Gauguin Connection, The by Estelle Ryan

thinking when I put pencil to paper. Not until I looked, really looked, at the notepad did I realise how many notes I had scribbled over the course of the weekend.
    On the top page were the three sentences the Russian murderer had shouted. In neat blocks I had rearranged the words in six different ways. My first attempt was to translate it to Russian, a language I loved for its melodious richness. Of the six attempts, the first made the most sense, yet it made no sense at all. I traced the Russian lettering with my index finger, but nothing revealing was forthcoming.
    The top page was the least of the riddles I was currently facing. I lifted a couple of sheets and stopped at the third page to look at it more intently. On it were all the players in this mystery that Manny had brought to our doors—the murdered girl who still had no identity, the Gauguin painting, the Russian murderer, the stolen Eurocorps weapons, the suspected EDA and Eurocorps insiders, the ships and the unknown Russian connection. I had written all these in a circle around the page and had drawn blocks around each item, separating them.
    Now I was at a loss. I had made such negligible progress in forty-eight hours. What else could I enter into the search parameters to give me more results? Results that could solve this mystery.
    “It’s all that thief’s fault.” Irrationally, I wanted to blame Colin for my unproductive weekend. He was the one who had sent me on this ship witch-hunt. Yet, I was the one who followed that trail. Now I was stuck. And annoyed with myself. My mind felt bruised from forcing it to look for different approaches. I couldn’t believe that I was contemplating it, but I realised that I might need Colin’s help. “If he ever sets foot in my place again, I will tell him how much I despise him.”
    “I really hope you are not talking about me, Jenny.”
    I shrieked. No other word would be apt to describe my undignified reaction. I closed my eyes for a second to regain control. When I opened them to glare at Colin, I allowed all the annoyance burning in my stomach to seep into my voice. “How did you get in?”
    The art reappropriator was lounging in my reading chair. How had he walked past me without me noticing? His denim-clad legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. This high-comfort position was not lost on me. He felt confident and safe. It annoyed me even more. While I was studying him, he simply sighed and tilted his head to the side with an amused smile. “Superglue? Really, Jenny, you should’ve known that was not going to keep me out.”
    “Genevieve. My name is Genevieve. And I didn’t have anything else to seal the windows with.” I stopped abruptly when I realised I was justifying myself. “Why did you not just ring the doorbell?”
    His only response was one lifted eyebrow and a sideways glance. “Moving on. Why are you so frustrated?”
    “Because you are in my apartment. Again. Without an invitation. Again.” I got up and walked to the kitchen. Almost imperceptible footsteps alerted me to Colin following me.
    He groaned. “That’s not quite what I meant by moving on.”
    I spun around, ready to give him an earful, but didn’t get the chance.
    “Let’s not hash through our last arguments again, Jenny.” He winced at my fierce look. “Genevieve. I’ve had a few days to think this over and have made a decision. I’m totally committed to working with you and finding out who the bastards are who killed my… these artists. Wait. Before you argue again. I know that one of your main arguments is that you can’t trust me. So, as a show of my trust in you, I will give you this.”
    He reached into his designer charcoal jacket. Out came a folded piece of paper that he held out to me. I looked at the white paper as if it was a snake ready to strike. “What is that?”
    “My trust in you.” He shook it towards me. “Please take it before I change my mind. I’ve never given anyone