allegedly commit.”

“—a serious crime. Think about it, Sawyer. During that time, did she ever just
bump into
you somewhere? You think that was by chance? And those
casual conversations
you probably had? Trust me, son, there was nothing casual about them.”

Yes, there was. Sawyer knew it, felt it deep where his heart used to be, as sure of it as he was of anything. But they would never understand and he would never be able to explain it since he couldn't explain it to himself.

“And I believe that if it wasn't you, it would have been somebody else. You were just a guy she needed to help commit these crimes. Who knows, she could have tried that act on a dozen guys, looking for the one she could play. And I'm sure that if you had said no, I'd be sitting here going through the same folder with some other guy.”

No, he was wrong. It couldn't have been that way. There would have been no other guy. It would have been just Grace, the way she always wanted it, the way she planned it.

“You're a smart kid, Sawyer.”

Wrong kind of smart.

“Honor roll every quarter.”

Wrong kind of honor.

“Planning to go to Wembly in the fall.”

Wrong plan.

“And she used you, and took it all away.”

“I assume there's a purpose behind this buildup,” Ms. Dixon said, her tone—polite, bored—making it clear what she thought of the speech.

The ADA folded his hands on his desk. “Miss Sherman isn't talking. Hasn't said one word about the painting in her room or how it got there, or said anything about the art museum or Sawyer's role in any of this. Not a word. Yet. But she will.”

Sawyer smiled at that.

“This is not her first run-in with the legal system. I can't get into details since much of it occurred when she was a juvenile and those records are sealed, but suffice it to say that we're familiar with Miss Sherman. And her family.” He turned and looked at Ms. Dixon, his tone changing. “There are other pending cases involving various members of the Sherman family, and while it's certainly not essential, it would be
helpful
to have additional weight to bring to bear on those cases.”