Uncommon Criminals (4 page)

“Hale and I aren’t…” But Kat trailed off, completely unsure how that sentence was supposed to end. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Gabrielle,” she started again, but her cousin shook her head.

“Yeah. I do,” Gabrielle said, insulted. “Our world is built on adrenaline and getting away with it. Different cities, different names. It’s a far simpler life to lead when there’s no one around to tell you when you’re being stupid. Believe me, dear cousin”—Gabrielle stood and stretched—“I know better than anyone.”

Kat had often wondered what really went on inside Gabrielle’s totally beautiful head. More than met the eye, she was certain.

“Look, Gabrielle. These are my jobs—my call. There’s nothing in it for anyone—no paycheck—so there’s no sense asking anyone else to take the risk. I’m not on some kind of bender here.”

“Sure,” Gabrielle said, nodding slowly. “And six months ago, you went off to the Colgan School and swore you were never going to steal again.” She crossed the room in two long strides. “You’re off the wagon, Kitty Kat. And the least you can do is admit it.”

Kat rolled over and stared at the ceiling again. It seemed to take forever to say, “Hale…how mad is he?”

Gabrielle crawled into bed and looked at her cousin across the shadowy space. “For a genius thief, you really are a stupid girl, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Kat closed her eyes. “I am.”

“M
y name is Ezra Jones.”

Kat took her time studying the face that stared back at her from the other side of the dusty sitting room that she could never remember anyone actually sitting in. The man had white bushy eyebrows and dark brown eyes, and the smile that peeked out from behind the perfectly trimmed goatee was devious at best.

“I’m going to need to see some ID,” she told him.

“Of course,” he said with a laugh. He stepped forward and handed her a business card that read
Chamberlain & King Insurance and Underwriters, London, England
. When he added, “Here you go, my dear,” and flashed a British passport, the picture was off, Kat thought. The accent, however, was spot on.

“So how do I look?” the man asked.

“Old,” Gabrielle said, leaning closer as she applied theatrical makeup to the corners of his mouth. “But not old enough. And blotchy.”

“But you sound good to me,” Kat told him.

Only then did Hale smile. “I’m going to remember you said that.”

“Sure thing, Ezra. Just tell me this: the real Mr. Jones is…”

“Ecstatic.” He looked again at the man’s wallet. “It seems someone from Hale Industries met him at the airport this morning and offered him his dream job in the Cayman Islands. In fact, he called London from the Hale Industries jet and quit his old job just a half hour ago.”

“Shame his company’s not gonna get the message,” Gabrielle added.

“It is,” Hale said with a solemn nod.

“And that he lost his wallet…” Kat went on.

Hale raised one false eyebrow. “A tragedy indeed.” When he slid the small leather case into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, the two girls watched him. Kat had pulled aside the heavy drapes, and light streamed into the room, bouncing off of faded dusty furniture, a cold fireplace, and a perfectly forged Rembrandt that had hung above the mantel for longer than Kat had been alive.

“Kat, what are we going to do about his shoulders?” Gabrielle tried to pull his arms down, but nothing about him seemed to move. “And that gut,” she said, patting him on the stomach.

“Hey, I’ve never had any complaints in that area before,” Hale said smugly.

“Exactly,” Gabrielle cried. “Would it kill you to eat a muffin every now and then?”

Kat was biting her nails, walking around Hale, staring him slowly up and down.

“His hands are off,” Gabrielle pointed out.

“Posture’s wrong,” Kat said.

“He’s still…hot,” Gabrielle said, as if it were the greatest insult in the world.

“I feel so objectified. So…cheap,” Hale told them, but the girls talked on.

“This would work from a distance, but in close quarters and under high scrutiny…” Kat let the thought trail off.

“Couldn’t you have found someone younger?” Gabrielle said.

“It was a miracle I found
him
.” Hale pointed to the documents on the table.

“We either need a young guy for you to impersonate or an old guy to do the impersonating!” Gabrielle threw her hands into the air. “We need—”

“No,” Kat said before the words could even come out. “Uncle Eddie is not a part of this.”

Gabrielle crossed her arms. “But he is the
ultimate
old guy.”

“Maybe we should call him, Kat,” Hale said. “I mean, where are we going to find a suitable old guy in twenty-four hours?”

“Excuse me, miss?”

