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The official report said that the theft of a Vermeer classic could be accredited to the Collector, but Keith knew better. The work was sloppy--their resident art bandit never left any tracks and never harmed innocents, ergo two broken windows and three wounded security guards made it difficult for Keith to pin it on him. The Collector (that’s what the police division had taken to calling him) was a pain in Keith’s ass, but he hadn’t done this. No, this was the work of a copy cat.
Keith had been chasing the Collector (obsessively, his coworkers would say) for going on two years now; whenever he thought he was close to pinning the pattern by which the Collector steals valuable art and antiquities, he’s thrown back to the drawing board. Keith wasn’t proud to admit that he had led his squad after false leads before; he once stood by at the Rijksmuseum for an entire night waiting for the Collector to strike only to hear that he’d hit the Maritshuis and made off with Fabritius’s Goldfinch. He’d lost a great amount of credit in his department, most believing the pursuit after the thief to be a pointless waste of time. But Keith was relentless, determined to bring the Collector’s streak to an end.
This, however, was new. Three guards had been incapacitated and left sloppily in the darker corners of the museum and a window was left shattered after someone had made off with the Girl with the Pearl earring, a Vermeer masterpiece which crowds flocked to view. He’d even left a sloppy version of the Collector’s tag, a dark blue pawprint. The pawprint had always looked the same--uniform, neat, likely made with the same tool each time. The one left at the scene of the Vermeer crime had been a mess of black paint, left likely with a small paintbrush. The lead investigator of the case, Takashi Shirogane, had listened to Keith’s concerns, but had pointed out that one carelessly executed crime didn’t necessarily equate to a copy cat.
Keith was an expert on the Collector, however, and refused to believe that someone who had evaded him for so long could be so... amateur.
Keith had spent the past month mapping out the museums in Amsterdam which the Collector frequented (you’d think the museums themselves would tighten security with such an apparent threat to their product, but they had left catching the perp to the police), determined to catch him once and for all.
He’d lost the support of his division; imploring Shiro to grant him another chance at what he was sure wasn’t another fluke had proven useless. Shiro had denied him an official squad, though Keith didn’t quite blame him. Keith had followed over a dozen false leads before, and nobody in the force seemed eager to follow him into yet another long night waiting in a darkened museum. Keith understood, but he didn’t have to like it. He was going to solve this himself, and he knew exactly where to begin. All of the Collector’s previous movements pointed to the Van Gogh museum, and that’s where Keith headed once night fell.
The museum staff were closing up, giving the museum one last walk-through, when Keith arrived, flashing his badge and managing to convince them that he had been granted permission to stay on the grounds after hours. It had taken some persistence, but Keith was nothing if not persistent.
There were two guards doing the rounds, meandering through the museum, and for the first few hours they seemed diligent enough. After one in the morning, however, they had retired to the offices in the front of the museum, enjoying a snack and instant coffee, the taste of which made Keith grimace.
Keith excused himself, feeling on edge, anticipation coursing through his veins. He was close, he could feel it, he knew he was. This was the dead hour, in which the Collector was most likely to strike, and Keith wasn’t about to let him slip through his fingers.
Keith made his way through the museum, twitching at every small noise, every burst of laughter from the boisterous people of Amsterdam walking around outside. The items which the Collector stole had little to do with each other; some were prized paintings, others were treasured antiquities. Keith had yet to find a connection there, but if all went well tonight, he’d be asking the source, himself. The only oddity about the Collector’s work was where the stolen items eventually ended up; an ancient, ivory African mask had been stolen from the British Museum (an alarming feat) and was discovered back in the Congo a month later; the Stele of King Mesha was stolen from the Louvre (another unbelievable occurrence) and found in Dhiban, Joran, near the region it was discovered so many decades back. The Collector was taking it upon himself to execute a mass repatriation--he was returning art to its origins, though Keith couldn’t fathom what he gained, or how he managed it. There were many pieces which never turned back up, but most antiquities could be found somewhere in their home region not too long after being stolen.
The thief’s work was unfathomable, and Keith despised that he was frequently left with more questions than answers. Tonight, however, he would get his fill.
Amongst Van Gogh’s japonaiserie art on the second floor, Keith surveyed the room. The museum was frustratingly maze-like, with unnecessary walls in the middle of rooms to provide more space for artwork--all Keith saw were more places for his perp to hide.
