A Beautiful Heist (23 page)

The phone in his pocket bleeped. He glanced at the reminder. Dinner with Nicole tonight—new restaurant opening.

Damn. Not what he wanted to do right now. He climbed in his car.

On the other hand, dinner with Nicole would allow him to assess how much the FBI knew about the stolen Fabergé. That would be useful. He turned the engine and pulled his car smoothly away from the curb.

Still, the timing was bad. All he wanted to do right now was find Cat and make sure she was safe.

As Jack drove, he thought about what they’d discussed in the barbershop, just now. His grip tightened around the steering wheel. He hated that feeling of being one step behind the Caliga. Although, just before Jack left, Cole had provided one extremely useful piece of information. After working all this time to unearth the identity of the Caliga leader, Cole’s people had finally come up with it.

The Caliga leader was a man by the name of Sandor.

I walked to the pier in darkness, crisscrossing the deserted streets of Central Waterfront. The darkness tonight was a witchy variety, the sort that contained oddly shaped shadows. A brisk wind stirred dry leaves and litter, and this was throwing off my peripheral sense that detected movement. It made me feel strangely jumpy. Ribbons of hair flapped across my face. The nippy wind blew through me.

I wondered why Sandor wanted to meet at the pier. All part of his cloak-and-dagger routine? Well, it didn’t matter. I was quite used to meeting in shadowy public places. This was how Templeton and I typically operated. With that thought I felt a wave of relief; soon I wouldn’t have to lie to Templeton anymore.

I reached the pier and saw Sandor standing by the railing, waiting, just outside the dim circle of a lone lamplight’s glow. Pier 46 was used as a container shipping port and was deserted by nightfall.

I exhaled. Good, I was almost done with this.

Sandor turned as I approached. We were hidden from street view by the darkness of the isolated pier. The career criminal in me liked that. The female in me gave a small shiver of discomfort.

“You have it?” he asked eagerly.

“Do you have the payment?”

He nodded toward a briefcase at his feet.

“Cash?” I said in surprise. “That’s a bit old school, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. He handed me the briefcase and I opened it with a
click.
I levered the lid open just a crack and peered inside at the bundles of crisp bills, neat in their rows. I slipped one thin bundle out and tucked it into my pocket. I closed the briefcase.

Wordlessly, I handed Sandor the Egg from my canvas backpack, wrapped in several layers of plain tissue. He unwrapped the layers, exposing a small glimmer of the Egg. Sandor’s eyes glittered.

“At long last,” he said quietly. He traced a fingertip over a line of gold on the Egg’s surface. The tissue paper rustled as he swaddled it again. “Miss Montgomery, our family has waited a very, very long time for this.”

I smiled and exhaled. It was done. The circle was complete. This was my thing, truly the thing I did best.

And then, I found myself holding my breath. Waiting for . . . what? Some kind of feeling of completeness or wholeness, I suppose. I stood on the pier and twisted the ring on my finger.
Is it enough, Penny?
Had I done enough to make up for everything that had happened? I bit my lip. But just like the yacht job, I didn’t feel any different.

I frowned. Why
not
? I’d been sure this would be the job to bring me closure. What was I doing wrong? I tightened my hand around the smooth leather of the briefcase handle. At least I could get the damn IRS off my back now. The rest I’d have to figure out later.

I looked at Sandor. “Well, I suppose that’s it. It was good working with you.” I glanced over my shoulder at my exit route.

Sandor turned to face me. His hand was in his right jacket pocket. There must have been something funny about the shadow cast by the dim lamplight, because the expression on his face was not one I’d seen on Sandor before.

All my spider-senses suddenly started firing. Something was not right here. A powerful urge to get away took hold.

At that moment, a group of drunk college kids stumbled onto the pier, loudly. There was a smash of glass as one broke a bottle on the concrete pier. An outburst of pickled laughter followed. They were mostly young men—large, football types—and there were at least a dozen of them.

Sandor’s head snapped toward the newcomers, then his eyes swung back to mine. He melted wordlessly into the shadows. I disappeared in the opposite direction, sliding past the oblivious group of college kids, exhaling with relief.

As I lost myself in the populated part of the pier complex, I felt cold inside thinking about Sandor. What had happened back there?

