A Beautiful Heist (6 page)

The door chimed as I entered the diner. Which was unfortunate, because I’d wanted to slip in. I was wary as I stepped into the warmth, with tense shoulders and senses going full throttle, but I was also bursting with curiosity. My eyes swept over the red vinyl-covered stools lining the Formica counter, the red vinyl booths with chrome trim, the chalkboard listing the specials. The diner smelled of coffee and onion rings and chicken noodle soup.

Within seconds I’d assessed the degree of danger in there. I scouted the exits (one by the restroom, and another through the kitchen) and the other customers (a family with two teenagers, three grizzled road workers at the counter, a retired couple at a booth in the corner, and a smattering of single diners sitting alone huddled over their platters of French fries and country-fried steak).

But where was Mr. White Rose? Maybe he wasn’t there? Maybe this was just someone’s joke?

No, wait—there he was.

Hmm. What made me think this would be a man? This was a kid. No older than twenty, I would have said. Sporting curly brown hair, John Lennon-esque glasses, and falling asleep in his seat.

But I wasn’t ready to approach him yet. I ran my gaze over the other customers there. Yes, the man seated by the window was clearly a lookout, judging from the tension in his body, his hyper-alert gaze that didn’t belong in a diner at supper time. And there was another, lingering by the restroom. His weight was just a little too far forward, a little too ready to make a move if necessary.

Despite this, I didn’t see an imminent threat. Their eyes were wary, but not malevolent. There was no finger twitching, preparing to grab a weapon. These guys were just watching. They were leery, but then so was I.

I strolled across the diner and slid into the booth to sit across the table from Mr. White Rose, keeping track of the watchers in my peripheral vision. I observed Mr. White Rose for a moment. His head lolled forward, a small line of drool was escaping his mouth, and his face was smooth, slack, and peaceful.

I cleared my throat. He awakened with a start.

“What? Oh! Miss Montgomery.” He sat up, flustered and wild eyed. “Was I asleep?” He raised a hand to rub his face and spilled his coffee across the table.

I nodded, mopping up the mess with a wad of napkins from the tin dispenser on the table. “Looks like you just dozed off a little,” I said. I struck a casual tone here, but my brain was churning. He’d used my
name.

“No problem, no problem,” he said, straightening his glasses and wiping the crusted drool from the corner of his mouth. Could this possibly be the person who so skillfully drew me here? No, surely the true mind here was behind the scenes. I flicked a surreptitious glance at the lookouts; nothing about them said “leader,” however. Was someone else involved? At that moment a waitress in a peach-colored apron arrived. She placed a fresh cup of coffee on the table, refilled the spilled one, and said she’d return for our order.

I lifted the warm mug and sipped, watching him over the rim. I didn’t usually drink coffee black, but fiddling with packets of sweetener and little pots of cream would have created the wrong impression at a clandestine rendezvous, I felt. Bitter, strong flavor punched my tongue, but I swallowed it down.

“So, Miss Montgomery,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning toward me, “I’m here to ask for your help.”

“Oh?” I said lightly. “You need a French lit tutor?”

He smiled but shook his head. He lowered his voice further. “We know who you are and what you do.”

My gut squeezed. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow,” I said, keeping my features smooth. Who was this guy?

“Please, Miss Montgomery. We know you are skilled at . . .
procuring
certain items.”

I glanced swiftly around. No other patrons were within earshot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Does the Camelot Diamond sound familiar? The Bianca necklace?”

I tightened my jaw. Those were recent jobs of mine. “Maybe you’d like to tell me who you are,” I said sharply. “And who you mean by ‘we.’ Other than the lookouts you’ve got posted by the restroom and that table over there.” I flicked my eyes in the direction of the two men I’d spotted.

His eyes widened. He blinked. “I must say, Miss Montgomery, they told me you were good, but I’m impressed.”

I maintained a cold stare. “You were about to explain who you are, exactly.”

“Yes, of course. My apologies. My name is Sandor.” He rubbed his chin and pressed his lips together. “My family is—well, have you heard of the Romanovs?”

