A Beautiful Heist (14 page)

Jack walked to his car, footsteps marking a lonely beat in the dim, deserted parking garage. His stomach rumbled and he readjusted his grip on the take-out bag from Maria’s Greek Taverna. The smells of roast lamb and tzatziki were getting to him.

His pace was quick. He wanted to get home fast, eat, and do some serious thinking on this case. Things were not going well with the Aurora hunt. After breaking in to the Gorlovich mansion, Jack had not gleaned a lot of information.

Apart from one small, but vital, fragment. He’d found a ledger entry that confirmed the receipt of an overseas delivery a few weeks ago. And the details of that delivery had curled a smile on Jack’s lips. A rank amateur must have been the one to make the entry, originally, because Jack could make out the words beneath harshly scribbled out pen marks:
weight: 23 lbs 6 oz; make: Fabergé.
For that matter, the supervisor who had scratched out the words must have been a rank amateur himself. Very sloppy, not destroying that record.

But the trail was cold after that. He could find no further mention of this shipment in any ledger, file, or notebook. Where did they take it from there? There was no way to know. Could they possibly be keeping it in the house? No, Jack thought. They’d never leave it under such light security.

But he didn’t get the chance to confirm this suspicion: before he could begin a search he was interrupted by the housekeeper. She’d screamed; he’d had to improvise an escape out the second-floor window. As he bolted from the scene Jack spat with anger at himself.
Speaking of rank amateurs.
How could he make such a mistake? Why hadn’t he heard her coming? Distracted by his find, he supposed. Not much of an excuse.

Maybe he hadn’t learned quite so much from his father as he’d thought. Surprisingly, this idea bristled him.

He’d stopped caring about those skills long ago. He did not want to be like his father. And yet—here he was, feeling shamefaced by his failure.

Jack wove his way through the rows of stationary cars in the parking garage, the garlicky aromas from his take-out dinner prodding him onward. The garage was completely empty of signs of life. Parked cars stared at him with empty, unlit eyes as he squeezed through a narrow space between two vehicles.

Jack heard a faint scrape on the concrete floor—a shifting foot—just beyond the car he was passing. That slight sound gave him a microsecond of warning to prime for the attack. But it wasn’t enough.

A man with a balaclava mask and bare hands slammed into him. The impact of the tackle, coming at him from his left, knocked Jack to the ground just in front of the hood of a car. The blow winded him and he struggled for breath as he fought to lift himself off the ground.

The attacker loomed over Jack and punched him in the face. Searing pain ricocheted through Jack’s skull and brain. He had to do something, had to get out of this. He blocked out the pain of the blows and focused all his energy into powering a great swing of his leg, kicking his assailant’s feet out from under him. The man went down and landed hard and Jack was on top of him in a second. Jack rained blows on the man’s chin, jaw, kidneys. He picked the man up and pressed his face against a concrete pole.

“Who are you?” he hissed into the man’s ear. “Did somebody send you?”

The guy blinked, didn’t flinch, didn’t cower, and was barely breaking a sweat. “Guess,” he said, voice flat as pavement.

Jack didn’t have to. That degree of coldness, that degree of detachment—the man was Caliga. Jack realized too late that his grip on the man’s arm was awkwardly placed. The Caliga twisted and smashed his elbow into Jack’s throat and Jack’s grip loosened as he gasped for breath. The man turned and ran.

Jack heaved for air and gave chase. The other man was two car-lengths away and sprinting through the grid-work of vehicles. Jack hurled himself over a hood foot first, sliding over it and crashing to the ground beyond. He came out of it running. His eyes clamped on his target and his pulse hammered in his ears. His own ragged breathing was the only sound that existed. But Jack was gaining.

He tore between two tightly spaced cars and then his hip slammed into a side-view mirror. The impact knocked him back; searing pain fired through to the ganglia in his spine and black rain exploded in his field of vision.

With a grunt Jack rebounded forward in pursuit once more. At that moment a silver Volvo squealed up to the Caliga and the door swung open. The man dove in. The car peeled away.

Jack glared after it with nostrils flaring, fury and frustration boiling inside him. No license plate. He spat blood-streaked saliva to the ground and roughly wiped his mouth with a rapidly swelling fist.