Keith whirled around at a noise behind him, just in time to see a man in black, fight-fitting clothing land nimbly a few meters away. His face was partially covered by a dark blue mask; azure eyes peered back at him curiously. Keith didn’t quite expect the Collector to look like... this. He had broad shoulders which slanted down towards a small waist, and his lips pursed before spreading into a snicker.
“I gotta admit,” hummed the Collector, “I was surprised to see you skulking around tonight. Normally, you’re halfway across the city, following a dead end hunch.”
“You’re him,” said Keith, hardly able to believe it himself. “The Collector.”
He laughed, grin wide. “That’s what you guys call me? Classic.” Eyeing Keith up and down, the man leaned against the gallery wall, next to Van Gogh’s Blossoming Almond Tree, with a coy grin. “That’s too formal, though, so call me Lance.”
Keith swallowed, lowering his gun. “Is that your real name?”
Lance tilted his head to the side. “Maybe, maybe not.” He pushed away from the wall, stretching, and strode around Keith, circling him slowly. Lance didn’t feel dangerous--he felt playful, mischievous at worst. Keith kept his eye on the thief and his hand on his pistol, but otherwise remained still.
“Where were you at three am two weeks ago, on the 15th?”
Lance frowned, stopping in front of him and waving his hands, palms facing Keith. “Whoa, whoa, you don’t actually think I had anything do with that, do you?” he shook his head. “That was sloppy work, officer, and I had no part in it. Scout’s honor.” He put his hand over his heart, expression earnest.
“Answer the question, thief.”
Rolling his eyes, Lance relented. “Alright, alright, I was at home. Either sleeping or making lasagna and binging bad tv. Could be either one, really.”
“And where, exactly, is home?” Keith pressed.
Lance’s eyes flickered to his, and Lance frowned, hands on his hips. “Say, on what grounds are you interrogating me?”
“You steal things. For a living.”
"That’s a harsh accusation,” Lance retorted, “do you have proof?”
“Well, you’re trespassing in a closed museum at two in the morning, dressed in all black and wearing a mask. For starters.”
“Oh, so cosplay is illegal now, is it?” Lance threw his hands up exaggeratedly. “Unbelievable.” Lance eyed him. “And I don’t see any other police in here. Sure you’re not trespassing, too, mister handsome officer?”
Growing tired of Lance’s games, Keith flushed and clenched his jaw. “Collector, you’re under arrest for the theft of precious artifacts from museums around Europe. Lay down any and all weapons on your person and walk towards me with your palms raised.”
“Uh,” Lance stepped backwards. “You really don’t want to arrest me, man. I’m way more valuable to you... not in handcuffs.”
“What are you talking about?” Keith narrowed his eyes.
“I can help you find that prick who’s parading around committing poorly executed theft under my good name, for starters.”
“Why would you help us?” Keith didn’t buy it for a second--all criminals were the same, but thieves in particular were well versed in slipping through law enforcement’s fingers.
“He’s sullying my name!” Lance said, as if it were obvious. “I’m a professional! He’s a- a- a sham!” As Lance’s words gave Keith pause, his tone became gentler. “I heard what he did to those security guards. They were good men, just doing their job. I don’t do that shit.”
Keith rolled his eyes, grunting. “You thieves are all the same. I trust you about as far as I can throw you.” Which wasn’t saying much, really, because, considering the man’s lanky form, Keith could probably throw him a considerable distance. But--semantics.
“You don’t have to trust me,” shrugged Lance, “you just have to give me a chance. I’ve got contacts--the best money can buy. Their expertise and my expertly honed skills will catch this fraud in no time.”
“You expect me to entrust this kind of investigation to somebody I’m currently investigating,” Keith said, astonished. He couldn’t be serious. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” Lance grinned, sauntering towards Keith and stopping a couple of feet in front of him. He was close enough now that Keith could better get a look at his features. He hadn’t expected the thief to have such an angular, attractive face, or such stunning eyes. He’d expected someone... grisly, rugged. “Here’s my proposal: I’ll talk to my guys, see what our resident copy cat’s next moves will be, and once we’ve got a good lead to follow, I’ll hit you up. We find the guy, you put his identity stealing ass behind bars, I go free.” At Keith’s indignant expression, Lance held up a finger. “That’s the price of thorough, infallible information and action, my good sir.”
