A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 3
The Man Who Collected Panic
The board president of the Pellerin Museum of Antiquities was a man named Harrison Blaine, and Felix Greer had disliked him for approximately three years, eight months, and eleven days.
He’d never actually met the man before. But he’d heard him.
Harrison Blaine was the kind of wealthy patron who believed that writing a large check entitled him to certain privileges: naming rights, final say on exhibitions, and—most relevantly—unrestricted access to the museum’s audio guide recordings before they went public. Three years ago, Felix had narrated a twelve-minute segment on Etruscan funerary urns. Blaine had listened to the raw recording, decided Felix’s pronunciation of “cinerary” was “too working-class,” and demanded a redo.
Felix had re-recorded it. He’d said “cinerary” exactly the same way. No one noticed the difference.
That small, petty victory had sustained him through many dark days.
Now, as Blaine’s voice echoed through the East Wing like a foghorn with opinions, Felix suspected that victory was about to be tested.
“Dr. Ashworth!” Blaine’s voice was getting closer. “I want you in front of me in ten seconds or I swear to God I will have your—”
He rounded the corner into the Cobalt Room and stopped.
Harrison Blaine was sixty-two, but his face looked like it had been assembled from the leftovers of a less attractive sixty-two-year-old. He had a wide, flat nose, a mouth that seemed permanently set to skeptical, and eyes the color of wet gravel. His suit cost more than Felix’s monthly rent—a charcoal Brioni that probably had its own zip code—and his tie was the exact shade of burgundy that said I am wealthy enough to wear red without looking like a politician.
Behind him stood two men: a younger, leaner version of Blaine (the son, presumably) and a woman in a severe black pantsuit who Felix immediately pegged as the lawyer. The woman had a leather folio tucked under her arm and the kind of面无表情 that said I have deposed weeping witnesses before breakfast.
Blaine’s eyes swept the room. They landed on Felix first—briefly, dismissively—then on Priya, then on the open case, then on the chicken bone.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Blaine turned to Dr. Ashworth, who had appeared in the doorway behind him, her silver hair catching the sconce light like a warning. “What,” Blaine said, each word a separate sentence, “in the actual hell is that?”
Dr. Ashworth didn’t flinch. “It appears to be a chicken bone, Harrison.”
“I can see it’s a chicken bone. Why is there a chicken bone in my museum’s most secure display case?”
“The thief left it.”
“The thief.” Blaine’s laugh was short and ugly. “So we’re calling them a thief now, not an inside job. That’s progress.”
Felix watched the exchange like a tennis match. He noticed several things at once:
First, Dr. Ashworth was afraid of Blaine. Not visibly—her spine was straight and her voice was steady—but her left hand had curled into a fist at her side, knuckles white against her dark skirt. Fear in the details. Always in the details.
Second, the younger man—Blaine’s son—wasn’t looking at the case. He was looking at Priya. And not in a friendly way. There was something there. Recognition, maybe. Or calculation.
Third, the lawyer had already positioned herself by the door, blocking the exit. That was a power move. No one left until she said so.
Felix filed all of this away and said nothing.
Blaine turned to Priya. “You’re the assistant. The one who found it.”
Priya nodded. Her hands were trembling, but her chin was up. “Yes, Mr. Blaine. I’m Priya Chandrasekhar.”
“You touched the case?”
“No, sir. I didn’t touch anything. I screamed and ran for Dr. Ashworth.”
“You screamed.” Blaine’s tone suggested that screaming was, in his opinion, an admission of guilt. “Convenient.”
“Harrison—” Dr. Ashworth started.
“I’m not talking to you yet, Eleanor.” Blaine didn’t even look at her. His gravel eyes stayed on Priya. “You’re aware that the two-person rule means you’re automatically under suspicion. Both of you are. That’s the entire point of the protocol. If the pendant goes missing and there’s no third party present, the two people with access are the two people responsible.”
Priya’s voice was small but steady. “I understand that, sir.”
“Then you understand that you’re going to be questioned by the police, and that the museum’s lawyers—” he gestured to the woman in the pantsuit, “—will be present for every moment of that questioning. You’ll waive your right to independent counsel, sign a cooperation agreement, and submit to a polygraph.”
“That’s not legal,” Priya said.
