The chiming bells return, or so I think. I ignore it and go back to sleep, awakened a few minutes later by another ringing. Recognizing my cell phone’s ringtone, I reach toward the nightstand, closed-eyed, knocking the mobile from the table. Grumbling, I lift it from the floor and answer, “Hello.”
“Simone?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s Gisele. I’m sorry to disturb you so late. I didn’t know who else to call. You’re the only person who can handle this.”
Her distressed voice pulls me upright. “What’s wrong?”
“Something has happened in the gallery.”
“Happened? Is the gallery OK?”
“I received a call at home an hour ago about a clamor and flashing lights in the showroom and rushed back to the gallery.”
“Was it a burglary?”
“No, no, but it sure looks like one. God, my office is a wreck and
