A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 5
The Gift Shop Confession
The police released the scene at 1:33 PM.
Not because they were finished—Detective Rivas made that abundantly clear—but because the museum had a scheduled private event at 4:00 PM and Harrison Blaine had threatened to call his lawyer, his senator, and “whoever else it takes to remind this city that I wrote the check for the new wing.” Bianca Hsu had negotiated a compromise: the Cobalt Room would remain cordoned off with police tape, but the rest of the museum could reopen for the event.
Felix found himself standing in the Great Hall, watching the forensics team load their steel cases into a van. The Roman busts stared at him with blank marble eyes. The Egyptian sarcophagi seemed to mock him from their glass cases.
Ask the narrator, the note had said.
He was still turning those words over in his mind when a voice spoke from behind him.
“You’re still here.”
Felix turned. Davis Blaine stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his expensive but slightly rumpled jacket. Up close, the son looked less like a younger version of the father and more like a correction of him. Softer jaw. Warmer eyes. A mouth that seemed to find everything faintly amusing, even when it shouldn’t.
“I’m still here,” Felix agreed.
“Most civilians would have run for the exit the second the police said they could leave.”
“I’m not most civilians.”
Davis smiled. It was a good smile—genuine, slightly crooked, the kind of smile that suggested he had once been charming before life had made him tired. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you are. You’re the narrator. The one my father complained about three years ago. The cinerary incident.”
“You remember that.”
“I remember everything my father complains about. It’s a survival mechanism.”
Felix studied him. Davis Blaine was approximately thirty-two years old, if Felix had to guess. He had the restless energy of someone who had grown up with every privilege and had found none of it satisfying. His fingernails were clean but chewed. His shoes were expensive but scuffed. He looked like a man who had been trying to escape his own life for a very long time and had never quite managed it.
“You were watching Priya,” Felix said. “When your father was yelling. You were watching her the whole time.”
Davis’s smile flickered. “I was watching a lot of people.”
“You were watching her specifically.”
A pause. Davis looked toward the East Wing, where Priya was still giving her statement to a uniformed officer. Then he looked back at Felix.
“Can we walk?” he asked. “I need to move. Standing still makes me feel like I’m in a holding cell.”
Felix nodded. They walked.
The Pellerin Museum was larger than most people realized. The public galleries—the Great Hall, the Roman wing, the Egyptian collection, the small but impressive Renaissance painting room—occupied only about forty percent of the building. The rest was storage, conservation labs, administrative offices, and the museum shop, which was currently closed due to the police activity.
Davis led Felix past the shop’s glass doors, then stopped. He pulled a key from his pocket—Felix noted that, filed it away—and unlocked the door.
“The shop is closed,” Felix said.
“It’s closed to the public. You’re not the public.” Davis pushed the door open. “Come on. No one will think to look for us here.”
The museum shop was a cheerful space, which made it deeply unsettling given the circumstances. Brightly colored posters advertised upcoming exhibitions. Shelves were lined with plush scarabs, miniature Roman helmets, and coffee table books with titles like Etruscan Treasures and The Sapphire Age. A display case near the register held replicas of the museum’s most famous pieces—including, Felix noticed, a small glass pendant that looked exactly like the Greyfield Star.
“Twelve ninety-nine,” Davis said, following Felix’s gaze. “Made in China. The real one was worth four million, but this one lights up when you press the button. My father hates it. He says it cheapens the brand.”
“Your father says a lot of things.”
“He does. Most of them are loud and wrong.” Davis sat on the edge of the cashier’s counter, his legs swinging like a child’s. The posture was at odds with his age and his suit. He looked vulnerable, suddenly. Younger.
Felix stayed standing. He positioned himself near the door—not blocking it, but near it. Old habit. Always know the exit.
“You wanted to talk about Priya,” Felix said.
Davis exhaled. “Priya Chandrasekhar. She’s been at the museum for two years. Curatorial assistant. She has a master’s in art history from Columbia. She’s brilliant, she’s underpaid, and she’s the only person in this building who actually cares about the collection beyond its insurance value.”
