CHAPTER NINE
The Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond had closed its doors hours before. Now the halls were dim, the displays unlit, and the museum entirely quiet except for the soft cursing of Mortimer Phelps.
Mortimer hated his job as a security guard. Long hours, boring work, low pay, and the disdain of everybody around you. Not like being a police officer.
He had always dreamed of being a police officer. When Mortimer was a kid and he and his pals played cops and robbers, he always volunteered to be the cop, and complained when it was the robbers’ turn to win. He’d studied Criminal Justice in college and graduated with honors. Right after the graduation ceremony, he had shucked off his robe and mortarboard and made a beeline for the nearest police academy.
Only to get rejected