I strode out to the street, wondering if I’d just been imagining things. On my way I passed a homeless woman slumped against a building. I reached into my coat pocket, where I’d slipped one small bundle of bills. I pressed the money into her filthy hand and quickly disappeared around the corner. I scanned the street for the beacon light of a taxi. Abruptly, a car parked directly across the road pulled out and drove away. I caught a glimpse of the driver. I saw long, glossy, raven-colored hair.

I stiffened. No. It couldn’t have been. Just my imagination.

Or was it? Was that Brooke? And if it was—how much had she seen?

 

Argentinian music with a cool, strong beat surrounded us as we entered the restaurant. I was there with Mel and Sophie, and we were celebrating the completion of my job.

Besides, opening night at a new restaurant is always fun. The ultrachic space was all chocolate brown walls and glossy white leather booths, with halogen light reflecting off black lacquered tables. The hostess led us to a table near the open-concept kitchen, which smelled of charred ahi tuna and garlic and olive oil. I heard searing on the grill and the chink of plates. We slid into our seats and Mel looked around keenly, assessing the talent. Then her face plummeted.

“Oh. My. God,” she said.

I turned abruptly, following her gaze. Seated at a table on the other side of the restaurant were Jack and Nicole.

My chest constricted. It was the first time I’d seen them together since my humiliating performance at the golf tournament. I know I shouldn’t have cared. Besides, I’d been with Ethan since then.

“Okay, Cat, it’s cool,” said Mel. “Who cares? Nothing you can’t handle.”

Sophie looked at me uncertainly. “Do you want to leave?”

I considered this a moment. I hazarded a second glance at their table. Admittedly, neither Jack nor Nicole looked terribly happy, but that didn’t mean anything. They were probably hungry and waiting for their food, or something. “No,” I said firmly, shaking my head. Dammit, I didn’t want to be running away from these two all the time. Sooner or later I was going to have to come to terms with it. And it might as well be sooner. “Just somebody get me a drink.”

“That’s my girl,” Mel said.

Our table was soon filled with frosty caipirinhas and tapas: calamari and spicy green beans. After some therapeutic gossip, I found myself forgetting about Jack and Nicole’s presence. I stood and made my way to the restroom.

My shoes clipped on the Brazilian cherry hardwood floor as I walked, slightly wobbily, along a dark narrow corridor. Suddenly a hand gripped my elbow and someone was at my side. Before I could protest, Jack pulled me to the side of the corridor. He looked at me with anger in his eyes, but beneath that was something else. Worry, maybe?

“Did you have anything to do with that Fabergé being stolen?” he demanded. “The Aurora Egg?”

My eyes flew open at the mention of the Aurora Egg. How did he know about that? My stomach tightened. Was this Jack as an FBI agent questioning me? Or Jack as a concerned ex-boyfriend, needing to be the hero at all times?

I attempted to erase emotion from my face and deliberately removed his hand from my forearm. “I’m sorry, Jack, but what are you talking about?”

“Tell me the truth, for Christ’s sake, Cat. It’s important. You don’t understand.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “No, you don’t understand. You don’t have a vote in what I do anymore—got it?” I glanced around to see who was in earshot. There was no immediate company but this corridor was not exactly private.

“Listen, Cat—”

“Do you mind?” I spat between clenched teeth, interrupting him. “Your girlfriend over there has the ability to ruin my life, so I would appreciate it if you weren’t so obvious.”

“She’s not my—” he started, then stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. Come here.” He dragged me out of the corridor, lifting up the coat check counter and pushing me into the muffled darkness of the cloakroom.

He relatched the counter and turned to face me. I stood there deliberately examining my fingernails, a move designed to piss him off. “You have something more to say to me?”

“Listen, Cat. Whoever did this job is in danger. If it was you, you have to go into hiding.”

“I swear. It wasn’t me.” I held up three fingers, Girl Scout-like. Not that I was ever a Girl Scout, but I was pretty sure this was how they did it.

He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms over his broad chest, regarding me closely. At last, he nodded. “Fine.”

Apart from muffled sounds from the restaurant, it was very quiet in here as we faced each other in standoff.

“Good. So we’re all done here,” I said. “Or do you have something more to say to me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “I want to know why you’re with that Ethan guy.”