I can’t be considering this, Keith thought, berating himself for being pulled into the thief’s words even slightly. It was an attractive idea, though, considering Shiro had barred him from investigating the case any further. The case itself had been suspended until they had gained more information, but Keith didn’t want to wait, couldn’t wait. And Lance posed a good point--he had never injured anyone on the job, while the copy cat had blatantly attacked three men on his first hit. Was it worth it, if catching the lethal thief gave the non-lethal thief an out? Keith racked his brain.
“Who are your informants?” Keith inquired. “Why do you steal? Why do the things you steal show up continents away? Who is your employer?” He couldn’t help the barrage of questions bursting out of him. He had struck gold; Lance seemed to be deeply involved in the crime underground of his city, and Keith would be a poor excuse for a police officer if he simply let that kind of knowledge loose. His patience was worn thin, he wanted to know everything, needed answers, hungered for clarity. The closest he’d ever gotten to complete understanding was standing two feet away from him, and Keith would be damned before he allowed this opportunity to get away from him.
Lance held his hands up, snickering. “I may be straightforward, but I’m not stupid, officer.” Lance held out a hand, blue eyes glittering. “Do accept my proposition?”
Keith grit his teeth. “Fine.” He reluctantly grasped Lance’s gloved hand in his own. “You have two weeks.”
A feral grin spread across Lance’s face. “I’ll do it in one.”
True to his word, Lance contacted him in an especially peculiar fashion exactly one week later. A young child, brown hair mussed and wire-rimmed glasses askew, entered the police station and flagged him down. They handed him a slip of paper under the pretense of being the relative of a missing person (”Please, sir, take these photos and find him, he’s been gone for years now!”). Their act was convincing, disturbingly so, and after they left Keith opened the envelope at his desk. Inside was information, unbelievable amounts. The copy cat’s information--his name, his home, his mundane profession and even information on a previous wife. A map showed detailed notes on where the copy cat would strike next--Keith couldn’t imagine what the suppositions were based on, what information they possibly could have extracted to come to so many concrete conclusions, but he pictured knowing blue eyes and decided to trust in Lance’s informants.
Behind all of the information was a small, detailed list of instructions informing Keith of his role in all of this chaos. Keith was to meet Lance one block south of the Stedelijk Museum at exactly nine pm, alone and armed. At the bottom of the list, Lance had drawn a cutesy heart with a smiley face and added, “Our first date is at a museum--fitting for a work of art like yourself.”
Keith... didn’t know what to make of that. Lance was making fun of him, he had to be. Sure, the thief was attractive, as far as Keith could tell with that mask on. He wondered what Lance’s full face looked like, wondered why he had become a thief in the first place. Lance was highly skilled, to have successfully hit so many highly acclaimed museums--if only he had put that effort into becoming a police officer, Keith was sure Lance would be a valuable member of the force. If he weren’t, you know, a wanted criminal nationwide.
“I ran your errand for you.”
Lance jerked his head up, dropping the magazine he’d been busy reading and hopping off of the table to jog towards the best informant in the Netherlands, Pidge Holt. Lance had never met anyone who could so masterfully gather data like Pidge could. He had been waiting for them to return to their headquarters in Hunk’s and Pidge’s shared apartment, only one thing on his mind. “Did he open it in front of you? Did he read my note? What did his face look like? Something like this, right?” Lance screwed his face up in confusion before scowling.
Pidge walked straight by Lance, not so much as glancing at his display. “I left before he opened it. And, just to reiterate,” Pidge whirled on Lance, finally, jabbing a finger his direction, “I still don’t think you should have made contact in the first place.”
Lance heaved a sigh, leaning back against their desk as they sat in front of their computer. “Piiiidge, I already said I was sorry! Plus, it turned out really well, didn’t it? We get rid of this phony--who would almost certainly come back to bite us in the ass if we didn’t, by the way--and get the cops off my case, if only for a while.” Lance smirked, crossing his arms. “Though, I wouldn’t mind that Keith guy being on my case a while longer.”
Pidge stared at him blankly.
“What?” Lance shrugged. “Are charming thieves not allowed to have some innocent fun?”