He leaned against the hood of a black BMW and felt his heart rate decelerate. He became aware of aches and pains germinating in various joints and muscle groups. And then Jack smiled, just a little. That attack, seemingly pointless, was clearly meant to issue a warning.

It was a good sign. It meant he was getting close.

I crumpled the paper in my fist. This was the letter waiting for me when I returned home after the conference.

Enough messing around. I had to get the Fabergé. On the flight, on the way home from the conference, I had finally received Gladys’s message. York Security was a no-go. She’d tried her best, beyond her best, and the information was simply not available online.

At home I opened my cupboard to search for something to eat. A virtually empty jar of peanut butter and a can of chickpeas stared back at me.

There was only one thing to do now about York Security. I’d have to physically break into their headquarters and retrieve the information the old-fashioned way. I chewed my thumbnail. I’d hoped to avoid that.

I was going to need a plan and I couldn’t do it on an empty stomach. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my wallet and stalked to the 7-Eleven on Maple Street, a few blocks down.

As I turned a corner I saw a black Audi parked across the street, next to a mailbox, and I recognized it right away. Jack’s car. My shoulders dropped.
Not now.
But it wasn’t Jack seated behind the wheel. It was Nicole. I immediately stepped back behind the edge of a garage.

Nicole, again? I pressed my lips together. Something wasn’t right. Why did she keep turning up?

Of course Jack did, in fact, live in this neighborhood. And they were a couple. My heart shrank away from this admission. The sky started to lightly spit rain. My glance flicked around—was Jack here somewhere? Nicole was in the driver’s seat. Which meant that Jack was not with her. He always drove.

I could feel the sweat gathering at the base of my neck—what if she was staking me out? If she was, she was doing a poor job of it. Also, why would she be here, not at my apartment? No, I was just being paranoid.

However,
paranoid
had saved me many a time.

I exhaled with irritation. The smart thing to do would have been to go home. But my stomach groaned and rumbled like an old train engine. I was still starving. Then I got an idea. I backtracked half a block and zipped into a dollar store and bought a cheap umbrella. I used it to cover my face as I walked back into the 7-Eleven and pushed through the door. A cheerful chime tolled overhead and I was greeted by the familiar convenience store smells of stale coffee, Slurpee syrup, and one overcooked hot dog rotating on the grill.

I found myself drawn to the candy aisle to seek out comfort, in the form of chocolate. As I scanned the rows of red-and-silver-papered bars my mind trawled back to my York Security conundrum. Breaking into their headquarters was going to be about as easy as eliminating bread and sugar from one’s diet. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t go into the casino without that information.

As my eyes focused again on the chocolate in front of me I noticed a small piece of paper taped to the Snickers and I felt the hairs lift on my arms. It read:

I flipped my gaze to either side. Nobody around. I snapped off the note and tucked it in my pocket. I sauntered innocently to the designated area and stood in front of the rows of Bush’s tins. The aisle was deserted. I frowned and pick up a can of beans.
Wait.
There was a space behind it. I peered through the space and saw Sandor loitering in the adjacent aisle holding a jumbo pack of toilet paper and trying to appear surreptitious. He turned to look toward me.

“Hello, Miss Montgomery,” he whispered.

“Hello,” I whispered back. His methods may have been a little too spy-movie to be taken seriously but I had to admit, he was good. He must have seen me as I approached the 7-Eleven and then anticipated my beeline for the chocolate. But I wondered: how long had he been watching me? And why didn’t I know about it? I played with my earlobe as I studied him; that skill level was not what I expected from this apparently innocent, bumbling guy. A vague discomfort prickled under my skin.

“I’m here to check on your progress,” he said. “With the assignment. Everything coming along okay?” He sounded worried, doubtful.

I gnawed the inside of my cheek. Should I tell him about my difficulties getting the security information? Before I could say anything, he added, “I should tell you, Miss Montgomery, the board has decided to line up another . . . professional to do the job, if you’re not up to the task—”

“I’m fine!” I said quickly. “Everything is going beautifully, in fact. All falling into place.” A panicky feeling pushed into my throat. I needed this assignment. I couldn’t let it go to someone else.

