The issue wasn’t one he could focus on right now though, not when he had a missing artifact to deal with. Patrick put it out of his mind and kept driving. The museum had its own parking garage, which was full, but a security spot was open on the ground floor when he finally arrived. Patrick claimed it, knowing the government plates on the Mustang would keep it from being towed.
He scanned Fifth Avenue while he waited to cross, nothing out of the ordinary pricking his attention or magic. Patrick’s damaged soul and magic meant he could more easily track demons and monsters than other agents, but his magic made everyone who could sense it uncomfortable. The anchors for his personal shields had been set into his bones by Persephone, and they helped to hide what he was, letting him pass as a mundane human.
With everything going on right now, he wasn’t willing to make anything easy for the enemy. Hiding in plain sight was an ingrained habit after so many years of doing it, but that wasn’t a guarantee of safety.
The summer crowds flocking to the Metropolitan Museum of Art were a mix of tourists and locals alike this time of the year. Patrick cut his way through them as he hurried down the sidewalk toward the front entrance of the grand building. The smell of hot dogs and pretzels wafted from the food carts situated on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading to the museum. It made his stomach growl.
Colorful banners hung between stone pillars over the museum’s façade, one of which showcased An Eastern Spiritual Journey summer exhibit. The image used for it was that of a stone Buddha statue, the limited dates of the exhibition listed below it.
“Collins,” someone called out over the noise of the crowd.
Patrick rocked to a halt midway up the stairs, scanning the area through his sunglasses. A slight, dark-haired woman in a dark pantsuit caught his attention, and Patrick waved at Detective Specialist Allison Ramirez.
“I thought I was only meeting with Casale,” he said in greeting as he approached her.
“Dwayne and I are lead on the case, but the museum director refused to talk to anyone but Casale,” Allison said.
“Oh, he’s one of those types.”
Allison snorted. “Seems like it.”
“Where’s your partner?”
“Interviewing some of the museum workers involved with the exhibit in question. Casale is with the director, but he told me to bring you to him.”
“Then lead the way.”
Patrick had worked with Allison and Dwayne on cases several times before and got on well enough with the detectives. Allison led him up the rest of the stairs to the entrance, flashing her badge at the security guard on duty to bypass the long line of patrons eager to get in. They were waved around the metal detectors, entering the Great Hall beyond. The neoclassical space echoed with footsteps and hushed voices of visitors.
The information desk was crowded, but Allison bypassed it in favor of approaching a slim blonde woman dressed all in black with a museum lanyard hanging from her neck. She stood near the wall, out of the way of the foot traffic. A walkie-talkie was clipped to her belt, and she was studying an iPad held in one hand. She looked up from it when Allison cleared her throat. The discreetly disdainful once-over the woman gave Patrick made him raise an eyebrow.
“Is this who we’ve been waiting for?” she asked. Her ID card listed out her name as Cynthia Fox, a curator for the museum. She felt human to his magic.
“SOA Special Agent Collins is here to assist the PCB with your problem,” Allison said mildly.
Cynthia shook her head. “The SOA really didn’t need to get involved.”
“Chief Casale thought otherwise. If you’ll take us to him and your director?”
Allison was polite enough, but the request was firm. Cynthia sniffed delicately, clutching the iPad to her chest. “Very well. Follow me.”
They were escorted out of the Great Hall and into a side alcove where an employees-only door was located. Cynthia scanned her access card across the sensor to unlock it and allow them entry into the maze of corridors and offices that made up the museum staff’s work area behind the scenes.
It took several minutes for them to make their way to the museum director’s office, needing to take an elevator to a higher level. The office area was cramped, but the director’s was the largest Patrick had seen on their walk-through. It didn’t come with any windows due to the building’s architecture, but the walls were covered in artwork and credentials.
Casale stood in front of the director’s desk, but he turned around at their arrival. He wore a business suit rather than a white-shirted uniform, probably to help blend in with the crowd. Patrick had a feeling the director wanted discretion over anything else if he’d waited days to report a crime.
“Collins,” Casale said.
Patrick nodded in greeting. “Thanks for getting me out of the office. What’s going on?”
“Apparently the Met had an artifact stolen from their summer exhibition this weekend. Director Phillippe Weiss finally reported it missing today.”
Phillippe was a slim man in a sleek suit with stylishly cut brown hair of a particular shade that spoke of hair dye. He bristled at Casale’s statement, a flash of annoyance crossing his face.
“As I informed you, we needed to report the loss to our insurance company first,” Phillippe said.
Patrick shrugged. “Insurance companies will always advise reporting the crime to the police or a federal agency. What’s missing?”
Casale gestured at a file spread out on Phillippe’s desk, colorful archival photographs and insurance paperwork lined up for perusing. “The Trishula of Shiva.”
“My SAIC said it was an artifact.”
Phillippe irritably waved aside his words. “It was barely an artifact. It held lingering traces of magic that were so miniscule our archivist witch said it didn’t need wards. Representatives of the Louvre agreed when we gave them a preliminary report on our security efforts.”
“It still had magic. It probably should have been warded.”
“It’s a priceless piece of art, not a weapon. The Met is already warded to protect the collections.”
Patrick bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say something he’d regret about how anything with magic could become a weapon. He was living proof of that. “When was it stolen?”
“Friday night sometime. We’ve been given security feed of the exhibit room from Friday through Saturday, when it was discovered missing. Ramirez will be going over the security feed when we get back to the PCB. According to these screenshots, it was there one second and gone the next,” Casale said.
Patrick approached the desk and peered down at the two sheets of paper depicting the screenshots in question, the time stamp separated by a single second. The Trishula of Shiva was propped up behind a tall glass case, the soft light angled at it causing the gold to shine, the exhibit room empty. The next screenshot showed an empty case and still no one in the room at the time.
“Did anyone check the wards surrounding the room for tampering?” Patrick asked.
“The sorcerer in charge of magical security is one of the people Guthrie is interviewing right now,” Allison said.
Patrick frowned, catching Casale’s eyes. “I’ll need to speak with them and see the exhibit room in person. Can you get me a copy of the security feed as well?”