“You pay way too much attention to that cop for it to just be ‘innocent fun’.” Pidge shot Lance a knowing look, lips curving upwards.
Before Lance could retort, Hunk strode into the room, looking pleased with himself. “This baby is done and ready to take down some high caliber security cameras.” He held out the small item to Lance pridefully.
Lance took and examined it with a critical eye. “This... looks like a normal flash drive.”
“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, buddy--this will shut down every camera in that museum without causing any permanent damage to the cameras, and it’ll even replace the feed with a still of what the cameras were seeing before you turn them off. Avoids suspicion, that way.” Hunk grinned. “The only tricky part is plugging it into the computer in the security office--you know, the one which oversees all of the cameras’ activity.”
Pidge smiled appraisingly. “No property damage. Nice.”
Lance shrugged, sighing. “You know, all of this would be a lot easier if I could just knock the cameras off the walls every once in a while. Having to sneak around all the time can really ruin a guy’s good posture.”
“No,” said Pidge firmly. “We’re not causing these museums or their employees any harm. You steal the art and I deal with shipping it back to its original home. We can’t afford to do this violently; repatriation needs to be speed up, and we’re the only ones willing to do it. That art doesn’t belong on European soil--it should have never been stolen in the first place.” Pidge punched him lightly on the arm. It was moments like these in which Lance remembered just how devoted to this cause Pidge was--their father and brother had worked tirelessly to create a massive list of works of art which deserved to be returned to their original owners and their current locations. Two years prior, they went missing, and when the police didn’t work fast enough to find them, Pidge took up the responsibility of continuing their life’s work. Lance could tell the task often weighed on them, but that’s what he was there for--to support the burden on their shoulders. “You’re the only guy I know who can slip in and out of museums like the friggin British Museum undetected. With great power comes great responsibility, Spiderman.” Pidge grinned.
“Fine, fine,” Lance relented, sticking the drive in a pocket on his jacket and zipping the pocket up. “But I’m just saying. I make it look easy, but it’s actually pretty difficult.”
Pidge waved away Lance’s concerns, turning in their seat to grin at him. “Well, that’s just why you’re the best.”
Lance puffed up, returning her grin with a glint in his eye. “Damn straight.” He slid off the desk and pulled on his boots, briefly stretching before waving goodbye to Hunk and Pidge. “Alright, I’m going to go show this sucker what happens when you mess with the Collector.” Lance wiggled his fingers.
Hunk snorted and Pidge rolled their eyes. “I still can’t believe he actually called you that.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Lance smirked. “It’s brilliant.”
Keith showed up at the designated meeting place exactly on time, unsurprised that Lance was late. A flashy guy like him would show up fashionably late.
Keith couldn’t lie, his nerves were on edge. He was defying direct orders from a man he greatly respected, a man he’d known for nearly two decades, in favor of trusting in a criminal he’d pursued for two years. Keith was a careful guy, he tightened every loose end and ensured success for his division. (Well, most of the time, at least. Lance had become an exception to that rule, as of late.) He just hoped he wasn’t letting Shiro down. He could do this.
Movement at the edge of his vision prompted Keith to turn, and there Lance was, mask and all, grinning as he strode towards him. “Ready to Catch a Thief?” The moonlight was a sharp outline on Lance’s figure. “You’re like the Cary Grant to my Gene Kelly.” He came to a stop in front of Keith. “Let’s go find our Danielle.”
“What?” Keith frowned.
Rolling his eyes, Lance motioned for Keith to follow him and, to both of their surprise, Keith did so without question. “It’s a movie reference. To Catch a Thief is a classic, you haven’t seen it?” Lance shrugged, sending Keith a coy smile. “Let’s watch it sometime. Movie night, you and me--maybe you could learn a thing or two about trailing an evasive criminal. Evidentially, that isn’t your strong suit.”
“Ha ha,” Keith grumbled, trying to keep his mind from lingering on the offer. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Lance saluted, crossing the street next to the museum. “Alright, so, we need to get in there, and your shiny badge worked pretty well last time. You have it on you?” Keith nodded. “Good. From here on out, I’m a newby police officer shadowing you to learn your wily policeman ways.” Lance turned around for a moment, and when he turned back, Keith was just short of starstruck.