The lawyer spoke for the first time. Her voice was low and calm, like a refrigerator hum. “It’s not criminal, either. Not yet. The cooperation agreement simply states that you’ll make yourself available for questioning and won’t leave the jurisdiction without notifying the museum. In exchange, the museum will cover your legal fees up to twenty thousand dollars. It’s generous, actually.”
Felix noticed the word generous. That was lawyer-speak for sign this before you realize what you’re giving up.
Priya looked at Dr. Ashworth. Dr. Ashworth gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Don’t sign, that shake said.
Blaine saw it. His jaw tightened. “Eleanor, a word. In private.”
“Anything you say to me, you can say in front of my staff.”
“Your staff.” Blaine finally looked at Felix. “Who the hell is this?”
Felix smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Felix Greer. I narrate your audio guides. You once objected to my pronunciation of cinerary.”
Blaine blinked. For a beautiful moment, Felix saw genuine confusion on the man’s face—the look of someone who had stepped on a rake they didn’t remember leaving on the lawn.
“You’re… the voice,” Blaine said slowly.
“That’s me. The voice.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Dr. Ashworth invited me.”
Blaine turned on her. “You invited a narrator to a crime scene? Eleanor, have you lost your mind?”
Dr. Ashworth’s composure cracked, just slightly. “I invited someone who isn’t a suspect, isn’t on your payroll, and isn’t afraid of you. That’s three qualities the police don’t have.”
The room went very quiet.
Felix used the silence to study the son.
The young man—late twenties, maybe early thirties—had his father’s build but none of his bombast. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, watching the drama unfold like a bored teenager at a family wedding. But his eyes were active. They moved from Priya to the case to the chicken bone to his father to the lawyer and back to Priya.
When he noticed Felix watching him, he didn’t look away. Instead, he raised one eyebrow—a small, almost involuntary gesture—and gave Felix the tiniest nod.
I see you, that nod said. And you’re not the only one paying attention.
Felix filed that away, too.
The lawyer—her name, Felix learned from the folio she set on a side table, was Bianca Hsu, Partner, Hsu & Liu, Art and Cultural Property Law—took control of the room with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times.
“Here’s how this will proceed,” she said, clicking a pen. “The city police have been called and will arrive in approximately fifteen minutes. When they do, I will speak with the lead detective privately to establish the museum’s cooperation parameters. Dr. Ashworth and Ms. Chandrasekhar will be interviewed separately, with me present. Mr. Blaine—senior—will observe from the gallery. Mr. Blaine—junior—will wait in the administrative office.”
“Wait,” the younger Blaine said. His voice was softer than his father’s, with a sardonic edge. “I don’t get to observe?”
“You’re not on the board, Davis. You’re here because your father insisted. You’ll wait.”
Davis Blaine shrugged. “Fine. More time to browse the gift shop.”
His father shot him a look that could curdle milk. Davis ignored it.
Bianca Hsu turned to Felix. “And you, Mr. Greer. Who are you to the museum?”
“Freelance contractor. Audio narration.”
“You have no official role in this investigation.”
“Correct.”
“Then I’m going to ask you to leave.”
Felix didn’t move. “I’m a witness.”
“To what?”
“I was in the building this morning. I arrived at 10:27 AM. The theft occurred sometime between 10:00 AM and 10:07 AM. That means I was not present for the theft itself. But I am a witness to the aftermath. And the police will want to speak with anyone who entered the crime scene before they arrived.”
Bianca Hsu’s pen stopped moving. She looked at him with something that might have been respect, or might have been annoyance. It was hard to tell. Her face was a fortress.
“You’ve narrated a lot of legal thrillers,” she said.
“Enough to know that witnesses have rights, and that excluding a witness from a crime scene can be construed as obstruction if that witness later provides material information.”
“Impressive.”
“I try.”
Bianca Hsu glanced at Harrison Blaine. He gave a curt nod. She turned back to Felix. “You can stay. But you’ll stay in the corner. You won’t touch anything. You won’t ask questions. You’ll speak only when spoken to by law enforcement.”
Felix mimed zipping his lips. He hated the gesture. It was the gesture of a man who had given up on words. But he did it anyway, because sometimes playing the fool was the smartest thing you could do.
The lawyer turned away. The room exhaled.
