“Is that military issue?” Becca asked. “Because that might not be such a good idea.”
“No, it’s not military issue. Does it look like it’s military? It’s black, not olive drab!” Claire snapped.
“Come on, Claire, relax a little,” I interjected. “It was a good question. You said it belonged to your husband.”
“Oh, right. I suppose I did. Please forgive me, Becca.” Claire made the apology without any real sincerity in her tone. She brushed a stray lock of otherwise perfectly coiffed, shoulder length hair out of her eye and repositioned herself by the drawing board, looking at each us expectantly. There was something different about Claire and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The degree of planning she had steered us into exceeded the scope of an amateur thief. She had led this group from the beginning and she seemed to know exactly what to do on every count. I had seriously begun to wonder if Claire had done this before, despite her earlier denial.
“What else?” Laura asked from her seat on the couch. “Where is Susie through all of this?”
“That’s right. You forgot to tell me what I will be doing.” I had become so involved in trying to figure Claire out that I forgot to find out my job in all of it.
Not even attempting to hide her exasperation, Claire returned to her position by the easel. “Susie will be right here by the door. Guarding the entry way and keeping the security guard honest.”
“Do you really think that is the best place for me? You know, just in case?”
“I think that is the perfect place for you—right by the door in case we have to carry you out of there.” Although she wasn't actually joking, the picture of my three friends lugging me and a duffle bag full of money out of the bank was somewhat comical.
“OK, fine. I’ll hang out by the door.”
Claire clapped her hands together for emphasis. “So, we storm the bank as one then spread out. The nearest police precinct is one and half miles away so we will only have about ninety seconds start to finish.”
“Did you actually clock the distance to the police station, Claire?” Even I, the one married to a cop, didn’t know the exact distance.
“I did. Actually, it is 1.6 miles but I wanted to gives a few seconds’ lee-way so I rounded it down to one and a half,” she answered a bit haughtily.
“All right then, ninety seconds start to finish. Got it,” Becca said. “What happens next?”
“Once we get the money, we leave. We will leave the car on the street, ready to go.”
“Whose car? I don’t have one anymore. At least not one that doesn’t look like a tuna fish can.”
“I am going to use my mother’s car,” Claire interjected. “It’s in the garage out back and it still has the license plates from Britain on it. We had it shipped here with several antiques left to me when mom died.”
Claire had nailed down every detail. Things I never even would have considered and I had the benefit of years of exposure to law enforcement.
It suddenly occurred to me that I knew nothing about my friend except for the years I had known her here in the United States. What was her life like back in Britain? How did she meet her husband? Why, in this time of economic recession could she afford a large home, exquisite décor and the insurance on a Volvo? Why was Claire always impeccably dressed, sporting new shoes and matching bags at all times? How is it that she came up with the idea to rob a bank, created the seemingly perfect plan and knew just a little more than the average housewife about how to case a bank?
“There is just one more thing left for us to discuss,” Claire blurted suddenly.
“What?” We all asked in chorus.
“Well, if we go in the bank dressed as the many faces of Lucy Ricardo, no one is going to take us seriously.”
“Isn’t that sort of the intent?” I asked
“No! If they don’t take us seriously then what are we doing? It will be a waste of time! We need to instill a little fear so they will do what we want.”
“What are you getting at, Claire?” Laura asked quietly.
“This.” She reached behind the easel and grabbed something off the small table hidden there. In her right hand, she held a dull black Smith and Wesson .45 caliber handgun.
“That’s a gun!” Becca blurted. “You never said anything about armed robbery! I’m not carrying a gun!”
I admired the fine piece of steel in her hand. It was one sweet firearm- very similar to one that Andy carried off duty. I had not considered needing weapons either but Claire had a valid point.
“She might be right,” I said. “How are we going to pull this off if we don’t have something that puts us in control? People fear guns. They do not fear Lucy Ricardo. We need to have at least one. Better if we all carry something.”
“I won’t do it,” Becca stated with all the animosity of a toddler refusing to wash his hands.
“Why not?” Claire demanded, her face flushed with aggravation.
Becca cowered against the seat she sat in, actual fear of Claire in her eyes. Her voice stayed strong and firm however. “Because I don’t like guns. Guns kill people and I would rather not kill anyone. We are already committing one major felony. Why push our luck?”
“Because the only way we will be successful is if we have leverage.” All eyes turned to Laura who had been quiet through most of the discussion. “Guns are serious. Black and white sitcom characters are not. This is a serious undertaking and I don’t plan to get caught. I say we go in waving our guns around, get the money and split.”
“See?” Claire nodded toward Laura as she eyed Becca. “We really need to be armed if we want this to work. Willie Sutton never hurt anyone. He didn’t have to. And neither will we.”
“Fine!” Becca grumbled as she crossed her arms over her chest in grudging acceptance. “I will carry one but it won’t be loaded!”
“Now what good—?”
“That’s fine,” Laura interrupted Claire.
“Laura…” Claire said in a low, almost dangerous voice.