Kat turned toward the soft voice and had to shake her head. For a second, she could have sworn she was seeing double. She looked between the photo of Ezra Jones that lay on the table and the way Marcus stood in the door. They had the same eyes, the same coloring, and the same look of people who have been orbiting around great wealth and power—always on the perimeter, always close enough to serve—for a lifetime.

Marcus drew a deep breath. “Your dinner is ready.”

T
he Cleopatra Emerald was not cursed—everyone at the Oliver Kelly Corporation for Auctions and Antiquities said so.

After all, an emerald—no matter how large—did not cause the ship carrying Oliver Kelly the First to sink in shallow waters off the coast of Nova Scotia. And once the stone was set in platinum and given to a railroad heiress from Buenos Aires, there was no way any necklace—no matter how heavy—could force a woman to lose her head in a very tragic steam engine incident.

Of course, it was impossible to deny that the next owner went bankrupt. The small country that added the stone to its crown jewels was invaded. And the museum that displayed the Cleopatra for a short time was burned almost entirely to the ground.

But it wasn’t cursed.

Everybody at the Kelly Corporation said so.

“It’s not cursed, Mr. Jones.”

“Of course not.” Hale gave a deep throaty laugh and slapped Marcus on the back. Marcus, as per their agreement, said nothing. “But, Mr. Kelly, as the Cleopatra’s insurer of record, Mr. Jones is of the opinion that the stone would be best left exactly where it is.”

“Excuse me.” Kelly cut him off. “Who are
you
, exactly?”

“Well, as I said on the phone, Mr. Kelly, I’m Colin Knightsbury. I’m Mr. Jones’s personal assistant.”

Kelly seemed to consider this before turning and saying, “Fine.”

Hale was not short, lazy, or unathletic, and yet it felt somehow like a struggle to keep up, as they followed Oliver Kelly the Third down the polished halls and gleaming corridors. It didn’t look like the sort of place that had its roots in shady places and black market deals, but if there was one thing every W. W. Hale learned early on, it’s that you never
really
want to know where the money comes from.

“And as I said on the phone, we at Chamberlain and King believe that moving the Cleopatra on this schedule could be quite dangerous. If you could delay—”

Kelly came to an abrupt stop and wheeled on the pair. “I’m sure you
would
like me to delay, but seeing that it’s my stone, I think I’ll do with it as I please.”

“Before his death,” Hale started, “your father was adamant that the stone not be displayed in public, and—”

“My father inherited this company,” Kelly snapped, gesturing to the people and things that filled the hall. “And do you know what he did with it?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing, Mr. Jones. He
maintained
what my grandfather had built—that’s all. I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be in a family business, but the job of future generations is not to
maintain
. The one major decision my father made was to buy the Cleopatra back thirty years ago, and then he locked it up goodness knows where—”

“Switzerland,” Hale said.

“What?”

“According to our records, the stone is in a high-security box in a Swiss bank.”

“I know that,” Kelly snapped, and pushed the elevator call button. “The point is that no one has seen it.
I
have never even seen it. It’s the greatest asset this company has, and all it’s done in thirty years is collect dust and wait for some mythical mate to turn up so that some ridiculous curse can be broken.”

“Of course, of course,” Hale said.

Kelly looked at him as if to say,
I was talking to your boss
.

That was when Hale slid closer. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Jones, Mr. Kelly,” he confided softly as Marcus stood three steps behind them, stoic, silent as the grave. “He can see the smallest crack in a company’s defenses, the slightest fault. I’m here to make sure Mr. Jones isn’t distracted. The man’s a genius, you see. And when Mr. Jones says that it might be best to wait—”

There was a ding, and the elevator doors were sliding open.

“
My grandfather
was a genius,” Kelly snapped. “A visionary.”

Hale stepped inside the elevator, secretly wishing the man would have the nerve to add “
a thief
.”

“That stone is the Kelly Corporation’s signature piece,” Kelly continued, “and it’s not going to stay in a hole in the ground. Not on my watch.”

The doors slid closed, and Hale couldn’t help but study the reflection of Oliver Kelly the Third—the handmade suit and full-Windsor knot. Antique cuff links and Italian calfskin shoes, all of which had one purpose: to make sure no one ever mistook him for ordinary. All at the age of twenty-nine. Hale might not have hated him so much had it not been like looking in a fun-house mirror—at who he might have become if he hadn’t been home two years before on the night when Kat came to steal his Monet.

