A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 15
The Third Voice
Felix should have felt relief. The pendant was found. The truth was out. The long nightmare of the Greyfield Star—the theft, the lie, the cover-up—was finally over.
But he didn’t feel relief. He felt dread. Cold, heavy, unshakable dread.
Because Samuel Reinhardt was still missing.
And the pendant had been hidden behind a sconce for eighty-six years, which meant that someone had known it was there. Someone had kept that secret. Someone had watched as the museum displayed a fake, as Dr. Ashworth protected the lie, as Harrison Blaine threatened to destroy the institution rather than face the truth.
Someone had known, and they had said nothing.
Until now.
Felix sat in the passenger seat of Rivas’s car, the morning sun slanting through the windshield, his phone pressed to his ear. He was calling everyone he could think of—Priya, Davis, Helen Cho, even Margo from the museum events office. No one had seen Samuel. No one knew where he was.
But someone knew something. Someone was hiding something. And Felix was going to find out who.
“Where are we going?” Rivas asked, pulling out of the museum parking lot.
“To see Harrison Blaine.”
Rivas’s eyebrows rose. “The board president? The man who threatened to shut down the museum? You think he knows where Samuel is?”
“I think he knows more than he’s telling. About the pendant, about the cover-up, about Ruth Reinhardt. And I think if anyone has a motive to silence Samuel, it’s him.”
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s a question. And I’m going to ask it.”
Rivas was quiet for a moment. Then she turned left instead of right, heading toward the wealthy neighborhood where Harrison Blaine lived. “I’m coming with you. Not because I trust you—I don’t. But because if Blaine is involved, I want to see his face when you ask the question.”
Felix nodded. They drove in silence.
Harrison Blaine’s house was the kind of house that appeared in architectural digest—all glass and steel and sharp angles, perched on a hill overlooking the city. It was the house of a man who wanted you to know that he had money, taste, and absolutely no interest in your opinion of either.
Rivas parked in the circular driveway. Felix got out. The morning air was cool and clean, smelling of cut grass and money.
The front door was opened by a housekeeper—a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a uniform that probably cost more than Felix’s monthly rent. She looked at Rivas’s badge, looked at Felix, and sighed.
“Mr. Blaine is in his study. He’s been expecting someone to come. He didn’t say who.”
Rivas and Felix exchanged a glance. They followed the housekeeper through a marble foyer, past a staircase that belonged in a museum, and into a study that was the size of Felix’s entire apartment.
Harrison Blaine sat behind a massive walnut desk, his back to a window that overlooked the city. He was not wearing a suit. He was wearing a sweater—cashmere, probably—and his hair was disheveled. He looked like a man who had not slept and had spent the night drinking something expensive.
“You found it,” Blaine said. Not a question.
“The pendant,” Rivas said. “Yes. Hidden behind a sconce in the Cobalt Room. Klaus Reinhardt’s confession was with it. He hid it there in 1946, when the building was still a private estate.”
Blaine nodded slowly. “I know.”
Felix felt the floor shift beneath him. “You knew? You knew the real pendant was in the museum this whole time?”
“I suspected. For years. But I didn’t know for certain until Ruth Reinhardt told me.”
Felix’s blood went cold. “Ruth Reinhardt told you? When?”
“Six months ago. A week before she died. She came to my office—here, in this house—and she told me everything. About her grandfather, about the pendant, about the hiding place. She said she was going to expose the truth. She said she didn’t care what it cost her. She said the only question was whether I would stand with her or against her.”
“And what did you say?”
Blaine’s jaw tightened. “I told her I would think about it. And then I did nothing. Because I am a coward, Mr. Greer. I have spent thirty years protecting this museum, protecting my reputation, protecting my family. And when faced with the choice between doing the right thing and protecting everything I had built, I chose myself. I chose the lie.”
