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[h3]Art Institute of Chicago, Grant Park - Chicago, IL[/h3]

A black tie event on a full moon evening.  Steven Grant and his plus-one, Marlene Alraune adorned in a knockout evening dress picked specifically for this Gala event schmooze, intermingle with the high society movers and shakers at ARTIC’s biggest calendar event.  Marlene hunched over admiring the fine details of a Grecian amphora, immaculately preserved over the years.

“Exquisite isn’t it?”

Marlene turned and caught herself staring at the chest of a large, well dressed man.  He stood around six feet, five inches and sculpted musculature was barely veiled by a tightly cut-to-fit tuxedo.  He was easily recognizable, every other day he was on local news with his upcoming mayoral campaign.  Deputy Mayor Carson Knowles.

[color=ed1c24]“Quite.”[/color]  She replied, returning to her focus on the vessel.

“Amazing to think that it dates back to 1,000 years before Christ…”

[color=ed1c24]“500 or so, I think.”[/color]  Marlene gently corrected.

“I’m fairly certain it was 1,000.  Those Cretians really knew their craft...”  Knowles persisted.

[color=ed1c24]“They did, but I’m fairly certain that this was from no earlier than 530 BCE, and was done by an Athenian in the Corinth style…”[/color]

“I’m sorry, I thought I knew all of the benefactors of the Institute.  What did you say your name was, Miss..?”

[color=ed1c24]“Marlene.  Marlene Alraune.”[/color]

“Alraune?  As in… Professor Alraune of the University of Chicago?”

[color=ed1c24]“My father.”[/color]

“So that would mean…”  Marlene could see the cogs working in the Deputy Mayor’s mind.  She looked back on the amphora to save Knowles the embarrassment.

“Well… 1000 year, 500 years… ‘When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”

[color=ed1c24]“Keats.  Nice save, Casanova.”[/color]

“Thank you, I was proud of it.”  His smile held a humour that likely held him in good stead with the electorate.

[color=ed1c24]“...but out of interest, the Sosibios Vase that inspired Keats ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ was dated even later still.  Around 50 BCE.”[/color]

“Ouch.  You just couldn’t let me have it.”

[color=ed1c24]“Nope.”[/color]  She said with a cheeky grin, and walked past the amphora to the next exhibit.

Knowles followed her.  “It surprises me that you’re here.  I know we often extended offers to your father to become a benefactor for the institute, to my knowledge I wasn’t aware he finally accepted…”

[color=ed1c24]“He hadn’t.  Whilst my father was certainly a believer in the importance of the arts and the preservation of much of the work you do.  He couldn’t justify the $50,000 fee for what he saw as the wrong sort of people who had questionable taste using it to validate their own sense of self importance over the rest of the city at events like these.”[/color]

“If that’s the case, then how did you get in--?”

[b]“Knowles!  A pleasure to meet you!  Steven Grant.  I see you’ve already met Marlene.”[/b]  He extended a hand to the Deputy Mayor.

For a fraction of a second, Grant saw fear in Knowles’ eyes, fear and discomfort from being knocked off balance by his sudden appearance.  Or as if he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, before the handshake quickly put him back on auto-pilot campaign mode.

“I trust I can count on your vote, Grant?”  Knowles straightened his back, showing off his full height as he shook Steven’s hand.  A full height that had him standing a few inches over the other man, a rare thing for him since he stood at six feet, three inches himself.

[b]“Well, I’d still like to bend your ear and confirm what I’ve heard on policy, should I get the oportunity at some point, but if what I hear is true, I would say so.”[/b]

“Name the time and place, Steven!”  He offered a warm smile, this time more rehearsed, somewhat more saccharine, compared with what he previously gave Marlene.

[b]“Well it will have to be later, Carson,”[/b]  Grant offered, his eyes raised on a familiar face in the distance.  [b]“Because I’ve just seen a friend I haven’t seen in a while…”[/b]

Grant wandered away as suddenly as he’d appeared, he swapped his empty champagne flute for a full one on a waiter’s tray as he crossed the floor.