At that, my mind conjured images of imperial Russian splendor, snow-covered Saint Petersburg, and the lavish Winter Palace.

“Are you telling me your ancestors were the czars?”

Sandor nodded. He slid his coffee cup on the table, rolling it between his hands.

“But—they were all killed,” I said. “In the revolution. A mass execution.”

“Well, that’s what you were supposed to believe. But you know as well as I do that the public story is often completely different than the private one.”

A good point.

“Okay, fine.” I took another sip of coffee and shifted in the slippery vinyl booth. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, that this is all true, and you really are who you say. How do you know who
I
am?” Little fluttery shocks of anxiety were going off inside me, like the uncomfortable zips you get with static electricity. I had a lot of questions besides this one—like who else besides Sandor knew these things about me.

“A family like ours has a lot of resources and connections,” Sandor said. “How do you think we’ve survived all this time?”

“Fair enough.” I folded my arms over my chest, leaned back and narrowed my eyes at him. “So, what do you want, exactly?”

He bolted down the remainder of his coffee. But he winced slightly as he did it. It was endearing, really, to watch this kid try to play the big man. I was starting to get the picture. I imagined the patriarchs of his family pushed him forward for this task. I wondered why him, though. Did they think he would be the least intimidating? Were they trying to disarm me? What?

“Have you heard of the Fabergé Eggs, Miss Montgomery?”

“Of course.” Any self-respecting jewel thief knew all about the Fabergé Eggs. They were masterpieces, designed by the virtuoso jeweler Fabergé for the Russian imperial family to give to each other as Easter gifts. Today, a Fabergé Egg is worth several million dollars. The Rothschild Egg was sold by Christie’s auction house a few years ago for nearly nine million pounds sterling.

“In that case, you probably know,” Sandor continued, “that many of the Eggs went missing during the revolution.”

I nodded. There were fifty known Imperial Eggs originally. When the palaces were looted during the revolution, several Eggs disappeared. Some were found, but eight were still missing.

“It’s been my family’s quest ever since to right that wrong, to track down the lost Eggs and recover them for the family. One of them, in particular, is called the Aurora Egg. Its existence has been seldom documented. Even so, we’ve traced its path over the years, and we’ve finally located it here.”

“In Seattle?” A thrill traced up my back. The only things better than priceless jewels are long-lost priceless jewels that have just turned up in your own backyard. And a Fabergé Egg, at that. It’s like the holy grail for a jewel thief.

“Believe it or not, yes. And this is where you come in. We want to hire you to steal it back for us.”

I said nothing for a moment. I sipped my coffee to partially hide the expression on my face. This sort of job would be a thief’s dream.

Sandor looked at me uncertainly. “Maybe this wouldn’t mean anything to you, but it would be a chance for you to right a very old wrong.”

I froze, midsip. My heart soared at the very idea. Could this be the job I’d been waiting for? Reflexively, I touched my old ring and twisted it back and forth.

But there was a problem: I couldn’t take work outside the Agency. It was a major no-no. It was the sort of thing that could terminate my contract with the Agency—and end my career. He was going to have to go through AB&T. But that might mean the assignment would go to someone else. I squeezed my hand into a fist beneath the table, weighing the sides. I really didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t jeopardize my future.

I exhaled. With a great deal of effort I said, “It’s an intriguing proposition, Sandor. But what you need to do is contact my Agency—”

“No,” he said abruptly, his nostrils flaring. “No agencies. Listen, Miss Montgomery, our family is extremely uptight about the possibility of betrayal. We’ve been deceived in the past; history is familiar with the disasters that befell our family. The fewer people involved, the better. There’s no way we’re going to be betrayed again.”

“Oh,” I said. “I see. That’s nonnegotiable?”

“Totally.” The set of his jaw was firm.

