A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 8
The Third Suspect
Felix left The Last Honest Man at 5:30 PM with a manila folder under his arm and a headache forming behind his left eye.
Helen Cho had refused to let him keep the original photographs—”Those are my insurance, young man, not yours”—but she had allowed him to take pictures of every document in the folder with his phone. He now had thirty-seven images saved in a secure folder, including the comparison shots of the Kaufmann pendant and the Greyfield Star, a photocopy of a 1952 bill of sale from Buenos Aires, and a handwritten letter from Ezra Greyfield to his eldest daughter that contained the telling line: “The provenance is complicated, but the piece is beautiful. Sometimes that must be enough.”
Sometimes that must be enough.
Felix had read that line seven times. Each time, it sounded less like a father reassuring his daughter and more like a man trying to convince himself.
He walked east on Maple Street, the folder pressed against his chest like a shield. The rain that had been threatening all afternoon had finally arrived—a light, persistent drizzle that beaded on his jacket and fogged his glasses. He didn’t have an umbrella. He never had an umbrella. He was the kind of person who accepted wetness as a fact of life, like taxes and voicemail.
His phone buzzed. He expected another text from his editor—the fourth one today, subject line “FELIX I AM NOT JOKING”—but instead, the screen showed a number he didn’t recognize.
He answered. “Felix Greer.”
“It’s Priya.” Her voice was thin, stretched tight like a wire about to snap. “I need to talk to you. Not on the phone. In person. Somewhere private.”
Felix stopped walking. He stepped into the doorway of a closed bookstore, out of the rain. “Where are you?”
“The museum. I just finished with the police. They didn’t arrest me, but they didn’t say I could leave town either. Detective Rivas took my passport. She said it was ‘routine.'”
“It’s not routine.”
“I know.” Priya’s voice cracked. “Felix, someone is trying to frame me. I didn’t steal that pendant. I didn’t know about the chicken bone. I didn’t write that note. But everyone is looking at me like I’m already guilty, and I don’t know what to do.”
Felix thought about Helen Cho’s folder. About the replica pendant. About the Kaufmann family and the Nazi officer and the bill of sale from Buenos Aires. He thought about the chicken bone and the ritual of kapparot and the weight of transferred sin.
He thought about whether he could trust Priya.
He didn’t have an answer. But he knew that the only way to find one was to talk to her.
“Where can we meet?” he asked. “Somewhere not connected to the museum.”
“There’s a diner on Fourth Street. The Blue Plate. It’s open twenty-four hours. No one from the museum goes there because the coffee is terrible and the waitress hates everyone.”
“I know it. Give me twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be in the back booth. The one under the neon sign that says EAT.”
The line went dead.
Felix looked at his phone. Then he looked at the rain. Then he started walking.
The Blue Plate Diner was exactly the kind of place Felix loved: linoleum floors, cracked vinyl booths, a pie case that contained exactly one slice of lemon meringue that had been there since the Clinton administration. The neon sign in the window buzzed like a disgruntled bee. The air smelled of coffee, bacon grease, and the particular despair of a restaurant that had given up on being clean and settled for being adequate.
Priya was in the back booth, exactly as promised. She had changed out of her museum clothes—the cardigan, the sensible flats—and was now wearing a gray hoodie and jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Without the museum badge and the professional demeanor, she looked younger. Twenty-two, maybe. Twenty-three. An age where being accused of a crime you didn’t commit felt not just terrifying but cosmically unfair.
Felix slid into the booth across from her. The waitress—a woman named Dottie who had been working at the Blue Plate since before Felix was born—appeared at his elbow with a pot of coffee.
“You want the usual?” Dottie asked.
“What’s the usual?” Priya said.
“Black coffee and resentment,” Felix said. “Yes, Dottie. The usual.”
Dottie poured. She looked at Priya. “You want something or you just here to cry?”
“Coffee,” Priya said. “Black.”
Dottie nodded, poured, and walked away. She had the unique talent of making hospitality feel like a threat.
Priya wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, as if it were the only warm thing in a cold world. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
“You asked.”
“I didn’t think you would. You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me.”
“That’s true,” Felix said. “But I also have no reason to distrust you. Not yet. So I’m here to listen.”
Priya took a breath. Then another. Then she said, “I know about the pendant. The real one. The Kaufmann pendant. Helen Cho told me before she left.”
Felix’s pulse quickened, but he kept his face neutral. “What did she tell you?”
