After the Golden Age

She considered it a supreme act of will that she managed to put on real clothes and walk herself to the convenience store down the street to pick up ice cream and frozen burritos. Protein—she’d need her strength if she was going to keep eating all that ice cream. In her scruffy state—unbrushed hair, jeans, and a rumpled sweatshirt—she didn’t at all resemble the photos from the courtroom that some of the newspapers still had splashed on their front pages, so no one recognized her to give her any trouble.

The headline on The Commerce Eye drew her attention. That was what it was designed to do, bordered in red and filling the entire page. It didn’t matter how outrageous it was; if it screamed loud enough everyone would have to listen.

“Is the Destructor Controlling Crime Spree from Prison? Mayor Vows to Beef Up Police!”

The recent robberies cum kidnappings—even the Baxter Gang episode, which had the same MO—had all been planned by the same person. It didn’t follow that person had to be Simon Sito. But he’d been responsible for most of the crime sprees of the last twenty years. People had trouble pointing the finger in a different direction.

She couldn’t get away from the belief that Sito wasn’t responsible. If the press and general rumor kept talking about Sito, they deflected attention from who was really doing this.

It occurred to her that just because she didn’t have her job didn’t mean she couldn’t work.

She had real food for lunch and saved the ice cream for later. Microwaved burrito in hand, she fired up her computer.

She approached the problem as if it had been presented to her as part of her job. How do you hide unique, expensive assets? If she were studying the books of someone selling such assets illegally, what would she look for? High-dollar money transfers without claiming assets or deducting depreciation. Someone spending money with nothing overt and legal to show for it.

The Destructor wasn’t spending anything; the DA had had all his assets frozen. All the ones they could find, at least. If Sito were smart—and he was, no question there—he wouldn’t touch his hidden assets just yet; he wouldn’t risk revealing their location. But if he did, would he be buying up unique and priceless cultural artifacts? Or paying someone to do steal them?

It wasn’t his MO. He was the Destructor for a reason. He liked blowing things up, taking them apart, and disintegrating them, not collecting them.

Cultural artifacts. That was the pattern. She got online to search the city’s events calendar. What else out there would interest a thief who’d already taken rare violins and prize koi?

There it was: The Commerce City History Museum was hosting a philately exhibition: rare stamps, one-of-a-kind printings, unique and priceless to the right collector. The exhibit opened Saturday.

She had to leave the apartment again to replace her cell phone—then hesitated, because she didn’t know who to call first. Her parents, came the first impulse. The Olympiad would want to know. They’d be able to stop the theft. They’d even be likely to listen to her. The cops, not so much. Even so, she ought to call them as well. Mark, maybe. The chance of Mark listening to her was microscopic right now. Same with Analise.

Hell, maybe she should call everybody. Then maybe at least one of them would believe her and do something about it.

She called Suzanne’s cell. The voice mail picked up.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me. This is going to sound weird, but I think I know what the Strad Brothers’ next target is. There’s a special philately exhibit at the history museum opening Saturday. Rare stamps—it fits their target profile. I suppose we have to assume they’ll attempt a kidnapping to go along with any robbery. Anyway, call me so we can talk about it.”

Mark and Analise weren’t answering their phones, either. With them, however, Celia’s paranoia kicked in. Either they were busy, or they saw her name on the caller ID and decided to ignore her. She left messages.

Somebody had to call her back.

She had to make one more call. She looked up the number to police headquarters. “Yes, I’d like to speak to Chief Appleton,” she told the receptionist, who asked who was calling.

Celia took a deep breath. “Celia West. And yes, it’s important.”

She spent time on hold. They didn’t even bother putting on bad music for her. Eventually, her name got her through to the chief.

Appleton didn’t bother with a greeting. “If you’re calling to yell at me about making your record public, I had nothing to do with it. I haven’t shown it to anyone. That information got out all on its own, just like I always said it would.”

“Hello to you, too,” she said. “That’s not what I’m calling about.”

“I only sealed the record in the first place as a favor to your parents.”

“That’s not what I’m calling about.”