This was a problem. Taking extracurricular work was strictly verboten. Besides, it was risky. There would be no backup, no support team should something go wrong, that sort of thing. And the timing was terrible. I was just at the point of climbing the ladder at AB&T. If I were caught doing a freelance assignment, I’d be out. Likely blackballed, to boot—it would be near impossible to find another agency willing to take me on. I gazed around the diner and quelled the urge to fiddle with the sugar packets.

“So,” he said, sitting back and taking a calming breath. “Will you help us?”

I was torn in pieces. The idea of it had me salivating, but the realities of my situation were not good.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t usually work this way. My assignments always come to me through my Agency” I toyed with my coffee spoon. I contemplated the other thieves who might clamor for this job—other, more seasoned thieves. “Why me, anyway?”

“My family believes that you’ve got the exact skills needed to make this happen. We know all about your recent jobs. The Camelot Diamond heist, for example.”

I smiled, reflecting. Yes, I was quite proud of that one. The Camelot was a famous diamond on traveling exhibit from the Louvre. It had been on display last year at the Seattle Museum of Natural History and I . . .
wait a minute.
“You know I was caught during that job, though?” I said. Not before handing off the jewel, I remembered with some pride.

“We know,” he said, nodding once and smiling. “We also know that in spite of that, you managed to escape not only arrest but also public exposure. You seem to be a thief of unusual resources.”

Yes, well. It helps if the FBI officer who catches you is someone you’re becoming romantically involved with. I didn’t think I could count on that for future jobs, but I declined to raise that issue with Sandor.

I watched his face carefully. It occurred to me: might he already know about Jack? He seemed to possess a lot of information. A prickly discomfort returned. I disliked it when strangers knew things about me.

“One other thing,” Sandor said, leaning forward once again. “I should probably mention that you will be compensated handsomely, should you decide to take this job. We’re a family of great means. If you were to help us, we would appreciate it to the highest degree.”

Now I liked the sound of
that.

“In fact . . .” He dug through his canvas bag and pulled out a Cerruti leather checkbook. “This is a show of good faith. No strings attached.”

He scribbled onto the check, ripped it from the book, and slid it over to me. My eyebrows elevated. Five thousand US dollars.

“Just so you know, this is simply a gift. Yours to keep. However, if you accept our request, we’ll be paying you many times this.”

I knew I should walk away. I knew I should turn it down. But when I thought about what this job could mean to me . . . I wasn’t so sure. I thought about what happened the last time I turned down a job, when I refused my sister, all those years ago. If I took this job now, might it not help heal that old wound? And what about the sheer challenge of it? I wondered . . . was I even good enough to pull off a job like this?

I chewed my lip. “I need some time to think about it,” I managed to say.

He rubbed his face, then nodded. “Fine, I understand. We’ll give you twenty-four hours to consider it. But after that, we’ll need a commitment.”

He slid an envelope adorned with an embossed Venetian mask toward me and I opened it. It was an invitation—engraved on heavy, cream-colored card stock—to a masquerade ball.

“Your appearance at this event tomorrow night will signal that you have accepted this assignment.”

Mel’s face darkened. “You’re crazy to even consider it,” she said with characteristic bluntness. She turned away from me with exasperation and went to my refrigerator to rummage for something to eat.

I turned to Sophie. Her blue eyes were wide with concern. Sophie’s face had always been a plate-glass window without drapes or blinds—you could see her every emotion through it. “Sorry, Cat, I’m with Mel on this one.”

I had just told my two best friends about my strange rendezvous with Sandor earlier that evening. They came over as soon as I called. I needed some help getting my head straight over it.

I knew they were right, of course. I should just forget about Sandor’s offer. So why couldn’t I get it out of my mind? I fidgeted with the sofa cushion. “The thing is, I really think this job could be the one,” I said at last.

“Oh, not
that
again, Cat,” Mel said from the kitchen. She held up two containers: cocktail olives and ajar of mayonnaise. “By the way, these items represent the entire contents of your fridge. How do you
live?”
she said with a disparaging tone.