“That the Greyfield Star is a replica. That the museum has been lying for twenty-six years. That Dr. Ashworth knew and covered it up. That Harrison Blaine probably knew too, because he was on the board when the pendant was donated.” Priya’s voice was low and fast, the words tumbling out like she was afraid she’d lose her nerve if she paused. “Helen showed me the photographs. The same photographs she showed you, I’m guessing. She told me that if I wanted to do the right thing—the ethical thing—I should go to the press. Expose the lie. Force the museum to acknowledge the truth about where the pendant really came from.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t. I’m a curatorial assistant. A junior person. If I went to the press, I’d be fired. Blacklisted. No museum would ever hire me again. Helen could afford to burn bridges—she was retiring anyway. I can’t.” Priya’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “So I sat on the information. I told myself that one day, when I had more seniority, more power, I would do something. But not now. Not yet.”
“And then the pendant was stolen.”
“And then the pendant was stolen.” Priya shook her head. “At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Someone broke in, took the pendant, left a weird calling card. It happens. Art theft is a real thing. But then I saw the chicken bone on the news, and I heard about the note—ask the narrator—and I realized that this wasn’t random. Someone knew about the replica. Someone knew about the lie. And they used the theft to expose it.”
“Or to cover it up,” Felix said.
Priya frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If the pendant is a replica, it’s not worth four million dollars. The insurance payout won’t happen. But if the pendant is destroyed—or if it disappears permanently—then no one can ever prove it was a fake. The museum can claim it was authentic. The insurance company might still pay out if there’s no evidence to the contrary. Harrison Blaine gets his four million dollars, and the truth about the pendant dies with the pendant.”
Priya stared at him. “You think Harrison Blaine stole his own museum’s pendant to commit insurance fraud and hide the fact that it was a fake?”
“I think Harrison Blaine is a man with financial problems and a lot to lose. I think he’s been on the board for thirty years. I think he had access to information about the pendant’s provenance that the public didn’t. And I think he’s loud and angry and theatrical, which is exactly how guilty people act when they’re trying to seem innocent.”
Priya was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “There’s something else I haven’t told anyone.”
Felix waited.
“The emergency override key,” Priya said. “The one in the safe deposit box at the bank. I saw it once. About six months ago.”
Felix leaned forward. “How?”
“Dr. Ashworth asked me to accompany her to the bank. She said she needed to update the box’s authorized access list. I was there as a witness—someone from the museum has to be present whenever the box is opened, and her usual witness was on vacation. She opened the box. I saw the key. It was in a small velvet pouch, with a tag attached. The tag said Cobalt Room – Emergency Override – Do Not Duplicate.”
“And you’re sure it was the key? You didn’t just see a pouch?”
“I saw the key. Dr. Ashworth took it out of the pouch to show me. She said, ‘This is the only copy. If anything happens to me, you’ll need to know where it is.’ She put it back in the pouch, put the pouch back in the box, and closed the lid.”
“Did anyone else know you were at the bank that day?”
Priya thought about it. “Dr. Ashworth told the board at the next meeting. She said the access list had been updated and the key was secure. Harrison Blaine was there. So was the museum’s lawyer at the time—some woman I didn’t know. And Davis. Davis was there because his father insisted.”
“Davis Blaine knew about the key?”
“He was in the room when Dr. Ashworth announced it. Whether he was paying attention, I don’t know. He’s usually on his phone during board meetings.”
Felix filed that away. Davis had claimed he didn’t know about the emergency key. Either he was lying, or he hadn’t been listening. Both were possible. Both were damning in different ways.
“Priya,” Felix said slowly, “did you ever tell anyone else about the key? Anyone at all?”
Priya’s face went pale. “I told my brother. He’s an artist. He thought the security system sounded ‘really cool.’ I didn’t think it was a big deal. He’s not a criminal. He’s a sculptor. He makes things out of scrap metal.”
“Did your brother tell anyone?”
“I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure. He has friends. He drinks. He talks.” Priya put her head in her hands. “Oh God. I’m going to go to jail because my brother has a big mouth.”
Felix reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist. Not romantically—reassuringly. “You’re not going to jail. Not yet. But you need to tell Detective Rivas about the key. About seeing it. About telling your brother. Everything.”
“She’ll think I’m involved.”
“She’ll think you’re honest. Honest people volunteer information even when it makes them look bad. Liars wait to get caught.” Felix withdrew his hand. “I’ll go with you if you want. But you have to tell her. Today. Before she finds out from someone else.”
Priya nodded slowly. “Okay. Today. But first—” she looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed but clear, “—I need to know if you believe me. Do you think I stole the pendant?”