He smiled and looked relieved. At least I thought he did, based on the fraction of his face I could see through the bean cans. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Of course I have every confidence in you, it’s just some of the others—”

“No problem. I understand. But believe me, it’s well in hand.”

After that, Sandor went to the counter and purchased the package of toilet paper he’d been holding. I returned to the chocolate aisle and reached for a Baby Ruth bar. I paused, reflecting on my dilemma, then grabbed four more bars.

I was standing by the front shop window as I watched Sandor exit the store with a jingle of door chime. He walked briskly away, head down against the wind. Then, Nicole’s car abruptly pulled away from the curb. As she drove, her gaze was clamped on Sandor.

My eyes went wide with surprise as I realized the truth of the situation: Nicole was staking out
Sandor.

This was not good. Why was Nicole tailing Sandor? Did she know who he was? Did she know what he was involved in? Worse—did she already know about the crime he had commissioned but which hadn’t yet come to fruition?

I tightened my hold on my umbrella—thank God I’d been wary enough to buy it. If she was staking out Sandor, I did not want to be connected. I thought back and replayed the last five minutes. Given the orientation of the store, the windows, I was sure she couldn’t have seen me talking to Sandor.

I slipped out my phone and sent Sandor an encrypted text message: You’ve got a tail. Black Audi.

I paid for my Baby Ruths and, after conducting thorough crosschecks for any sign of Nicole or other FBI agents, I exited the store. I began power-walking the five blocks to my apartment. I could feel the tension spreading in my shoulders and a headache developing. The faster I planned this job and got it done, the better. The FBI was on the scent and obviously getting closer.

I knew I had to break into York to get their security file on the Starlight Casino. But quite frankly, their security was going to be every bit as tight as the casino’s. I wouldn’t be able to wing it. If I had a little more time I could access the information from York in another way. Going undercover, for example. Scoring a job as a secretary or something, working there for a few weeks and then lifting the information from the system. Of course for that matter, I could have gone undercover at the casino.

But I didn’t have time for any of that. The deadline was looming. What was I going to do? After walking two blocks with my dilemma circling my brain like a terrier chasing its tail, I felt no further ahead. And then my scalp began to tingle. I was being followed.

At the next crosswalk, I stopped and casually reached into my purse. I pulled out lip gloss and a mirror. As I applied the gloss I looked behind me through the mirror’s reflection—an old trick and yet another advantage to being female in this business.

Within the crowd waiting at the light, two men were staring intently in my direction. Yep. Definitely being shadowed. I steeled my jaw—time to vanish.

I walked half a block further and made a sharp turn into a Starbucks. I continued to stride directly behind the counter, pulling a green Starbucks apron out of my handbag. I glanced at one of the baristas behind the counter. “I’m so sorry,” I said, flustered. “Gosh, I can’t believe I’m late for my very first day. . . . Do you think the manager saw me come in late?” I immediately went to the coffee grinder and started pouring in beans.

This was my patented shake-off plan. It’s perfect for several reasons. One, because there is, at bare minimum, a Starbucks on every block. Two, because coffee shop staff are virtually invisible. Anyone following me would hardly spare a glance at the workers. And three, there always seems to be a new trainee; nobody is ever surprised when I turn up.

The key is acting like you belong. Sell it and nobody will question you. And then you’re hiding in plain view.

As I stood there operating the grinder and listening to the shift manager rattle off my duties and responsibilities, I trained one eye on the door. Soon enough, the men who’d been shadowing me walked in. Once I got a good look at them I turned my face away and rolled my eyes with scorn.

They were dressed as monks. It’s a highly amateur move to dress in memorable disguise when tailing people; it only serves to highlight your presence. Worse, these two were doing a poor job of hiding the fact they were looking for someone.

I snuck another furtive glimpse. I frowned, drawing a complete blank on their faces. One was long boned and tall, with narrow-set eyes. The other was shorter and olive skinned, with a gentle, almost handsome face. They scanned the coffee shop for a few minutes, casting nary a glance at the staff. When they didn’t see me among the patrons, they left, adjusting their cloaks and scratching their heads with confusion.