Mel was not a thief; she was a pediatrician. Which, as it happened, was the perfect career for her—except for the fact that she didn’t like children. To Mel, children were grubby, snotty, squirmy little creatures. Naturally kids adored her. My personal theory was that Mel actually loved kids, deep down. And they could sense that. They were like dogs, I figured. They could sniff out a person’s true emotions.

“It sounds dangerous,” Sophie said worriedly, sipping her wine. Her armful of bangles jingled as she lifted her glass. “You don’t know anything about these people. And I have to tell you, Cat, I’m not getting a good reading from your chakra energy right now.”

“Sophie, please. Spare us the hocus-pocus,” said Mel. She slid onto a bar stool, pushing aside the take-out containers and unopened mail that adorned the countertop. She slid off her dark-framed glasses and buried them in the mound of blond, curly hair on top of her head. “The whole thing sounds like bad business, top to bottom.” She lifted her wineglass and took a sip. She gave me a level stare over the rim of her glass. “Cat, don’t you think it’s time to stop all this? Isn’t it time to look for a new job? A new career?”

“You know I can’t do that,” I said quietly.

Mel and Sophie have been my closest friends since before we could walk. We all grew up in the same neighborhood and still lived near one another. My girls both knew the truth about what I did and had for a long time.

After my sister died, I tore myself apart with guilt and grief. Mel and Sophie knew something more was going on than what I was telling my parents. They took me aside and I told them everything, all about what Penny had been trying to do and my secret little hobby. Had I been a little older than fourteen when all this came out, I never would have told them. I would never take such a ridiculous risk now.

But they’d been by my side ever since, though I knew they wished I would choose a safer—and somewhat less illicit—line of work.

The two of them would never have dreamed of breaking the law themselves. But they didn’t hold it against me. Or, at least, they hadn’t up till now.

“Let me ask you this,” Mel demanded. “How will you know when it’s time to let that go? How will you know if you’ve done enough, so you can stop feeling guilty about Penny?”

“I’ll just know.”

“And do you really think you would leave it all after that?” asked Sophie.

I frowned into my wineglass. That—I didn’t know.

“Know what I think?” said Mel. “I don’t think you’re capable of leaving it, of not being a thief. I think it’s too much a part of you. And I think there’s something that keeps drawing you into it. Something more than what happened to your sister.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. But there’s got to be something. Really, Cat, any normal person would have gotten out long ago.”

“Oh, thanks. So I’m abnormal now?”

“What makes you use the word
now?”

“Ha. Funny.”

I looked at my two girlfriends. They only wanted the best for me. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll try to forget about this job.”

Traffic sounds floated up and over my balcony, into my living room. The city was coming to life for the evening.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” Mel said abruptly. “If we hurry, we can get to Bar None for a drink before happy hour ends.”

“Good idea. I need a distraction. Just let me get changed.”

I darted into the bedroom. While I was digging around in my closet I called out to my friends in the kitchen. “Hey, Mel! I need my black sandals, the ones with the rhinestones and the killer heel—can you grab them for me?” I flopped onto the bed, struggling into my dark, super-skinny jeans.

“Uh, sure,” Mel said. “Where are they?”

“The oven.” I stuffed lip gloss and some cash into my handbag.

Momentarily, her head popped around the bedroom door frame. “I’m sorry—I don’t think I heard you . . . . Did you say the oven?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t move, staring at me with concern.

“Forget it,” I said, sighing with exasperation. I walked briskly past her to the kitchen. I opened the oven door with a creak. Inside was a neat line of several pairs of shoes. I grabbed the sandals and closed the door, turning around to see Mel staring at me. A smirk grew on her face.

“What?” I said defensively. “I ran out of closet space. Besides, it’s not like I
use
the oven for anything.”

“Good point.”

Then, there was a knock at my door.

“I’ll get it,” said Mel, striding toward the door. I frowned, wondering who it could be—I wasn’t expecting anyone.

Mel swung open the door. In the hallway stood Bradley, my neighbor from across the hall. Bradley, my fortysomething, balding (but in denial), personal-injury-lawyer neighbor. I cringed when I saw him. What now? I wasn’t in the mood for interruptions; I was keen to get going. Mel folded her arms and leveled Bradley with a caustic stare. “What do you want?” she asked.