Lance had removed his mask, and the face Keith had been trying to set his eyes on for years was staring straight back. Lance was definitely not what Keith had expected. Without the mask, he was even more striking, his devilish grin reaching his eyes and nearly rendering Keith speechless.
“Like what you see?” Lance teased, and Keith snapped his head to the side, glad for the darkness.
“Shut up,” he responded, without much heat, and fingered his badge. “Let’s go.”
Together, they walked towards the museum, entering and catching the eye of the security guards setting up for patrol. One, a burly man with a heavy set frown, approached them. “Museum’s closed, come back tomorrow.”
Keith lifted his badge. “We’re with the NPC, we’ve been granted permission to replace you on your patrol, tonight.”
The guard’s frown deepened. “I didn’t hear anything about that.” He called back to his coworker. “Neil, did the manager tell you anything about the police taking over, tonight?”
The other man leaned out of the security room and shook his head. “Didn’t tell me anything. You sure they’re real cops?” He snickered.
The first man turned back to them, shaking his head. “No dice, guy. With all the recent thefts, you understand we’re not just going to let anyone waltz in.”
Keith’s mind moved fast, but his mouth moved quicker. “Takashi Shirogane should have sent notice.”
“Shirogane?” The guard blinked, before calling back to his coworker. “They know Shirogane.”
“Who?” the other guard asked.
“Shirogane, the head of the division. They know him, they said he-” the guard huffed, shaking his head. “Forget it.” He turned back to Keith. “Let me see that badge again.” Keith held it out for him to inspect. After a moment, the guard nodded. “Alright, yeah, sure. Come on in. But we’re going to stay here, as well. Can’t be too careful, with everything going on.”
Keith nodded. “I know what you mean.” He and Lance followed the man inside, but before they could pass the security offices, Lance gasped.
“Is that Douwe Egberts?” He exclaimed, pointing at the bag of instant coffee sitting next to the coffee pot in the guards’ post. “I love Douwe Egberts!”
The guards blinked. “You... like that stuff?” One asked, quirking a brow.
“I love it!” Lance turned on Keith, eyes wide and pleading. “One cup, sir. Please, it’ll only take a minute. You guys can start patrol and I’ll come right after.”
Keith couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Now?” He asked through gritted teeth. At the curious gazes of the guards, he clarified. “Ah- he’s new.” They nodded understandingly, and one patted Lance on the back.
“Ah, let him. The stuff’s shit anyway, if he likes it he can go for it.”
“Thank you!” Lance grinned, jogging into the security office as the guards began to walk further into the museum, Keith trailing behind after a last glance back at the undercover thief.
“Alright, work your magic,” Lance slipped the tool Hunk had given him into the computer after checking that the coast was entirely clear, watching as the screens relaying what each security camera saw each began to die off. After a moment, they flickered back to life, but the timestamps stayed stock still. It had worked; Lance exhaled in relief. Pidge could poke fun all they wanted, but Lance was an excellent actor and wouldn't hear otherwise. He'd never even heard of Douwe Egberts before, but he certainly believed the guards' words--it looked like classic, shitty instant coffee. He directed his attention back to the computer. Once every camera seemed frozen, Lance retrieved Hunk's tool and, with one last look at the instant coffee, trotted after Keith.
Keith and the guards were ascending the stairs to the second floor of the museum when Lance appeared beside him again. He tried not to show the surprise on his face--he hadn’t even heard Lance coming.
“Thank you so much, sirs!” Lance fell into step beside Keith.
One of the guards chortled. “Hell, take the whole bag, kid. Neither of us like it, anyway.”
The group reached the top of the stairs and discussed how tonight would work. The two guards would sweep the museum and then settle on the first floor, doing casual patrols, and Keith and Lance were free to patrol the upper floors as much as they liked. It was a favorable outcome, all things considered.
Once the guards had checked over the upper floors, Keith and Lance stood amongst the art, alone, and once the men were out of earshot, Keith whirled on Lance. “What did you do?” He hissed suspiciously.
Lance shrugged. “Disabled the cameras.” Lance waved off Keith’s incredulous stare. “Trust me, will you? We’re partners, now, after all.” He winked.
Keith rolled his eyes, glancing around the museum. It was about eleven o clock, now, and Keith was itching to make some progress. The museum was silent, still as stone, and after thirty more minutes of meandering around the gallery, Keith heard the creak of a window being opened. It was in the next room over.