“You know her well.”
“I know her.” Davis paused. “I’m sleeping with her.”
Felix had expected many things. A denial. A deflection. A vague statement about workplace acquaintances. He had not expected blunt, immediate honesty.
He kept his face neutral. “Does your father know?”
“No. Does Dr. Ashworth? I don’t think so. But Priya is terrified that someone will find out. She’s worked too hard to be seen as the curator’s assistant who slept her way into the job. That’s not what happened. We met at a gallery opening. I didn’t even know she worked here until the second date.”
“And now?”
“And now there’s a stolen pendant and she’s the primary suspect, and I can’t do anything to help her without making it worse.” Davis ran a hand through his hair. “If I come forward and say I was with her last night, it looks like I’m providing an alibi because we’re involved. If I stay quiet, she’s alone. There’s no good option.”
Felix considered this. “Where were you last night?”
“At my apartment. Alone. I was supposed to have dinner with my father, but he canceled. Something about a board meeting. I ordered Thai food, watched a documentary about deep-sea ecosystems, and went to bed at eleven.”
“No witnesses?”
“My doorman might remember me coming home. I said hello to him. But that’s not an alibi for the entire night.”
Felix nodded slowly. “When did you last see Priya?”
“Yesterday afternoon. She came by my apartment around four. We had coffee. She left at five. She seemed normal. Tired, but normal. She didn’t mention anything about the pendant or the museum or anything unusual.”
“And you believe her?”
Davis looked offended. “Of course I believe her. She didn’t steal anything. She’s not capable of it. She loves that pendant. She wrote her master’s thesis on the Greyfield collection. She knows more about it than anyone alive, including Dr. Ashworth.”
Felix filed that away. Knows more about it than anyone alive. That was interesting. That was very interesting.
“Did Priya ever mention the emergency override key?” he asked. “The one in the safe deposit box?”
Davis frowned. “No. I didn’t even know there was an emergency key until the detective mentioned it. Is that important?”
“Maybe. The biometric pad was clean. No thumbprint. That means either someone wiped it—which is strange, because why wipe only the pad?—or someone opened the case using a method that didn’t require a thumb at all. The emergency key is the only other way in.”
“So the thief had the key.”
“Or a copy of the key. Or access to the safe deposit box.” Felix paused. “Who else knew about the key?”
Davis thought about it. “Dr. Ashworth. The retired security director. Maybe the board president? My father sits on the board, but I don’t think he knew about the key. He’s not interested in security protocols. He’s interested in budgets and press releases.”
“And Priya?”
“I don’t think so. But she’s clever. If anyone could have figured out that the key existed without being told, it would be her.”
Felix looked at the replica pendant in the display case. Twelve ninety-nine. Press a button and it lights up. The real one was somewhere out there—in a pawn shop, a private collection, a garbage can, or maybe still in the building, hidden in plain sight.
“Your father,” Felix said slowly. “You said he’s not interested in security protocols. What is he interested in?”
Davis’s expression darkened. “Control. Appearances. Making sure the museum looks successful so the board doesn’t ask too many questions about where the money is really going.”
“Where is the money really going?”
Davis hesitated. It was a long hesitation—the kind that said I’m about to tell you something I shouldn’t, and I know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to do it anyway.
“There have been rumors,” Davis said quietly. “For the past two years. That the museum is in financial trouble. Not the kind they put in the annual report. The kind that comes from bad investments and worse management. My father has been… moving money. Between accounts. Between foundations. I don’t know the details. But I know he’s been nervous. And Harrison Blaine doesn’t get nervous unless something is very wrong.”
Felix felt a piece of the puzzle click into place. Not the whole picture—not yet—but a piece.
“Four million dollars,” he said. “That’s what the pendant is insured for.”
Davis nodded. “If the pendant isn’t recovered, the insurance pays out. Four million dollars. Enough to cover a lot of bad investments.”