Felix retreated to the corner she’d indicated—the one near the door, which meant he had a clear view of everyone and no one had a clear view of him. Invisibility, he thought. Still works.
He pulled out his phone, angled it so the screen was hidden from the room, and started a new voice memo.
“Chapter Three,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. “The museum’s lawyer is competent, which means she’s dangerous. Blaine Senior wants a scapegoat and wants it now. Blaine Junior is watching everyone like he’s reading a book he already knows the ending to. And Priya—Priya is either an innocent woman about to be crushed by a system that doesn’t care, or the best actress I’ve ever seen.”
He paused. Dr. Ashworth had moved to stand beside the case. She was looking at the chicken bone again, her face unreadable.
“Dr. Ashworth,” Felix continued softly, “is the wild card. She brought me here. She didn’t call the police immediately. She knows something she isn’t saying. The question is whether that something is about the theft—or about her.”
In the center of the room, Harrison Blaine cleared his throat. “One more thing,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “The pendant was insured for four million dollars. But its actual value—its cultural value—is incalculable. It’s the only surviving piece from the Greyfield collection. If it’s not recovered, this museum will never recover either. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Dr. Ashworth met his eyes. “I understand that you’re threatening to shut us down.”
“I’m threatening to do what’s necessary. If the pendant stays missing, the board will vote on whether the Pellerin Museum continues to exist. And I will vote no.”
Priya made a small sound—a gasp, or a sob. Davis Blaine looked at his shoes. Bianca Hsu clicked her pen again, a nervous habit she probably didn’t know she had.
Felix watched all of them and thought: Four million dollars is a lot of money. But it’s not enough to destroy a museum over. Either the pendant is worth more than Blaine is saying, or something else is going on.
And I have a feeling the chicken bone knows what it is.
The police arrived seven minutes later.
Two detectives, uniformed officers, a forensics team in white jumpsuits. The room filled with bodies and questions and the low hum of authority.
Felix stayed in his corner. Invisible. Watching.
The lead detective was a woman named Rivas—fortyish, tired-eyed, with the kind of efficient bluntness that came from fifteen years of hearing lies. She took one look at the chicken bone, one look at Felix, and said, “Who’s the civilian in the corner?”
Dr. Ashworth said, “He’s with me.”
Detective Rivas looked at Felix. Felix looked back.
“You touch anything?” Rivas asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“You see anything?”
“I saw the room exactly as it is now.”
“Then you can give your statement at the station. Not here.”
“I’d be happy to,” Felix said. “But I’d also like to point out something you might miss.”
Rivas’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
Felix pointed at the glass case—not at the chicken bone, but at the lock. “The biometric pad requires Dr. Ashworth’s thumbprint and a rotating six-digit code. But look at the pad. There’s no smudge on the glass. No partial print. No residue. If Dr. Ashworth had opened the case this morning, her thumb would have left a visible mark on the sensor. It’s not there.”
Rivas walked to the pad. She pulled out a small flashlight, angled it at the surface. The sensor was clean. Pristine. Almost polished.
“You’re saying the case wasn’t opened this morning,” Rivas said slowly.
“I’m saying it wasn’t opened with a thumb,” Felix said. “Which means either someone wiped the pad clean after opening it—which would be strange, because why wipe only the pad and not the rest of the case?—or the case was opened using a method that didn’t require a thumb at all.”
Rivas looked at Dr. Ashworth. “Is that possible?”
Dr. Ashworth’s face had gone pale. “Theoretically? Yes. The biometric system has an emergency override. A physical key, kept in the museum’s safe deposit box at the bank. It’s never been used. Only two people know the key exists: me and the museum’s security director.”
“And where’s the security director?”
“He retired six months ago. Moved to Costa Rica.”
Rivas’s expression didn’t change, but Felix saw her shift her weight slightly—the body language of a detective who had just found the first real thread.
“Get me the name of that security director,” Rivas said to one of her officers. “And get me the bank’s records for that safe deposit box.”
Felix allowed himself a small, private smile.
Chapter Three, he thought. The thread appears. And now everyone in this room knows something they didn’t know ten minutes ago.
Including the thief.
Including the person standing right here, pretending to be shocked.age. Wishes require belief. And belief,” Felix murmured, “is the easiest thing in the world to exploit.”