Again,
not
what I was expecting. I struggled a moment, not knowing how to respond to this, and finally said, “Well, he happens to be a lot of fun.”

“He’s a thief, Cat.”

I uttered a short laugh. “Umm, Jack, in case you hadn’t noticed—”

“He is not a good person. You should stay away from him.”

And then, I felt my blood simmering once more. “Excuse me? You think you’ve got some sort of right to tell me who I can and cannot associate with?”

“I’m concerned.”

I planted my hands on my hips. “
You
relinquished your right to be concerned when you broke up with me.”

He flung his hands up with exasperation. “Cat, that doesn’t make any sense. Just because we can’t be together as a couple, doesn’t mean I don’t care about you as a person.”

“Fine. Whatever. Concern noted.”

At that point, we heard someone unlatch the cloakroom counter and enter.

In retrospect, it would have made sense for one of us to hide and the other to make an appearance, an excuse, and an escape. Alas. This we did not do. We both dove deeper into the closet of coats to hide. All I can assume is that we were both just too accustomed to furtive-type behavior. Which was ridiculous because I then saw, between coats, that the intruder was none other than the coat-check attendant. Still, we couldn’t come out now.

While we waited for the attendant to finish we stayed silent. Unfortunately, the snug proximity to Jack, in combination with the four caipirinhas I’d recently consumed, was doing naughty things to critical parts of my anatomy. I could smell the musk of his aftershave. I could feel the heat from his body.

The attendant clicked her pen and exited. I had the better vantage point of the two of us, so I turned to Jack to tell him it was safe to come out.

But as I turned, and before I had a chance to speak, he pulled me very close and pressed his mouth to mine in a hot, hungry kiss.

The world tilted. Jack’s hands twisted in my hair and I felt every nerve tingle. I returned his urgent kisses, and gripped tightly to his broad shoulders. He slid his hand roughly up my side, along my bare skin that prickled with goose bumps. He fumbled with my top and bra straps as I clawed at his shirt. We tumbled down to the floor, bringing several plush coats down with us as we fell. We rolled around in cushiony fleece and fur, pressing our bodies together. He murmured my name and my heart soared.

I was filled with ripples of excitement and happiness. Was this actually happening?

And then my iPhone bleeped: a text message. The beeping was urgent and loud and it was not the sort of thing that would be quiet unless I did something. So I fumbled with one hand to turn it off. As I grabbed the case I glimpsed the message. It was from Templeton. And it said: We know.

Ice-cold water poured down my back.

Jack looked down. “Who is it?”

“Um—” My mind was whirling. There was only one thing I could think: Templeton, and AB&T, must know about the Fabergé job. Panic clawed up my throat.

“Cat—what’s wrong?” Jack said, eyes full of concern. “Who was it?”

“Templeton,” I said breathlessly.

“Who?”

I stared into space, trying to think clearly. How could they have found out? “You know, my handler ... at AB&T . . .”

When I said that, Jack sat up. His eyebrows furrowed and he gazed down at his hands. With that, I knew the spell was broken.

“Oh. Right. Well, you’d better go,” he said in a detached voice. He started buttoning his shirt. My brain was a maelstrom of conflicting needs. I was desperate to stay, but
goddammit,
I had to deal with this situation. Posthaste.

“Okay, yes, I have to go ... but, um, maybe we can continue this later....” I tried for a playful nuzzle on his ear.

He pulled away and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Cat. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

My chest pinched. “Wait, Jack—”

“Nothing’s changed, Cat. You’re still in the same line of work. In fact, it’s never going to change. You and me—we just can’t be together.” He stood. “I’m sorry if that was confusing.” With a torn expression, he left the cloakroom.

I was lost at sea, tossed about by bewildering waves of emotion. I sat there for a second, then stood up and clambered out of the cloakroom. And steeled myself for what I expected would be a very ugly conversation with Templeton.

 

As I hailed a cab, I reread the second part of Templeton’s message. Meet me in the grocery store. Tomatoes.

I arrived at Whole Foods and beelined to the produce section. The intermingled smells of onions and melons and cabbage, normally pleasant to me, was overpowering just then and made me feel like gagging. I stood rigidly inspecting and squeezing tomatoes. After placing a third tomato in a canvas bag, I sensed movement and looked up. Templeton stood on the other side of the tomato pyramid, solemnly filling his basket. I glanced at his face.