“It’s fine, Claire.” Laura’s tone was firm, unyielding. “I’ll cover Becca. No worries, OK?”
“Hmpf!” Claire crossed her arms over her chest and grunted. “Whatever but it’s never a good idea to carry a weapon you wouldn’t be able to use.”
15
Cold Steel
Claire pouted as she crossed the room and pushed aside the area rug. When she kicked the corner of a floorboard, we all watched in awe as a hidden hatch popped open. Claire disappeared into the floor while we stood speechless, mouth hanging open, until Laura said, “Where the hell did she go?”
I stepped forward and peered down into the hole in the floor. A wooden stair case, illuminated by a single hanging light bulb was all I could see. The sounds of cabinets opening, locks snapping and metal grinding on metal floated up the stairs.
“Claire?” I called down. When no answer came, I looked at the other two girls and shrugged my shoulders. “I’m going down.”
As I descended the sturdy wooden steps, I heard the scamper of feet over my head. In seconds, Becca and Laura were close behind me.
The steps ended at a concrete floor and stone wall. Flickers of light reflected off the polished rocks so I turned around and looked behind the stairs. A loud, collective gasp beside me told me that both Laura and Becca saw exactly what I saw.
I had to be dreaming. Or having a seizure! That’s it! I was having a grand mal seizure and my brain was having a field day with it. There was no other simple explanation for what I saw.
Claire, humming quietly to herself, stood at a long stainless steel table unlocking a shelving unit completely encased in steel bars that hung on the wall. The kind of bars you found on windows in crime ridden neighborhoods. The sort of hard, cold steel you might find on a jail cell. The shelves were full of weapons—all handguns of a variety of styles, models and caliber. Andy would have a field day in this place.
Upon closer inspection, I could see the shelv
ing had also been encased in glass- bullet resistant glass perhaps- and lined on the outside with bars. Every few feet, a break in the bars created access points, or doors. The doors were locked with heavy locking mechanisms. One such door hung open and Claire worked on unloading several hand guns onto the highly polished stainless steel table.
To the left of the cabinetry stood a tall glass armoire, heavily secured and containing long guns—shot guns, rifles, automatic weapons—you name it, she had it.
Out of the corner of my eye, a reflection caught my attention. Another floor to ceiling glass cabinet was filled with weapons of all sorts—except firearms. Cross-bows, knives, swords, some things I had never seen before. A toy chest of death. Why did Claire have all this stuff?
Becca tugged at my elbow. “Susie?” she whispered. “What is Claire doing with all these… these weapons?”
I looked at Laura but her face registered no emotion at all. I turned to Becca and whispered back, “I don’t really know.”
Claire was deep in thought as she picked up one of the hand guns and buffed it to a high shine with a soft cloth. Finally holding the pistol out in front of her, she took aim at a spot on the wall and dry fired. “Perfect,” she mumbled to herself as she set the weapon back down on the counter top. Picking up a second one she repeated the process while we stood speechless, watching.
“Claire?” Laura called softly, afraid of startling her friend while she held a firearm. “What is this place?”
After a long moment, Claire turned around to face us. She spoke quietly with an air of authority. “It’s my underground weapons storage facility, obviously, Laura.”
No more accent.
16
The Truth About Claire
“OK, let’s try this again.” Laura said with a touch of irritation. “Why do you have an underground weapons storage facility under your house?”
“Where else would you like for me to have put it?” Claire asked innocently. “I’m pretty sure I could not have gotten a permit to build it in the backyard.”
“Where did all this crap come from?” I jumped in, motioning widely around the underground space with my right arm. The conversation went nowhere as the two of them volleyed semantics around the room and I wanted answers.
“I inherited it.”
“Inherited it? Who the hell inherits an arsenal of weapons? Most of these aren’t even legal!” My voice rose dramatically as I spoke.
“There are different laws in Europe,” she said quietly as she turned back to polishing a third weapon.
“But you are not in Europe now.”
“And no one knows I have them except for the three of you.”
“Andy’s a cop, Claire! What am I supposed to do now that I know about all of this?” I made a sweeping gesture around the underground vault.
“Are you as concerned about telling him that you are only a few days away from committing armed robbery?” she asked me quietly.
Claire had me there.
“Of course not!” I bellowed. We listened as my voice echoed in the small space, bouncing against the stone walls for a long moment. I stared at Claire who returned to cleaning the weapons on her shiny countertop. Laura and Becca exchanged uneasy glances. No one knew what to say next.
Finally, Becca broke the silence. “Claire?” she asked. “Where’s your accent? Why don’t you sound British anymore?”
“Um… that would be because I’m not British,” she answered nonchalantly.
“What the hell is really going on here, Claire?” I demanded.
“I’m polishing the weapons that we will be using on Tuesday. Look. I have one for each of us.” She motioned to the weapons on the counter, beaming with pride.
“I’m still not happy about carrying a gun,” Becca muttered from behind me. I ignored her. I wanted answers and Claire needed to provide them. I repeated my earlier question.
