The Thieves of Heaven (12 page)

“For what?” Michael cut to the chase, aware this was no minor job. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—the estimated cost of Mary’s treatment—was danger pay.

“There are two objects I desperately need to acquire. Both are in a minimum-security building. No armed guards, easy access—”

“I’m on parole.”

“The job is in Europe. You wouldn’t be breaking your parole here.”

“Actually, I would. But more importantly, I’d be breaking it
here
.” Michael tapped his heart. “I promised my wife.”

Finster leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Situations change, Michael. Your wife’s life hangs in the balance. Would you have made such a promise to her if you knew it meant the difference between her life and death? Of course not.”

Finster was right. Michael knew it. He would never have made the promise if he’d known it would put Mary’s survival in jeopardy. “I need more details,” he said as he sipped his cold coffee.

“Good. At least you’re thinking about it. Unfortunately, that is all I can tell you now. If you choose to accept the job, I will give you all the details. But once you accept…” Finster let it dangle.

Michael knew now there was no turning back. “I always finish what I start.”

“One thing; maybe important, maybe not. This job may be in conflict with your religious beliefs.” It was an offhand warning but a warning nonetheless.

“Go on.”

“The job is in a church.”

Michael let out a chuckle, “Ah, one of life’s little jokes.” He leaned back in the booth, picking up his coffee again. “I don’t believe in God. Do you?”

Finster seemed taken aback by Michael’s comment, his lack of faith. “With all my heart. After all I’ve seen…” He pondered his own faith for a moment. “There is no question in my mind.”

A waitress arrived and gave them a coffee refill. She flashed Finster a smile.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She brushed the hair shyly out of her middle-aged eyes and left.

“Think about my offer.” Finster stood and threw some money for the coffee on the table. “I must be on my way. I have other business to attend to.”

“At this hour?”

“Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘No rest for the weary’?”

“You mean the wicked?”

Finster flashed his dazzling smile, then shook his hand. “I hope you make the right decision, Michael.”

Hawk raced for the door the second the knob started to jiggle. CJ could care less. The little cat sneered at the big dog and curled back up on the couch. Michael walked in and Hawk was all over him licking and slobbering, jumping and whining. On most days, Michael would be on the floor soaking up this unconditional love but not today. He gave Hawk a quick pet, then shushed him over to the corner.

Michael headed into his study and from the center drawer of his desk he pulled a large manila envelope, opened it, and withdrew a set of papers. He spread them out on the desk blotter and for the thousandth time he read:

Having served 3 years 5 months and 22 days of a 10-year sentence for the crimes of grand larceny, possession of stolen property, and burglary, Michael Edward St. Pierre is hereby granted parole. This conclusion has been drawn by the Parole Board of the State of New York on the basis of fact that Mr. St. Pierre has been successfully rehabilitated and hereby has fulfilled his term of the sentence imposed upon him by the State of New York.

PAROLE GRANTED
had been stamped in an officious red ink across the document.

Five and a half years ago, the call had come in the middle of the night. Mary rolled over on the third ring and sleepily answered the phone. Michael was in jail, suspected of things she couldn’t fathom he was capable of. It was a shattering betrayal. Her new husband had hidden his life from her.

They had caught him at the Central Park wall. He was almost over and probably would have made it if it weren’t for the blood loss from his shoulder. The two NYC cops tackled him hard, slamming him into the granite wall. He was cuffed and bagged before he could say a word. They roughed him up pretty good; he didn’t blame them. The woman was lying naked in the street, covered in blood, incoherent, half-insane from her ordeal. The cops didn’t know the blood on her was Michael’s—they assumed it was a brutal rape and they didn’t take kindly to that. It was two days before she was lucid again. She gave a brief statement confirming Michael’s innocence and valor. He was a hero. But in this day and age, heroes only last a week. In this case, he didn’t last an hour. The fact that he’d rescued her never even made the paper.

Ambassador Ruskot flew in and declared he had never before seen the thirty million dollars in diamonds they’d found in Michael’s backpack. The general couldn’t afford the questions or the scandal. Thirsty for revenge, he pressed the DA’s office to prosecute to the fullest extent the thief who violated his country’s sovereign soil to steal the jewel-encrusted cross. He claimed it had enormous cultural value to his nation and that he personally viewed the crime as an affront to his deep religious beliefs. Truth be told, Ruskot had bought it behind the Iron Curtain years back for a pittance and hadn’t gotten around to selling it yet.

The State Department knew full well of the ambassador’s side business but was powerless against him. Instead, they pressed the district attorney’s office to ensure a conviction. Relations were shaky with Akbiquestan and the United States government needed to show a sign of good faith in protecting the interest of their foreign “friend.”

On the first day of the trial Mary sat stoically in the back of the courtroom, but she never met Michael’s eye. Michael wrote her a note and had his court-appointed attorney pass it to her. She crumpled it up and stuffed it in the bottom of her purse without even looking at it. She would play the part of the dutiful wife throughout the trial, she told his lawyer, but when it was over, they were over. For three days, Michael walked in and out of the court, his hands cuffed, desperately looking to her with sorrow. Throughout the trial, she never once made eye contact.