A voice announced in my head: “Ladies and gentlemen, the role of Templeton will be played tonight by our understudy . . .”

Templeton’s normally good-humored expression had been replaced by something much more grave. I felt a whorl of nausea. Any residual hope I’d been clinging to that perhaps Templeton’s ominous
“We Know”
was referring to something else was squashed when I saw his face. I shuffled around the produce pyramid and stood beside him, continuing to select tomatoes.

“Cat, we know about the Fabergé Egg job.”

I closed my eyes and nodded. Templeton continued. “The AB&T board are not happy. And, to tell you the truth, neither am I.”

“Listen, Templeton, I can explain—”

He held up a hand to stop me, and looked at me from hooded, tired eyes.

I thought about lying. I thought about giving Templeton some kind of story about being forced into doing the job. I could tell him Sandor threatened my family, perhaps.

But I couldn’t do it. Guilt demons occupied too many shadowy places in my heart as it was. I didn’t need to complicate things by lying even further to Templeton. No, it was time to face up to my misdeeds.

“I’ve already begun damage control. I’ll do what I can to fix this,” Templeton said. “But I have to tell you, there’s no way promotion to Elite status is a possibility now.”

“Right. Of course.” I bit the inside of my lower lip.

“You may even be out of AB&T forever. We’ll have to see.”

Templeton was cutting my heart out with a spoon, with those words. Not work for AB&T? Where would that leave me? No other agency would touch me with that sort of history. Did that mean I would have to retire? That all my aspirations and dreams would have to be abandoned—forever unfulfilled? It was something I could barely stand thinking about.

There was silence between us. A female shopper glided by behind Templeton, down the aisles of produce pyramids, pushing a cart; a cloud of Chanel perfume wafted after her. The PA system crackled and announced a sale on Nature’s Path breakfast cereal, aisle 9.

“How did you find out?” I asked quietly.

Templeton pressed his lips together and shrugged. “Not that it matters now. But we received a tip, then checked it out ourselves.”

Dark, ominous storm clouds gathered in my brain at that answer. “Who provided the tip?” I barely whispered the words. I cringed, waiting for the response I knew was surely coming.

“Actually, Catherine, it was Brooke Sinclair.”

First thing next morning I marched straight into the spa, past the receptionist with her flawlessly made-up face. I stormed right through the peaceful waiting room with its bubbling fountain and whale music that, given my current state of mind, gave me stabby rage. I thundered directly into the pedicure room. This was where Brooke was receiving a simultaneous manicure and pedicure, like the Queen of freaking Sheba.

“Brooke. Three words: What. The. Fuck.”

I didn’t care that I was making a scene. I didn’t care that I looked like a lunatic. And I certainly didn’t care that I was using coarse profanity in an institution that favored euphemisms such as “Brazilian” in place of more accurate and truthful descriptions, i.e., “ripping every last pubic hair out of your body using hot wax.” I had one thing I cared about right then: stopping Brooke from further ruining my life. And I had an idea how I could do that.

Everyone in the room startled at my intrusion. Everyone except Brooke, of course, who remained as serene and unflappable as ever. “I’m sorry, Cat. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” I said through gritted teeth.

Brooke’s estheticians suddenly found themselves running dangerously low on cuticle softener. They beat a hasty exit.

I clenched my fists. “Jesus, Brooke. Don’t you have something better to do with your free time?”

She paused, putting a finger to her mouth in a thoughtful posture. She glanced down at her half-painted toenails and shrugged. “Not really, actually.”

I felt an irresistible urge to scratch her eyes out. But then it occurred to me: what was Brooke doing, anyway? Was she still working? Now that she’d been in prison, and come out publicly, I wondered—was it possible she’d never work again?

And that, I realized, played in perfectly with my idea.

“Brooke, how much do you need, to leave me alone?”

She looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’m prepared to buy you off. If it will make you go away.”

It was a desperate plan, I know. Mostly because I had no money. Everything I’d just made had gone to the IRS. But I could earmark the next few jobs to her, if I had to. It would be worth it.