He slowed as he got closer as he realised the company he was keeping was an on-duty police detective.

[center]------------[/center]

Flint stood with a smouldering cigarette in his mouth and a notebook in his hands.

The smaller man coughed in an exaggerated passive aggressive style, whilst Flint posed questions.

[color=00aeef]“So, what’d you say your name was again?”[/color]
 
[color=fff200]“[/color][color=1b1464]Anton Mogart.[/color][color=fff200]”[/color]  He coughed once more.  This time with his eyes open and nodding, gesturing towards the cigarette.

[color=00aeef]“Mogart… and you said you’re some kind of an art dealer.”[/color]

[color=fff200]“[/color][color=1b1464]I’m an art buyer’s agent.[/color][color=fff200]”[/color]  He quickly drew a business card from a stainless steel box within an inner suit pocket and in a rehearsed manner he flipped it to Flint’s partner Gwenn.

[color=fff200]“[/color][color=1b1464]I represent clients who have fine interests and tastes, and act on their behalf, looking to secure items desirable to their palette and ensuring the authenticity and valuation of items my clients may stumble upon themselves.[/color][color=fff200]”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“So you’re an art collector?”[/color]

Mogart, squirmed in displeasure at the inaccurate oversimplification of his job.

[color=fff200]“[/color][color=1b1464]No.  Well, yes… as a hobbyist as well, I suppose you could say I am, but that’s not my job.  I’m a buyer’s agent.[/color][color=fff200]”[/color]

[color=00aeef]“And Mister and Missus Stepson in North Center?  Were they clients?”[/color]

[color=fff200]“[/color][color=1b1464]The nature of the service I provide means I know all of my clients intimately.  I had a great many clients in and around North Center, but I can safely say, no.  They were not.[/color][color=fff200]”[/color]

Flint lifted his eyes from the notebook and levelled them at the smaller man, Mogart.  He took a beat or three before he returned to writing notes.  The fishing expedition not turning up anything worth a follow up question.

[b]“Arthur Stepson and his wife?”[/b]  Grant interjected, approaching the three men.  [b]“I was wondering where they were.  Not like them to ever skip a Gala.  I believe he was more of a hobbyist, than a connisseur.  They’ve had me around their house before, I think Anton would likely be horrified if anyone tried to lay claim that he had any input on their decor...”[/b]

[color=00aeef]“And where were you about a week ago, Grant?”[/color]  Flint turned and levelled his gaze at the newcomer.  [color=00aeef]“Since you knew the owners and are aware of the layout of their property?”[/color]

[i]“Probably living one of four lives... with only one having any kind of reasonable alibi at any specific time...”[/i]  Steven thought to himself silently.

[b]“Care to narrow that down at all?  A whole week is a pretty long time to have to account for every minute, Officer--”[/b]

[color=00aeef]“Flint.  Detective Flint.  This is Gwenn.  Detective Sergeants in Central Precinct.”[/color]

[b]“Are the Stepsons alright?”[/b]  Grant asked with genuine concern.

Flint shot Grant the same thousand mile stare he’d used on Mogart earlier.  Three beats later he cleared his concerns.

[color=00aeef]“Physically they’re both fine.  However they returned home from a holiday in the South Pacific to find their home had been burglarized and quite a bit of property damage to antique items of significant sentimental value.  Would anyone else here be familiar with the Stepsons?”[/color]

[b]“Wow.”[/b]  Steven said, taking a solid gulp of champagne as if to anesthitize the news.  [b]“Yes, I’d say they’d be known here.”[/b]

[color=00aeef]“By who?”[/color]  Flint said, scribbling notes.

[b]“Well… they’re long-time benefactors of the Institute, so…”[/b]

Steven grant waved his arm out, gesturing to the entire Gala floor.

[color=00aeef]“Hrmm…”[/color]  Flint grumbled at the task ahead of him.  Gwenn walked off to halve the job and start questioning those in attendance.