I slipped into the tiny, cracked-tile staff restroom, stuffed my handy apron in my bag, and crawled out the window. In the alley I doubled back and took an alternate route home, vigilant for monks. I mentally catalogued the list of people who would have reason to follow me: Someone connected with Brooke? Possible. Someone with Nicole and the FBI? Definitely possible. Somebody else altogether? Always an option.

So now I would have to watch my back even more than usual. The throbbing headache that I’d been cultivating earlier ratcheted up a notch.

 

I got home and checked my messages. Ethan’s voice floated, smooth as bourbon, over the line.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said. Typically a very cheesy line, but in the capable hands of Ethan Jones, it worked. “Listen, Montgomery,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking about you. When can I see you again? Call me.”

As Ethan recited his phone number, a beacon suddenly flared in my brain. Ethan did the Seattle Art Museum job. And York Security was the company in the soup for the security breach. Maybe he had some ideas on prying information out of York.

I picked up the phone and dialed Ethan’s number.

“Montgomery,” he said. I could practically hear him grinning. “I had a feeling I’d hear from you.”

“Listen, I need a little help with something,” I said. I caught a glimpse of my face in the hall mirror and noted that my coloring was high.

We made a plan to meet at Glow martini bar, in Belltown neighborhood, in one hour.

As I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup my door buzzer sounded. With extreme reluctance I let my mother in. “It looks like you’re going out, dear,” she said, following me from the front door into my bedroom.

“Very astute, Mom.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Do you have . . . a
date
?” she asked breathlessly.

Reluctance, validated. “No.”

“But you’re meeting a man?”

“Yes. But it doesn’t matter.” I dug through my closet searching for my Kate Spade handbag. “Anyway, Mom, what exactly are you here for?”

“I wanted to bring you these books that I checked out from the library.” I looked down at the stack that she unloaded from her fabric tote bag, and scanned the titles:

My mother was grinning at me, puffed up and proud. “I thought you could use these,” she said.

I closed my eyes and exhaled. “Please don’t tell me you checked these out with your own library card?”

“Yes, of course I did.” She gave me her condescending look.

“Mom, are you insane? That is exactly the sort of thing that could get you—and not long after,
me
—red flagged.”

She looked thoughtful and tapped a manicured finger to her lips. “Mmm. Good point. I suppose I need an alias, don’t I?” Her expression turned quite gleeful.

I sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of my nose. “No, Mom. You don’t need an alias. Just don’t do stuff like this.”

She pouted. “Spoilsport.”

 

Later that evening I strolled into Glow. Blue under-bar lights gave a moody vibe to the room. The air swirled with the blended scents of perfume and cologne and exotic liqueurs of every variety. Prepubescent hostesses teetered about in black minidresses and stilettos. I scanned the room for Ethan. My heart rate picked up in spite of myself. This was
not
a date. I started regretting my outfit: slim black pants, embellished top, and fabulous Jimmy Choo pink sandals. Way too datelike.

Still, I was allowed a little fun, right? Nothing wrong with an innocent drink with a man. Nobody needed to get hurt. I finished surveying the room. No Ethan. I frowned slightly. I walked over to the bar, slid onto a sleek plastic bar stool, and ordered a mojito. As I sipped my drink, sweet and cold and minty, I couldn’t help remembering that Jack absolutely never left me waiting. Never. And he would always have my drink ordered and ready.

Just as I was pondering this, Ethan walked in the front door. My insides went to jelly. He looked fantastic. Just as good as I remembered. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, jeans, and a cocky strut as he made his way over to me. God, the guy was hot. The thing was—he knew it.

He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. The scent of his cologne flirted with my senses. “Sorry I left you waiting, Montgomery.”

Ethan ordered a Heineken and we moved to a table in the corner. We needed something a little more out of earshot.

“So listen,” I said, placing my frosty glass on a paper coaster. “I have a question to ask you. But you have to keep it confidential.”

“Naturally.” His face sported a crooked smile, as always. It was like life was one big amusement for him.

“What do you know about York Security?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you want to know?”

“I need details on the security system they put together for a client.”

“Hmm. Which client?”

“Can’t tell you.” I sipped my mojito innocently.