Felix looked at her. At her trembling hands. At her tear-streaked face. At the genuine terror in her eyes.
“I think you’re scared,” he said. “I think you’re in over your head. And I think you’re telling me the truth about not stealing the pendant. But that doesn’t mean you’re not involved. Sometimes innocent people get caught in the middle of things they don’t understand. That might be where you are right now.”
“I don’t understand most of what’s happening.”
“Then let’s figure it out together.” Felix pulled out his phone and opened his list. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer them honestly. Don’t embellish. Don’t leave anything out. And if you lie to me, I’ll know. I’ve narrated four hundred chapters of people lying. You’re not as good at it as you think you are.”
Priya managed a weak smile. “That’s the most insulting reassurance I’ve ever received.”
“I try.”
He asked her about her relationship with Davis Blaine—she confirmed everything Davis had said, adding that she had tried to end it twice because she was afraid of how it would look if anyone found out. He asked her about Dr. Ashworth—Priya described her as “brilliant, intimidating, and deeply secretive.” He asked her about the museum’s financial situation—Priya confirmed that there had been whispers of trouble, but no one talked openly about it.
Then he asked her about the chicken bone.
“Do you know what kapparot is?” he said.
Priya blinked. “The Jewish ritual? With the chicken?”
“You know it.”
“My grandmother practiced it. Not the chicken-swinging part—she was a modern woman—but she told me about it. It’s about transferring sin. Purification. Starting over.”
“Does anyone else at the museum know about it?”
“I don’t know. Dr. Ashworth isn’t Jewish. Harrison Blaine definitely isn’t. Davis… I don’t think so. But Helen Cho would know. She knows everything.”
Felix nodded. He had already considered Helen Cho as a possible suspect—a retired librarian with a grudge against the museum, knowledge of the pendant’s true history, and access to the archives. But Helen Cho had come to him with the information. She had volunteered it. That wasn’t the behavior of someone trying to cover her tracks.
Unless she was playing a longer game.
“One last question,” Felix said. “The note. Ask the narrator. Do you have any idea who would write that?”
Priya hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. And I keep coming back to the same person.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Ashworth.” Priya’s voice was barely a whisper. “She’s the one who called you. She’s the one who wanted an outsider. She’s the one who knew you’d notice things the police wouldn’t. She’s been watching you for years, Felix. She listens to your audio guides in her office when she thinks no one is around. She once told me that your voice was ‘the only honest thing in this building.'”
Felix felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain.
“Dr. Ashworth,” he said slowly, “wrote the note asking for me. But did she write the note under the pedestal? The one that said ASK THE NARRATOR?”
Priya shook her head. “I don’t know. But if she did—if she’s been planning this—then she’s not the victim. She’s the architect.”
The waitress appeared with the coffee pot. “You two need anything else or you just gonna sit here looking miserable all night?”
“We’re fine,” Felix said.
“You look the opposite of fine, but it’s your funeral.” Dottie walked away.
Felix looked at Priya. Priya looked at Felix.
“I need to go,” Felix said. “I need to think.”
“What should I do?”
“Go to Detective Rivas. Tell her about the key. Tell her about your brother. Tell her about Dr. Ashworth’s note. Everything.”
“And you?”
Felix stood up. He tucked his phone into his pocket, along with the weight of everything he had learned in the past eight hours.
“I’m going to talk to Dr. Ashworth,” he said. “And I’m going to find out whether she’s the one who brought me here to solve this case—or to take the fall for it.”
He walked out of the Blue Plate Diner into the rain, leaving Priya alone in the back booth with her cold coffee and her secrets.
He pulled out his phone and started a new voice memo.
“Chapter Eight,” he said. “Priya didn’t steal the pendant. I’m almost certain of it. But she’s connected to everyone who might have: Davis, who claims to love her; Dr. Ashworth, who trained her; Harrison Blaine, who would destroy her to save himself. The key is out there—copied, stolen, or still in the bank. The truth about the pendant is out there—known by Helen Cho, suspected by Priya, hidden by Dr. Ashworth. And I’m standing in the rain, holding a folder full of photographs, trying to figure out who to trust.”
He stopped walking. The rain soaked through his jacket, his shirt, his skin.
“The chicken bone means sin,” he said. “But sin belongs to the sinner. And the person who left that bone wants everyone to know who the real sinners are. The question is whether they want justice—or revenge.”
“And whether I’m the one who’s supposed to deliver it.”