Waving Lance away from admiring a Van Doesburg original without making any noise proved futile, so Keith pulled his gun from his waist and cautiously entered the room by himself, eyes sharp for any sign of movement. Across the room, a window was wide open, but whoever had entered had yet to be seen. Goosbumps flecked Keith’s skin as he approached the window, cold air creeping inside.
Keith reached out to shut the window, ensuring that whoever had gotten in wouldn’t get out so easily, when he was wrenched to the side and off his feet by the scruff of his jacket. He landed heavily on the floor, gun clattering out of his hands, as a man straddled him and wrapped gloved hands around his neck. Keith choked, gasping for air, his hands gripping the wrists of his attacker in an effort to pry his hands off. As Keith began to see spots, the weight on top of him disappeared. He gulped in air, gasping and heaving, before scrambling to where his gun had fallen.
Lance was grappling with the man and was holding his own up until the man delivered a punishing blow to his temple. Lance’s head snapped to one side, and as he fell to his knees, clutching at where he’d been struck, Keith pressed the mouth of the gun to the back of the man’s neck. “Stand down,” he ordered, his voice hoarse, glancing back and forth between a grimacing Lance and the frozen perp. “You’re under arrest for the theft of a Vermeer and trespassing. Get on your knees with your hands in the air.”
The man did as ordered, and Keith could see that he was shaking. Before he had the opportunity to try anything funny, Keith secured his hands behind his back, closing handcuffs around his wrist. He quickly dialed in for backup, calling down to the guards for assistance. They took the caught thief down to the main floor, and Keith knelt beside Lance, extending a hand and touching his temple gently. The side of Lance’s head was bleeding, slow and thick. “When the rest of my squad comes, I can take the car and drive you to a hospital. It won’t be long.”
Lance shook his head, wincing. “I don’t mix well with police. Or hospitals.” He ground out, standing shakily with Keith’s support at his side.
“Don’t be stupid,” Keith argued, “you’re bleeding.”
Lance peered up at him, smiling. “Aw, you do care.”
Keith flushed and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
Pushing away from Keith, Lance steadied himself. He grimaced. “Either that asshole knows how to throw a punch or he was just extremely lucky.” Lance began to stagger towards the stairs, and Keith slipped underneath his arm, keeping him standing. They descended to the ground floor and out the door, and as police sirens sounded in the distance, a black SUV pulled up in front of the museum. In the driver’s seat was a man Keith didn’t recognize, but the child from the police station climbed out of the passenger’s side, supporting Lance’s other side as he moved away from Keith.
“You-” Keith sputtered, “you’re from before!”
The child nodded once, sending him a strained smile. “Yeah, hi, name’s Pidge. Thanks for tonight, keeping this idiot safe.”
Keith eyed the blood caked in Lance’s hair, but before he could respond, Lance was looking at him, eyes searching his face, smiling what may have been the first genuine smile Keith had seen from him. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the worst first date I’ve been on.”
Keith’s face reddened. “It wasn’t a-”
Lance waved his objection off. “Don’t forget--you, me, and To Catch A Thief. I’ll call you.” He winked.
Keith couldn’t seem to manage a response. Pidge groaned.
“Okay, that’s enough, you’re bleeding and the police are on their way,” Pidge tugged Lance towards the vehicle, helping him inside and closing his door. They turned towards Keith, and as the lights of the police cars shone in the streets, they thanked Keith once more before climbing into the SUV and driving off.
Keith watched them go, distantly aware that he had let one of the most wanted criminals in the Netherlands get away. Again.
Two police cars pulled up in front of the museum, and as the security guards dragged the copy cat thief towards one of the cars, Shiro climbed out of the other, approaching Keith and laying a hand on his shoulder. “You went against direct orders tonight, Keith,” Shiro reprimanded, but before Keith could deflate, he smiled, “but you caught the copy cat thief. I’m proud of you.” He glanced around at the museum. “How did you know where he would be?”
Keith glanced towards where the SUV had turned the corner at the end of the street minutes before, and rather than answering, Keith asked, “Have you ever seen To Catch A Thief?”
Blinking, Shiro responded, “I have. It’s a classic. Why do you ask?”
Keith turned away from the street and faced his division leader, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’m thinking of seeing it, soon.”