Bradley ignored Mel. “Good evening, Cat!” he said, using his cheerful and important tone. This was the one that was like a cheese grater on my mental state. His smile was oily car salesman. I could see his eyes flicking about my apartment, noting the dishes piled in my sink, the damning heap of laundry parked by my front door. He held out an envelope with a flourish. “This registered letter was being delivered to you yesterday, and you weren’t here, but it seemed to be an urgent matter, so I agreed to take it and deliver it personally . . . .”

I strode over and snatched the letter. “Thanks, Bradley. That’s really helpful,” I said in monotone. I glanced at the envelope: registered, government-looking.

Mel closed the door and I tossed Bradley’s letter on top of the stack of mail.

“Aren’t you going to open that?” asked Mel.

“It looks important,” Sophie said with concern. She picked up the letter and studied it.

“Nah. I’ll look at it later,” I said. “Let’s get going.”

I stood in front of the hall mirror and touched up my mascara. There. Ready. When I turned back, Mel was opening the envelope with a knife.

“Mel, what the
hell?”
I stared at her with outrage.

“What? I can’t help it. I can’t stand it.”

She started reading the letter before I had a chance to stop her. As I walked toward her, ready to snatch the letter away, a small prickle of warning crept up my neck. Her eyes opened wide.

“Um, Cat, I think you should look at this.”

“Why?” Her face was ripe with worry. Mel never worried, so I took the letter from her. The seal at the top read:
Internal Revenue Service.
The IRS? What did they want with me? Mel tucked in behind me, reading over my shoulder, as I scanned the words.

My eyes zipped down to the dollar amount at the bottom of the page. I gasped and clenched the counter for support.

“What?” Sophie had been frozen to her bar stool, watching this whole thing. “What is it?”

“Looks like I’m in some trouble with the IRS.” My voice sounded faraway, in someone else’s apartment. I was still staring at the letter, crumpling slightly in my sweaty hand.

“Trouble? With your last tax return?” Sophie asked.

I looked up at them. “Um, no. It’s—well . . . I’ve never actually filed a tax return.”

“What do you mean? Never filed?” Mel said, staring at me incredulously.

“Well, I’m a
criminal,”
I said with exasperation. “I really didn’t think criminals did that sort of thing.”

Mel snatched the letter from me. “Okay, but your organization clearly files tax returns. Didn’t you know that? Do you remember signing something when you were first hired?”

I pressed back in my mind, trying to remember. “You know, that sounds familiar . . . .”

A fuzzy memory pushed forward. It was years ago, on my first day with AB&T, Templeton saying something to me about AB&T setting up a legitimate shell company, carrying all of their employees on their books. Something about protecting themselves, and that we needed to do the same thing. But I hadn’t really paid attention. I was too excited—my first day at a new job.

“Didn’t they send you W-2s?” Mel demanded.

“I hid them. I thought the whole operation was secret,” I said miserably.

“Oh my God, Cat, how can you be so naive?” Mel shook her head.

“Okay, now you sound like my mother.” I crossed my arms.

“I’m sorry about that, but this is a big problem. You have to pay that bill. ASAP.” Mel looked at me with genuine fear in her eyes.

An icy hand touched my spinal cord. She was right. The last thing I wanted was the IRS conducting a full-blown audit on me. If they came sniffing around they could find out what I do. Even if they didn’t imprison me for tax evasion, they would get me for my real crimes. My head began to swim. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Do you have enough to pay the bill?” Sophie asked, eyes wide.

“No,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I gave a lot away—UNICEF was in major need last year, and the Red Cross had a very persuasive fund-raiser . . . and the rest I lost in that bad investment scheme, remember? My Swiss account is bare bones right now.”

Mel closed her eyes. “Okay,” she said, with a deep breath. “Is there some other way you could come up with that sort of money? In thirty days?”

I stood there, chewing a fingernail.

Mel closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh no. No you don’t.”