“Come on, Claire. What’s up?? I mean really, who are you?” I stepped in front of her and crossed my arms over my chest. Laura crossed her arms as well as she stepped up next to me. She didn’t say anything but it was obvious that she wanted a few answers as well.
“I’m your friend, Susie. The same Claire you have always known. You don’t really want to know any more than that.” She tried to push past me but I stood firm.
“Oh, but I really think I do, Claire.”
“Me, too. Who the hell are you, really?” Laura asked.
Claire looked from me to Laura and back again. Her eyes sought out an ally in Becca who was hid behind us but when she couldn’t gain eye contact, she gave up. “Let’s just go upstairs and have some tea and talk about Tuesday. Shall we, ladies?” Again, she tried to get past us but to no avail.
“I’m not hungry.” I stood firm, hoping Laura would continue to back me.
“Are you sure you really want to know? I mean, sometimes the truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” She looked hopeful that we would just give up.
“I don’t think so, Claire. I want to know what this room is, where all this stuff came from and why the hell you don’t have a bloody British accent anymore!” My voice rose with every word until it reverberated again around the stone interior of the little room.
Claire’s shoulders slumped a little in resignation. “If you really want to know, I will tell you but you won’t necessarily like it.”
“I’m am betting that none of us will but if you didn’t want us to know, you wouldn’t have let us see this room.”
“That’s right!” Laura interjected forcefully.
“I want to know too,” Becca whispered from the shadows.
“My name isn’t Claire Mitchell. It’s actually Claire Sutton.”
It was so quiet in the small room you could have heard a pin drop.
“Claire Sutton? Like…as in… Willie Sutton?” I finally asked.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “He was my great great grandfather.”
“Holy crap,” I muttered almost soundlessly. “Willie Sutton was your great great grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“And all this stuff”—I motioned around the room—“was his?”
“Some of it was, yes. But not all. I inherited it all but not all of it came from him.”
“Who did it belong to?” Laura asked.
“My parents. They collected weapons. It was sort of a hobby and part of their business.”
“Part of their business? What business? Robbing banks? Dueling? Torture?” Apparently, I didn’t know Claire at all.
“Not exactly. My parents were professional thieves. I grew up in Europe, living mostly underground. That’s where I picked up the accent. I do great Russian, Italian and Polish accents as well.”
“So, your mom and dad robbed banks? What? Is it a family business?” Laura asked.
“No. They were high end thieves. Jewels, art, collectibles.”
“You said they were thieves.” I interrupted. “What are they now? Retired thieves? Do thieves get a pension plan? Medical benefits?” The whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. How could this woman I’ve known for so many years have such a past and none of us ever knew? Part of me just couldn’t accept it as true.
“They are both dead.”
“I’m sorry, Claire. I had no idea.”
“How would you, Susie? I have been lying to you for years. I’m the one who’s sorry. This is the first time I have ever had honest to goodness friends. I just thought that the less you knew about me the better.” Her voice broke a little on the last word.
“When did your parents die?” I asked, skipping over her profession of friendship. I wasn’t ready to deal with that just yet. I needed to know the rest of her story first before I could even process the lies she had been feeding us.
“About ten years ago. They were working a heist in Venice. They had just lifted a painting from a very rich Italian aristocrat. They used a gondola for their getaway, trying to blend in and not call attention to themselves. Someone go
t to the boat first and placed a bomb on board. About a hundred feet from the palace, the gondola blew up.”
“And your parents with it?” Laura asked, saying what no one really wanted to verbalize.
“Yes.” The sadness in her eyes echoed in her voice. “There was nothing left of them or the painting.”
“Did the authorities ever figure out who killed them?” I inquired.
“No. Who’s interested in the assassination of two internationally known thieves? There was a lot more hoopla over the destroyed painting.”
“So, the Italian cops just turned their back on murder?” The thought of that left me incredulous.
“As far as they were concerned, if my mother and father were gone, the country’s treasures would once again be safe. The assassin had done them a favor.”
We all stood quietly for a moment mulling over the things Claire had just shared with us. I suddenly had a crazy thought.
“Is your husband really on deployment? Or is he some kind of high end thief also, looting the castles and palaces of Afghanistan and Kuwait?”
“There is no husband.”
“Oh? Is he dead too?”
“No,” she answered simply.
“Well, then, where is he?” I demanded.
“I actually never married. I fabricated the whole story. Why do you think he is always on deployment? Even Special Forces get a break once in a while.”
“So,” Laura mused aloud. “You were all alone after your parents died so you invented a marriage and moved to Virginia Beach?”
“Yes.”
“Are you here legally?” Laura asked.
“Not exactly,” Claire responded after a moment or two.
“So, I guess you aren’t a citizen,” Becca called out from behind Laura and I.
“No, I am not.”
“Do you actually have citizenship anywhere in the world?” I asked.
“Of course, I do. I am an English citizen. Well sort of anyway.”
“What does that mean? Sort of?” Laura demanded before I had the chance to get the question out myself.
The Heist Page 8