Michael had no defense to offer; his attorney was barely two hours out of law school and it was only the boy’s third case. They tried to introduce Michael’s heroics in saving the beautiful Helen Staten—the jury learned that she was the blonde trophy bride of James Staten, a seventy-five-year-old industrialist—to mitigate Michael’s situation, but they had no witness. Mrs. Staten had had a nervous breakdown; the gibberish she babbled was incoherent at best, and it was believed the rape had mercifully slipped out of her mind. To compound the matter, there was the death of James Staten, her husband, two days after the break in. There was no one left to speak on Michael’s behalf.

Guilty.
The verdict came back within an hour of the jury’s convening.

The State took their summer house in Bedford, Michael’s bank accounts, Mary’s bank accounts, every asset they had to pay court costs and his three-hundred-thousand-dollar fine. As there was no evidence that Michael had ever earned a paycheck, held a legitimate job, or filed a tax return, the prosecutor tried to tie Michael’s assets to other thefts. He failed. Fortunately, Michael had never left a trail until that fateful night.

Sing Sing in Ossining, New York, would be Michael’s home for the next three and a half years.

Mary received the petition for divorce a week after the criminal trial ended. She read it through twice and, her religion be damned, she would go through with it. She called her lawyer. He told her to sign the papers and he would have them served on Michael at prison. She was digging through her purse for a pen when she came upon the note Michael had written her at the beginning of the trial.

Mary,

Please do not torture yourself by sitting through this trial. The shame I have brought upon you is burden enough. Marriage is about trust, marriage is about faith in one another. And after what I have done, I know you will never have faith in me again. You must move on with your life. I know you will find someone else to love and care for you.

M.

She arrived at the prison at nine a.m. the next morning with the divorce papers in her purse. He told her everything. He explained it all: how he never really had a consulting business, that his income was actually from prior thefts. How he had decided when they met that he would hang it up. There would be one last job and he would make it count. After that, he would be able to provide for her for the rest of their lives so she could stop working and concentrate on raising their family. But it had all fallen apart over a stolen cross and a thoughtless act of bravery. He finished by telling her that he would not contest the divorce.

But it was her simple reply that made it all clear to him. “I never cared for money, for fancy clothes or cars, Michael. Those things just grow old and are discarded. The greatest treasure to me is living and growing old with you, together. I love you, Michael, and you love me. That’s all I need.”

Mary visited every Saturday and Michael called every Monday and Wednesday. Over time they reforged their relationship. For better or worse, she was devoted to him. And he vowed he would never again betray her.

When he was released three and a half years later, Michael had become the epitome of a reformed man. He started his own legitimate business, paid his taxes, and reestablished his marriage. And perhaps most surprisingly, he became best friends with an officer of the law. Paul Busch’s wife and Mary were old friends and Busch had actually asked for the assignment. Paul was never just a parole officer to Michael; he had become and would always be a friend. An unspoken bond developed on the day Michael was released, and its strength had grown tenfold since.

Betrayal weighed heavy on Michael now as he stood in his study and the memories coursed through his mind. The words of the parole board rang in his ears:
“Do not so much as contemplate a felony, particularly burglary, for if you do, never again will you see the outside of these prison walls.”
His betrayal of Mary was only the beginning; while the guilt would never wash away, he could only hope that, someday, she would understand the actions he contemplated now. But Busch…Michael knew that accepting Finster’s proposition would not only destroy their friendship but would turn them against each other for life. Busch’s commitment to the law would blind him to the dilemma that Michael and Mary faced.

It was now clear—in that karma kind of way—that Michael’s current circumstances were his true sentence for his transgressions. He had desperately racked his brain for another option, for some miracle solution, for some simple alternative that had eluded him.

Michael slipped his parole papers back in the envelope, dropped it into the desk drawer and, leaving the drawer open, walked over to the bookshelves. Novels of every genre crammed the top shelves: Dickens to Dickey, Conrad to Cussler. The bottom shelves held his old research books: texts on alarm systems and jewelry collecting, art history and magic, European museums and photography. The middle shelves were reserved for their mementos: seashells, stuffed animals, postcards. Things that kindled memories; things that sparked love. Reflections of their lives collected in their travels. Some of the
tchotchkes
dated back to their courtship days: goofy photo-booth pictures, handmade plaster cats, a caricature of the two of them dancing in the surf. And while some of the items had grown embarrassing with time, he and Mary always agreed that they would never put them away. For they were reflections of moments, the things that they had held near and dear throughout their life together. Taking them down would be like rejecting their past, his and Mary’s denying themselves.

Among their most treasured possessions on the wall was a crucifix given to them on the occasion of their wedding. A simple cross, nothing fancy; in fact, Michael didn’t even remember who gave it to them. Made of plain simple wood with a plastic Jesus stapled to it, it was like something you’d find by the thousands at any flea market. He and Mary had joked that whoever had given it to them must have stolen it off the rearview mirror of a New York City taxicab. Now, with the events of the last few days, the sight of it had become unbearable. While Michael knew he was betraying Mary and Busch, he also felt that he, too, had been betrayed. All his years of devotion, all his years of prayer had led him here to this moment, alone, with no alternative.

And with that final thought, Michael reached out and removed the plastic crucifix, the symbol of his now former faith. He walked back to his desk, placed it with his parole papers, and closed the drawer tight.