“You think your father stole his own museum’s most valuable piece to commit insurance fraud.”
“I think my father is capable of things that would make you uncomfortable.” Davis looked Felix in the eye. “I’m not saying he did it. I’m saying you shouldn’t rule him out. And I’m telling you this because if Priya goes to jail for something my father did, I will never forgive myself.”
The museum shop was quiet. Somewhere in the building, a door closed. Footsteps echoed in the Great Hall.
Felix pulled out his phone. He didn’t start a voice memo—not with Davis watching—but he typed a quick note to himself.
*Blaine Sr. = financial trouble. Insurance payout = 4M. Motive.*
Then he looked at Davis. “Why are you telling me this? You don’t know me. You met me an hour ago.”
Davis slid off the counter. He stood a few inches shorter than Felix, but he had a presence that made up for the height—a kind of desperate sincerity that was either genuine or the best acting Felix had ever seen.
“Because you’re the only person in this building who isn’t connected to my father,” Davis said. “Dr. Ashworth answers to him. Bianca Hsu works for him. The police will listen to him because he’s rich and he’s loud. But you—you’re nobody. You have nothing to lose. And that note—ask the narrator—someone wanted you here. Someone wants you to ask questions. So I’m giving you somewhere to start.”
Felix studied him for a long moment. The man’s posture was open. His eyes were clear. His story was plausible, which was exactly what made it dangerous.
In every mystery I’ve ever narrated, Felix thought, the person who confesses first is either the hero or the villain. There is no in-between.
“One more question,” Felix said.
“Go ahead.”
“The chicken bone. Why a chicken bone?”
Davis blinked. “I have no idea. That’s the strangest part of all of this. Why would anyone leave a chicken bone in a display case?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Felix said. “Because whoever left it wanted it to be noticed. They wanted it to be strange. They wanted everyone to ask why a chicken bone instead of asking who stole the pendant.”
“It’s a distraction.”
“It’s a signature. And signatures tell you something about the person who left them.” Felix tucked his phone back into his pocket. “A chicken bone isn’t random. It means something. I just don’t know what yet.”
Davis nodded slowly. “If you figure it out, you’ll tell me?”
“I’ll tell Detective Rivas. And then I’ll tell whoever needs to know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Felix agreed. “It’s not.”
He walked to the door of the museum shop, then stopped. He looked back at Davis Blaine, who was still standing by the counter, his hands back in his pockets, his expression caught somewhere between hope and dread.
“One more thing,” Felix said. “If you’re lying to me—if you’re involved in this, or if you’re protecting someone who is—I will figure it out. And I won’t be polite about it.”
Davis didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying.”
“Good,” Felix said. “Then we’re on the same side. For now.”
He left the shop and walked back into the Great Hall. The Roman busts watched him go. The Egyptian sarcophagi said nothing.
Felix pulled out his phone and finally started a new voice memo.
“Chapter Five,” he said softly. “Davis Blaine claims he’s sleeping with Priya. Claims his father is in financial trouble. Claims he’s telling me the truth because I’m the only outsider. Either he’s a lovesick man trying to protect his girlfriend, or he’s a very good liar setting me up to chase the wrong suspect.”
He walked past the security desk—still unmanned—and pushed through the museum’s front doors into the gray afternoon light.
“The chicken bone,” he continued. “The note. The clean biometric pad. The retired security director in Costa Rica. The financial trouble. The four-million-dollar insurance payout. There are too many threads. Some of them are real. Some of them are red herrings. My job is to figure out which is which before someone else gets hurt—or before I become the prime suspect.”
He stopped on the museum steps and looked up at the sky. The clouds were low and heavy, the color of old pewter. Rain was coming.
“One thing is certain,” Felix murmured. “Whoever wrote that note knows me. Knows my name. Knows my reputation. And they knew I would be at the museum today before I did.”
“Which means they’re either someone I’ve met—or someone who’s been watching me for a long time.”
“And that,” he said, “is the most unsettling thought of all.” the world to exploit.”