“You threatened to shut down the museum. You told Dr. Ashworth to bury the truth. You—”
“I know what I did.” Blaine’s voice cracked. “I know. And I will spend the rest of my life regretting it. But I did not steal the pendant. I did not leave the chicken bone. I did not write the note. And I did not take Samuel Reinhardt.”
“Then who did?”
Blaine was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a photograph. He slid it across the walnut surface.
Felix picked it up. The photograph showed a man—middle-aged, thin, with sharp features and cold eyes. He was standing in front of the museum, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“Do you know who that is?” Blaine asked.
Felix studied the face. Something about it was familiar—the jaw, the eyes, the way the man held himself. And then it clicked.
“That’s Klaus Reinhardt,” Felix said. “But younger. A photograph from before the war.”
“His name was Klaus Reinhardt. He was my father’s lawyer.”
Felix stared at him. “Your father’s lawyer? The Nazi officer who stole the pendant was your father’s lawyer?”
“He changed his name after the war. He called himself Karl Reinhard—no ‘t’ at the end. He came to the United States in 1950, claimed to be a refugee, built a new life. My father hired him in 1965. He worked for our family for thirty years. He died in 1995, in this house, in the guest bedroom.”
Felix felt sick. “He died in this house? The man who stole the pendant, who sent Jewish families to their deaths, who hid a confession behind a sconce—he died here?”
“He died here. And before he died, he told my father the truth. About the pendant. About the hiding place. About everything. My father didn’t tell me until he was on his own deathbed, ten years ago. And I have been carrying that secret ever since.”
Rivas stepped forward. “Mr. Blaine, do you know where Samuel Reinhardt is?”
“No. But I know who took him.”
“Who?”
Blaine looked at Felix. “Someone who has been watching this museum for a very long time. Someone who knew Ruth Reinhardt. Someone who knew about the pendant—both pendants—and wanted them for themselves.”
“Who?” Felix demanded again.
Blaine reached into his desk drawer one more time. He pulled out a photograph—newer, digital, printed on glossy paper. It showed a woman, perhaps sixty years old, with silver hair and sharp blue eyes. She was wearing a museum badge.
“Her name is Margaret Chen,” Blaine said. “She was the museum’s security director before the current one. She retired two years ago—supposedly moved to Florida. But she didn’t. She’s been here the whole time. Watching. Waiting.”
Felix stared at the photograph. Margaret Chen. The security director who had access to everything. Who knew about the emergency key. Who knew about the pendant. Who knew about Ruth Reinhardt.
“She was the one who disabled the security cameras,” Felix said slowly. “She knew the system because she designed it.”
“She was the one who stole the emergency key from the bank,” Rivas added. “She had access. She knew the box number. She could have taken it years ago.”
“She was the one who left the photograph of Ruth Reinhardt in the Cobalt Room,” Felix said. “Because she knew Ruth. She worked with her. She knew her secrets.”
Blaine nodded. “And she is the one who took Samuel. Because Samuel knew where the pendant was hidden. And she wanted to find it before anyone else.”
Felix’s mind was racing. “But we found it. We found the pendant. It’s in police custody now. So Margaret Chen has no reason to keep Samuel alive.”
Blaine’s face went pale. “Then you need to find him. Now. Before she decides that he’s more valuable as a loose end than as a hostage.”
Rivas was already on her phone, calling her team, giving orders. Felix stood in Harrison Blaine’s study, holding the photograph of Margaret Chen, and felt the weight of every second that was slipping away.
He pulled out his phone and started a voice memo.
“Chapter Fifteen,” he said. “The security director. Margaret Chen. She knew everything—about the pendant, about the key, about Ruth Reinhardt. She retired two years ago, but she never left. She’s been watching. Waiting. And now she has Samuel.”
He looked at the photograph. The cold eyes. The knowing smile.
“She wanted the original pendant,” he continued. “But we found it first. Which means Samuel is now a liability. And Margaret Chen is not the kind of woman who leaves loose ends.”
“I have to find him,” Felix said. “Before she does something that can never be undone.”