“Aw, come on.”

“Nope. Can you still help me?”

He sat back, thoughtfully “I imagine you’ve already found that you can’t get anywhere online, even with a hacker?”

I nodded.

“Breaking into their offices is almost impossible,” he said. “However, I
did
get in there once.”

I felt a flutter of hope. “So it can be done?”

He took a swig of beer and nodded. “Yep.”

“Can you tell me how?”

“Nope.”

I paused. “Excuse me?”

He grinned. “I could show you, though. We could do it together.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No way. I work alone.” At that moment I started having second thoughts about this plan. Ethan was AB&T Elite. And here I was consulting him on a moonlighting job. Could I trust him to keep this a secret?

He shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to figure it out yourself then,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Listen, babe, there’s somewhere I’ve got to be—”

“Wait, wait,” I said, seizing his forearm as he stood.
Damn
, I was desperate. And he knew it. “Okay, fine. We’ll do it together.”

He smiled wickedly. “See how good that sounds?”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, but listen. This is just between you and me, right? I mean—nobody else needs to know what we’re up to. You get me?”

“Of course, Montgomery.” All joking was aside now, as he said this. There was uncharacteristic seriousness in his gaze.

I took a deep breath. “So when can we do it?”

“Tomorrow night work for you?”

“Absolutely.”

I was totally fascinated to see how Ethan planned to pull this off. Breaking into airtight security headquarters was no easy task. However, as we both knew, every security system had seams.

“They’ve got one weak point,” he said.

“Which is what?”

“You’ll see.”

 

After Ethan left I gathered my things and walked to the front entrance. I was just passing by the bar when I heard my name called.

“Cat?” said a surprised voice.

I turned. Nicole was at the bar, perched on a sleek acrylic stool and holding a martini glass, looking at me. I swallowed. This was getting ridiculous. And way beyond suspicious.

“Oh, hi,” I said awkwardly. I reluctantly moved to where she was seated. A blender suddenly whirred behind the bar, crushing ice. “What are you doing here?” I tried to make the question come out as pure curiosity, instead of the guilt-ridden accusation it was.

But Nicole didn’t seem bothered. “Just here with some friends,” she said. At that point one of her friends, seated at the next bar stool, turned to face me. This friend was none other than Brooke Sinclair.

I almost choked on my own tongue. It took me a second to process this jarring image. Nicole smiled at me, apparently oblivious to my shock. “Brooke, this is my new friend Cat.” She looked at me. “Brooke is a work colleague.”

“Oh, um, hi,” I managed. I shook Brooke’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” It was surprising that I could actually hear any words being spoken, what with all the alarm bells and sirens going off in my head.

Brooke smiled at me. “Well, I’m not
exactly
a colleague.”

“Oh?” I asked, feeling a groundswell of nausea.

“I used to be one of the bad guys,” she whispered confidentially, with a show of remorse. “But I reformed. And now I work as a consultant of sorts for the FBI.”

My mouth went dry as her words sank in: Brooke was now an FBI informant. Or possibly just posing as an informant. The distinction was a bit academic because either way, I was screwed. The walls of the bar appeared to be closing in. It was definitely time for me to exit stage left. I mumbled some excuse about having to feed my cat, uttered a hasty good-bye and then turned abruptly away. I was almost at the door when I felt someone at my right elbow.

“It’s time for me to get home also,” Brooke said with a serpent’s smile, “as it turns out.”

I nodded stiffly and buttoned my jacket. As we walked out the front door the cold city air entered my lungs, spiked with car exhaust and the spicy curry aromas from a nearby Thai restaurant. I hazarded a sidelong glance at Brooke. “So I assume you’re going to tell Nicole all about me now,” I said in a low voice.

“Mmm, not just yet,” Brooke said.

“Why not?”

“I like watching you squirm, of course. A little game of cat and mouse. So to speak.”

And what could I do? I had nothing over her. No leverage. Her secret had been laid out in the public domain. As I struggled to come up with an appropriate threat or otherwise satisfying response, she filled the silence with, “So anyway, Cat, have you read my book yet?”

I blinked, and stared at her for several seconds. “Actually, I have.”