Don't Miss a Beat

Most people who know me know that the word "beat" has two meanings for me. I, Natasha Brown, "walk the beat" as a consultant for the Detroit Police Department by day. On weekend nights, I sing at a lounge called, Northern Lights, so I "keep the beat."

Usually, my two alter egos remain removed from one another, but this story is all about how everything collided.

I was taking a break one Saturday night during my set, and chatting with my best friend, Tracy, her boyfriend and some of their friends. I said, "Tracy, things have been SO slow at the PD lately. Don't get me wrong. There have been plenty of open-and-shut murders and such, but nothing that requires my powers of deduction and intuition."

I realized maybe I said that too loudly. I didn't want people at the club to know my day job. I scanned the room, but people were too busy to pay me no nevermind. I sighed and whispered, "What I wouldn't give for a big, juicy case. Speaking of Case, I'm going to get up there and sing my version of his song, "Missing You."

Tracy gave me a fist bump and said, "Kill it, girl!"

The following Thursday, I got a call from the PD. Finally, I felt needed again. I was to report to Cranbook Art Museum.

When I arrived, I was waved through by the officer guarding the door. The fact that there was no Police Line tape probably meant no death.

Sure enough, I was directed to a basement room. There were crates upon crates of what I assumed was art, but no body covered with a white sheet.

"What's going on?" I asked my PD bestie, Donovan.

"Glad to see you, Natasha. When you gonna agree to go out with me?" He blinked his deep, brown eyes in coy anticipation.

"In your dreams, Don. Now tell me about the case."

He sighed and pointed. "Seems there was a break-in. Somebody stole just one piece out of this crate. No one knows what it looks like."

"How is that even possible?"

"The curator who arranged for the loan of the piece was in a car accident. She's in a coma. The gentleman at the Louvre on the other end of the deal had a stroke and passed away a week ago. He was old school, so there were no electronic files."

"Surely, SOMEONE has a photo. I mean, everyone is constantly snapping pics with cell phones."

"I guess this painting had been in a similar basement for decades."

"Unbelievable. We're searching for an unknown suspect who stole an unknown piece of art."

"That about sums it up."

"Thanks, Don." I pointed at the unassuming wooden container. "Nothing in it?"

"Correct. Or on it."

I flipped it on its side and said, "Just under it." There, on the underside, was a note, stapled to the wood.

I took out a pair of gloves and gently removed it. I read:

Ready to have some fun, Misse Browne? Check this out:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtP2V4DyzW0

I entered the URL on my phone.

I mused, Why is someone singling me out? How did they know how to single me out? Why are there "e's" on Miss and Brown? Wait! Maybe it's word count! 56. What happens at 56 seconds? The lighthouse!

Aloud, I said, "I'm driving to Traverse City tomorrow."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. See you around, Don."

"Sure, Nat." He always called me that after I refused a date.

I left early the next morning. I called Tracy enroute. "You'll never guess where I'm headed, so I'll just tell you. I'm on the way to Traverse City."

"That's like four or five hours away. Why are you going there?"

"It's a clue, and that's all I'm sayin'."

"Right. Have fun. Go get 'em Tasha!"

It took only one gas station attendant to find out where to find Mission Lighthouse. When I got to the top of the small tower, I gasped at the view of Traverse Bay, Lake Michigan. I soaked in the sheer distance for a moment and then searched. Nothing there, but there was a small, locked door leading to the observation deck. I convinced Amy at the desk to trust me with the key by flashing my unofficial/official-looking badge.

I circled the deck three times before finding a brown piece of duct tape on the brown frame of the door. I carefully peeled it off. A card with another link:

Also on the note: "This may stump you initially."

The musician’s initials? PM. Afternoon? No. Too many things are PM. I Googled the musician's full name, which turned out to be Richard Patrick McDermott. RPM.

I did a search for RPM, Traverse City and found a record shop. It was a stretch, but maybe...

I found the record store and gaped. I could spend a day there, case or not. I asked the guy at the desk, "Is there any chance you've got something for Natasha Brown?"

"Oh, yeah, I was wondering if you'd actually show up." He handed me a plain, white envelope.

I asked, "Who gave you this?

"It was some kid who was paid $10. He didn't know the guy who hired him, and he didn't describe him."

"Thank you."

"Sure."

I opened it in my car.

There were several things in the envelope: 1. A night's stay at a hotel downtown in my name, evidently paid for with cash. 2. An address for Union Street Station with a picture of a nice stage. 3. $100 4. A hand-written note, stating, "Having fun yet Nat? Listen to this one on the way back to Detroit.”

This art thief was atypical, that was for certain.

At the lounge, I heard a very nice duo singing a strange mix of songs, but I liked them. I had a lovely time and some great food.

The next morning, I hooked my phone up to my car and entered the song as instructed.

I didn't want to be right about this one. Rushing down the freeway, I knew I was right, but I wasn't sure how to prove it to anyone. It was all circumstantial.

When I entered Detroit, I called Donovan.

He answered cheerfully, "Hey, Natasha, are you ready for that date yet?"

"Sorry, Don. Can we talk though? It's about the art case. Where are you?"

"I'll meet you before your set at Northern Lights. How about 4:30? That should give us time before you have to sing."

"Okay. See you there."

Later, as I entered my club, I heard a sultry male voice singing Fly Me to the Moon. My eyes about popped out of my head as I saw Donovan up on stage. He smiled and pointed at me when he saw me.

After his song, he joined me at my table.

I said, "I know, Don."

"What is it that you think you know, Natasha?"

"I know that you stole the art."

"Let me show you what was in that crate. It's in the other room."

"Wait, you have it here? Are you insane?"

"I'm over the moon for you. Maybe that makes me insane. Which clues led you to me?"

"First, you made the mistake of saying it was a painting, yet supposedly no one knew what it was. Then, the clues were music. Also, you called me Nat. No one else does. Plus, Northern Lights, really? That one was obvious. Also, I know you grew up in Traverse City."

"Come with me. I'll come clean. Just let me show you what I stole."

Reluctantly, I took his hand, and he led me to a room reserved for events. As he opened the door, a group of people yelled, "Surprise!"

The police chief was holding a framed certificate of appreciate for five years with the force.

"This was a set-up? THIS is the 'art' that I was supposed to find?" My mouth hung open. I couldn't believe I fell for it.

Don said, "Tracy told me you needed a case, so I gave you one." He shrugged.

"You went to all this trouble for me?"

"I told you girl, I'm crazy about you. Now let's party, and then we can sing a duet."