Page 7 of Hawkeye

I pulled him onto the sidewalk before she could offer any helpful suggestions.

He tilted his head toward the motorcycle parked at the curb. “Want a ride?”

I really did, but unfortunately, now wasn’t the time. “I’ll take a rain check.”

“You can have as many as you want,” he murmured with a grin that had butterflies swirling in my belly as he followed me all the way to work.

The office was already busy when we came through the staff door. The shadow box had been pulled from the vault and set on the felt in the examination room, glass front pointed toward the chairs.

Michael was standing back from the table with his hands in his pockets. Calder took the wall beside the door and stayed there.

Stryker, Judge, and Mr. Smythe walked a woman I assumed was Kenny Simon’s daughter into the room. She came to an abrupt stop when she saw the box. “That’s Dad’s. It hung in his home office.”

Mr. Smythe tilted his head toward me. “Ms. Simon, this is Josie Talbot. She flagged the piece.”

“Maren.” She glanced at me, then back at the box like it might disappear if she blinked. “It originally belonged to my great-grandfather. Navy. Dad added his own things after he separated from the Navy.”

I moved closer. “Did you bring any documentation with you that might help prove ownership?”

“Yes.” She pulled a folder from her purse and took out a few photographs with the shadow box hanging on the wall in the background. Then a police report, with a list clipped to the back. “They came while we were at the memorial. Somebody waited until the house was empty because we were mourning my father and took him off the wall.”

That explained what I’d found on the back when I inspected the box. “They didn’t have a lot of time, so they ripped it out of the wall and cleaned the back just enough to consign it.”

Maren’s hand went to her mouth.

I pulled the stolen-property list closer and tapped my finger against it. “We need to compare this to anything else brought in from the consignment.”

Mr. Smythe pulled the paperwork up on his tablet. “The lot also included a leather portfolio containing service letters, an engraved silver cigarette case, and a Naval Academy ring.”

“I’ll get them,” the senior appraiser offered.

When Michael returned with the items, Maren gasped. “They’re all Dad’s. I didn’t even notice the ring or cigarette case were missing. Dad kept them in the cabinet under the window in his office, but it didn’t appear to have been opened, so I didn’t think to look there.”

She had just linked three more items from the consignment company to a burglary.

Mr. Smythe tapped on the tablet’s screen. “The box and other items you’ve identified will come off the consignment today. We’ll release them to you as soon as the required paperwork is complete.”

Stryker glanced at Judge. “You two should get dinner. Paperwork is apparently both your love language.”

Judge shook his head. “I’m sure mine is better.”

Her gaze swung toward me, and Maren didn’t smile at their banter. “Can it stay here long enough for you to fix it? It doesn’t need to be perfect. He lived with those faint scratches in the glass, and I can too. I just don’t want the back falling apart the next time someone lifts it.”

“I can protect the raw wood where they tore it loose.” I turned the box just enough to show her the pale edge. “Stabilize the joinery. Rebuild the backing they wrecked. Support the ribbons so they stop taking the weight. Clean the inside without making it look like it came off a shelf last week. It’ll still be your dad’s. It just won’t keep coming apart.”

Maren’s eyes shone as she nodded. “Then I want you to do it.”

Mr. Smythe looked at me, then at Michael. “You take care of the paperwork, but the conservation stays with Josie.”

My coworker nodded.

“Anything else that turns up can be added to the burglary report as it’s identified,” Mr. Smythe continued.

Stryker didn’t let that become the plan. “Black Castle will handle recovery of whatever’s still missing. Once the pieces are back, the family can add them to the report.”

Mr. Smythe’s mouth tightened. A private security firm in his examination room was not how the auction house usually handled consignments.

Stryker held his gaze. “Gives Wynnock a clean reason we’re here.”