She watched as Lawson jogged onto the stage. By the time he climbed the four stairs leading up to the stage he was panting for breath, and his face shone in the bright spotlights.
"Stop the auction," he shouted. "The Picasso is mine."
"Excuse me, sir?" the auctioneer asked. "I must ask you to leave the stage. If you want the painting, you may bid on it just like everyone else."
"No," Lawson shouted. "The Picasso is mine. It was stolen from me and put up for auction here."
There was a gasp in the crowd, and people began shifting in their seats to get a better view. A few of the older women looked scandalized, but most were excited—most auctions were calm, stately affairs. A stolen painting was exciting—something to talk about at cocktail parties and brunches for the next few months.