“Yes, Mr. Kelly,” Hale said slowly, still taking the image in. “I understand completely.”

“Good.” When the elevator doors opened, Kelly turned and extended a hand toward Marcus. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. I appreciate your time. But as you can see, our paperwork is in order, and our security”—he gestured at the showroom on the main level of the building, its gleaming cases and cameras and guards—“it is the best it can possibly be, so I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing.”

“Indeed.” Hale reached to take the hand that was offered, held it a little longer than Kelly was perhaps expecting, squeezed it a little tighter. “What do you think, Mr. Jones?”

Marcus let his gaze sweep around the room. His voice was stoic and cold when he said, “I think the last time I heard that was at the Henley.”

Hale watched Oliver Kelly the Third shudder at the words. The color faded in his cheeks, and his mouth drew into a thin hard line. “The Henley?”

“Oh yes,” Hale said. “They assured us that no one could ever steal
Angel Returning to Heaven
from their walls, and we believed them. But we were all wrong on that account, weren’t we, Mr. Kelly?”

Honesty was a rare thing in Oliver Kelly’s business. People negotiated. Dealers lied. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do when faced with someone so willing to admit a mistake, so he didn’t do anything—he just stood, waiting.

“And, of course, they thought their paperwork was in order too, and now…” Hale trailed off, then risked a glance at Oliver Kelly the Third. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment, but let’s just say they’re still waiting for a check. And with a piece like the Cleopatra Emerald—with its cultural and monetary significance—”

“It’s not cursed,” Kelly said automatically.

“Of course not. But if you don’t mind”—Hale placed his hands behind his back, smiled warmly—“Mr. Jones would like to start with the basement.”

“And the cameras on this level?” Hale asked twenty minutes later.

“The same as the level before,” the director of security said from his place at Mr. Kelly’s right side.

Kelly watched as Hale took copious notes. He snapped hundreds of pictures.

“And these windows?” Hale asked. “They’re monitored by…?”

“Glass break detectors at fifteen yard intervals.”

“Bulletproof?”

“Of course.” The security director sounded almost offended.

“Excellent.” Hale took yet another picture, then consulted his clipboard one more time. “Then I believe all that remains is the vault. The model number on that again is…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Kelly said, “but I distinctly remember providing that information in our quarterly report.”

“Yes,” Hale stepped in to answer. “And last quarter, the Cleopatra Emerald was scheduled to stay safely on the other side of the world, so forgive us if we visit the subject again.” He turned to the security director. “The model on this door sensor…”

“Helix 857J,” the man said with no emotion.

“I assure you, gentlemen,” Mr. Kelly interrupted again. “We at the Kelly Corporation know exactly how valuable our emerald is, and we have taken every precaution to protect—”

“
Your
emerald?” Hale tilted his head. “Does everyone agree about that?”

The man flushed. “Well, of course. Who else could…”

Hale turned to Kelly, stared straight into his eyes, and said, “Tell me about Constance Miller.”

“The subject of Ms. Miller is a matter for our legal depart-ment—not security. I can assure you that the Cleopatra’s so-called history has no bearing on her safety.”

“Yes.” Hale smiled. “We heard
that
from the Henley too.”

“Listen here, Mr.…”

“Knightsbury,” Hale provided, but Kelly talked on.

“Constance Miller is a recluse. She’s old.”

“Does she have friends?” Hale asked.

“Friends who could help her
steal
an
emerald
?” Kelly laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d heard in ages. “I think not.”

“Family?”

“Yes. A grandson, I think.”

“Does she have a claim, sir?”

Kelly scoffed. “Not a legitimate one. The best courts in two countries have said so for a dozen years.”

“Twelve years is a long time to want something, Mr. Kelly.”

“Yes, but—”

“A very long time to hear
no
.”

But
no
was not a word that Oliver Kelly the Third had ever heard. To hear it for a dozen years seemed more than the young man could understand.

Kelly dropped his voice and finished, “Perhaps I should have my secretary put together a file.”

“Yes.” Hale smiled. “Perhaps you should.”

“Excuse me, miss. May I help you?”

