“If I thought we could somehow gain what we wanted from Mr. Vespucci by taking his daughter, we would. But we do not think that.” Park did not smile, but there was a sudden warmth in his eyes. “We do not have his daughter. I have only the sincerest hope that you can return her safely to her family. I will not disrespect you by offering unwanted help, Mr. Dowd. Please know that you are always welcome here.” The warmth in his eyes vanished. “Now, if you would leave me to my golf.”
Night had fallen on New York by the time Gulliver got back to his van. As he was about to get inside, his phone rang. It was Happy Meal.
“Hey, Shea. What’s up?”
“Get over here,” Shea said in his flat-toned voice. “Get over here right now. And you don’t have to stop for a Happy Meal.”
SIXTEEN
Gulliver got from Flushing to Bed-Stuy as fast as he could. He skidded to a stop in front of Shea’s brownstone and hobbled down to the basement as fast as his uneven little legs would carry him.
“What is it?” Gulliver asked, out of breath.
“That was fast, Mr. Dowd.”
“As long as I don’t have to run, I can be quick.” The joke was lost on Shea. “So, what’s so urgent?”
Shea pointed at a big monitor on a desk next to his work station. “Pull up a chair over there and keep your eyes on the monitor.”
Gulliver did as the hacker supreme instructed.
“Bella’s phone is definitely a dead end. It’s probably at the bottom of Sheepshead Bay, and I didn’t find much in her texts either,” Shea said. “There were some texts from a guy in her art-history class that I think were flirty, but it’s hard for me to know. And there were some graphic texts from two girls in her figure-drawing class. They mentioned wanting…wanting to be with her.”
“Should we check them out?”
“I don’t think so. Unless I’m totally wrong.”
“Where are you going with this?” Gulliver pushed.
“I’m not sure yet, so just follow me for a few minutes.”
Gulliver knew he had no choice. Shea worked in his own rigid way, and you either went with it or not at all. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“There wasn’t much in her email account that on its own would get anyone’s attention either,” Shea continued. “But when I was digging around, I found this. Look at your screen, Mr. Dowd.”
An image flashed onto the monitor. It was the home page for a website called bellartgirl.com . At the top of the page were the headings “Home,” “About Bellartgirl,” “ FAQ ,” “Gallery” and “Sales.” Below the headings and set against a dark-green backdrop was the image of a wildly colorful painting. Red. Orange. Black. Deep blue. Neon green. There were drips and splatters. Droplets and sprays. Thick lines and shadows. Circles and squares. It was very good but looked like a combination of paintings done by famous artists.
“Click on ‘Gallery,’” Shea said.
And when Gulliver did, he was amazed to see the wide range of Bella’s work. He was impressed. She had done figure drawing. Sculpture. Photography. Mostly she had painted—and in very different styles. Some of her paintings were almost like photos. Others were like the home-page cover image. Daring and splashy. Some were portraits. Some were landscapes. Some were street scenes. Some were still lifes.
Gulliver knew some of the people in the portraits. Maria. Bella’s sisters. There was even one of Tony, looking tired and glum. There were none of Joey. There wouldn’t be. Not for sale, at least. All were well done, but all had that young-artist feel. The feel of a girl trying to discover her own style and voice by copying others. Gulliver had no artistic talent himself. Yet he understood that you found your own voice and style by first copying others.
“Okay,” he said. “So Bella was talented. She wanted to sell her stuff, and she set up a website to do it. There must be thousands of sites like this all over the Internet. Kids who want to sell their art or
Night had fallen on New York by the time Gulliver got back to his van. As he was about to get inside, his phone rang. It was Happy Meal.
“Hey, Shea. What’s up?”
“Get over here,” Shea said in his flat-toned voice. “Get over here right now. And you don’t have to stop for a Happy Meal.”
SIXTEEN
Gulliver got from Flushing to Bed-Stuy as fast as he could. He skidded to a stop in front of Shea’s brownstone and hobbled down to the basement as fast as his uneven little legs would carry him.
“What is it?” Gulliver asked, out of breath.
“That was fast, Mr. Dowd.”
“As long as I don’t have to run, I can be quick.” The joke was lost on Shea. “So, what’s so urgent?”
Shea pointed at a big monitor on a desk next to his work station. “Pull up a chair over there and keep your eyes on the monitor.”
Gulliver did as the hacker supreme instructed.
“Bella’s phone is definitely a dead end. It’s probably at the bottom of Sheepshead Bay, and I didn’t find much in her texts either,” Shea said. “There were some texts from a guy in her art-history class that I think were flirty, but it’s hard for me to know. And there were some graphic texts from two girls in her figure-drawing class. They mentioned wanting…wanting to be with her.”
“Should we check them out?”
“I don’t think so. Unless I’m totally wrong.”
“Where are you going with this?” Gulliver pushed.
“I’m not sure yet, so just follow me for a few minutes.”
Gulliver knew he had no choice. Shea worked in his own rigid way, and you either went with it or not at all. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“There wasn’t much in her email account that on its own would get anyone’s attention either,” Shea continued. “But when I was digging around, I found this. Look at your screen, Mr. Dowd.”
An image flashed onto the monitor. It was the home page for a website called bellartgirl.com . At the top of the page were the headings “Home,” “About Bellartgirl,” “ FAQ ,” “Gallery” and “Sales.” Below the headings and set against a dark-green backdrop was the image of a wildly colorful painting. Red. Orange. Black. Deep blue. Neon green. There were drips and splatters. Droplets and sprays. Thick lines and shadows. Circles and squares. It was very good but looked like a combination of paintings done by famous artists.
“Click on ‘Gallery,’” Shea said.
And when Gulliver did, he was amazed to see the wide range of Bella’s work. He was impressed. She had done figure drawing. Sculpture. Photography. Mostly she had painted—and in very different styles. Some of her paintings were almost like photos. Others were like the home-page cover image. Daring and splashy. Some were portraits. Some were landscapes. Some were street scenes. Some were still lifes.
Gulliver knew some of the people in the portraits. Maria. Bella’s sisters. There was even one of Tony, looking tired and glum. There were none of Joey. There wouldn’t be. Not for sale, at least. All were well done, but all had that young-artist feel. The feel of a girl trying to discover her own style and voice by copying others. Gulliver had no artistic talent himself. Yet he understood that you found your own voice and style by first copying others.
“Okay,” he said. “So Bella was talented. She wanted to sell her stuff, and she set up a website to do it. There must be thousands of sites like this all over the Internet. Kids who want to sell their art or
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