She blew on her shiny wet nails. “Seriously? That’s the best you can come up with?” Her mouth twisted with scorn. “There’s something you don’t get, Cat. No amount of money will change this fact:
you don’t belong in this line of work.
I trained you. And I can ruin you. That’s just the way it is. The world of thieves is a small one, and there’s only room for one of us at the top. And it’s not going to be you.”

“And how can you be so sure?” I asked, crossing my arms.

A strange expression crossed her face—something I couldn’t quite read. “Because people like
you
are not supposed to have things
I
want.”

I stared at her, surprised. “You envy me,” I said slowly.

She rolled her eyes. “Please, Cat. We both know the truth here. You’ve always been envious of me. Besides, who trained whom? Who turned you from a common pickpocket into a professional thief? Answer me this: when you’re doing a job, and in a tight spot, how often do you think:
how would Brooke do this
?”

I cringed. Because she was right.

“You know, I hope you’ll see someday that I’m actually doing you a favor,” she said.

“You’re completely delusional. What is your problem? Seriously”

“You should try asking yourself the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked at me squarely. “Why do you do all this, Cat? Why do you continue in this line of work? You have a chance at a normal life. You could have an academic career, and you’ve got a man who would be with you in a heartbeat if you gave up your criminal tendencies. So I’m asking you: what’s
your
problem?”

I felt a slicing pain as that arrow hit too close to the mark. I gritted my teeth and told myself to ignore her. She was just trying to mess with my head.

Besides, I knew exactly why I couldn’t give it up, not just yet.

 

“I assume you know why you’re here,” said the man with the comb-over and the gaps between his Chiclets teeth. He was seated behind a large mahogany desk, tapping a pencil irritably. Mr. Frank was Templeton’s boss at the Agency, head of the HR Department. Templeton stood to Mr. Frank’s left, looking grim. To complete the triangle I sat in front of the desk, knees together, eyes lowered like an admonished teenager.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I was in the principal’s office—but a thousand times worse. And, as a further distinction, surrounded by dental equipment. The waiting room was filled with catalogs and samples of drills and dentures and X-ray machines. AB&T headquarters was disguised as a dental supply company. That was our cover.

It was hot and stuffy in there; my palms felt slick and the backs of my knees were prickling. Of course I knew why I was in trouble. What I didn’t know was what they were going to do about it. My stomach corkscrewed.

“Part of your contract with AB&T,” Mr. Frank continued gravely, “is that you are
not
to take outside jobs. When people hire thieves independently that undermines the entire fabric of this agency. This is a business we’re running here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s also a security issue. Every time you engage with an unscreened party, there could be risks.”

I knew all that, of course. I steeled myself for what was coming next. Mr. Frank paused, breathing loudly through his nose. “You’re an excellent thief, Miss Montgomery,” he said, clenching his jaw. “You have done some superb work for us.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Frank reclined in his chair and squinted his eyes into tight slits. I suspended my breathing. I waited for the blow to come.
And, by the way, don’t expect a reference....

“In short,” he said, “we have decided to overlook this transgression.”

My jaw hung open. “What? You have?” I started to smile, but neither of them were smiling so I wrenched my face straight.

“This must absolutely never happen again,” Mr. Frank said. “I cannot stress this enough. Let’s be clear on the terms, shall we?”

I nodded rapidly. He held up a hand and counted off rules on his fingers. “No more assignments outside AB&T. No more freelance. No more interactions with these people—this Sandor—or anything to do with this Fabergé. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

My head felt light with disbelief. I was off the hook. There was only one way this could have happened: Templeton must have really gone to bat for me. I glanced at him. His expression was mixed. He was relieved, that was certain. But I could also see his disappointment in me. He couldn’t quite meet my eye.

I knew it would be a long time before he forgave me for deceiving AB&T—and him. So when I swore to them that it would never happen again, I really meant it. Firstly, because I knew there wouldn’t be any more chances. But mostly because there was no way I was going to betray Templeton again.

Absolutely no way.

 

Unfortunately, that very afternoon I realized, to my horror, that I was going to do exactly that.

It was a day of torrential rain and I was going with Ethan to an art gallery. I was expecting a reasonably pleasant couple of hours gazing at paintings while Ethan scoped out the security system for his next job.