Kat didn’t turn at the question. Two feet away, there was a case full of rubies and diamonds—a pendant rumored to have belonged to Catherine the Great and a pair of earrings featured in a movie starring Audrey Hepburn. But those things didn’t really matter to Kat. Kat was far more concerned about the one case that was empty.

“What goes in here?” she asked the salesman.

“Oh, I’m afraid that space is reserved for a very special—Don’t do that,” the man said when Kat propped one hand on the case (and fingered the hydraulic base and titanium stand with the other).

“But what
is
it?” Kat chomped her gum. “I might want to buy it, you know. I’ve got a birthday coming up, and my dad said I could pick out anything I want. Maybe I want what goes in here.”

She tapped the glass (and surmised that it was drill-proof and at least an inch thick).

“I’m afraid it isn’t for sale.”

Kat rolled her eyes (and noted the positions of the surveillance cameras on the north wall). “Then what’s it doing in a store if it’s not for sale?”

“We are an auction house, young lady, and this is an exhibition piece that will be displayed until—Please don’t do that,” the man said, grabbing Kat’s hand just as she reached beneath the case’s edge, fingering the pressure-sensitive lip of the pedestal.

“Excuse me,” Kat said when she bumped into a man who was browsing among the cases (and felt the telltale shoulder holster of a plainclothes guard).

“Miss,” the salesman went on, “perhaps you would be more interested in our collection of—”

“So you’re just going to show it off?” Kat scanned the gleaming showroom floor (and noticed the state-of-the-art motion sensors at the pedestal’s base).

“Yes, we are—”

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Kat huffed. She took one last look around the room, at the guards and the cameras, the exits and the case, and then turned to leave.

“Miss,” the salesman called, “I am sure there are many other things that will work with your price range.” He swept his arm around the showroom floor.

“That’s okay.” In the corner of the room, an antique clock began to chime. “I think I’ve got everything I need.”

“You’re late.”

Kat felt her cousin fall into step beside her, but didn’t turn to look. She was probably the only person on the street that day not staring at the slender girl in the short trench coat and tall black boots, but that didn’t really matter.

Gabrielle pointed to the Kelly catalog in Kat’s hands. “So can we do it?”

Kat took a deep breath and shoved the thin book into her pocket. “Right now, I’m more worried about whether or not we
should
do it.” She eyed her cousin. “You got the key?”

Gabrielle rolled her eyes and flashed a small magnetic card from a hotel near Times Square. “Of course I got the key.”

They could have picked the lock, rappelled down from the roof—maybe swiped a couple of maid uniforms and a housekeeping cart for good measure—but Kat and Gabrielle were smart enough to know that the shortest distance between two points was always a straight line. Or a picked pocket, as the case may be.

So they made their way into the hotel lobby and elevator without any fanfare or unnecessary risk. They were just two girls on their own in the big city—all the way to the small, modest room on the alley side of the seventh floor.

“So how was your day, Gabrielle?” Kat asked.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to tail an eightyyear-old woman? It’s hard. Really hard. Really…
slow
.” Then Gabrielle raised a fist and knocked. “Housekeeping?” she called while Kat stood just out of view. “Housekeeping!” she tried again. After a long quiet beat, she used the key, and together the cousins stepped inside.

For all the hotel rooms that Kat had seen in her short life, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in one like that. It consisted of nothing more than two full beds, a clean small bath, a bureau, and one closet with hangers permanently attached to the rod.

“Well, they travel like they’re almost out of money,” Gabrielle said, moving through the room so quickly and softly that Kat doubted her feet even made an impression in the carpet.

“How much time do we have?” Kat asked.

“They just went in with their lawyer, so let’s call it forty minutes.”

“Let’s call it thirty,” Kat countered, and Gabrielle shrugged—the universal signal for
Have it your way
.

It didn’t really matter. They could have done what they needed to do in ten. There was only the bedroom and bathroom, after all. The closet held two suitcases that had probably been quite expensive fifty years before but were now faded and beaten; three pairs of shoes and an assortment clothes that were worn but neatly mended—all with London labels.

“Found the safe,” Gabrielle called from the cabinet that held the minibar. Inside was a small box that was standard issue for hotel chains around the world, so it only took a minute for Kat to crack it. A moment later, she was pulling out two passports in the names of Marshall and Constance Miller. Two hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. A family locket. And a beaten, weathered file about a very famous emerald and an almost-as-notorious court case.