State of the Art Heist

by Maisie Dean

  She shook my hand firmly and took in the unfortunate state of the the Booker brothers.

  “These guys treating you okay?” she asked. I saw Harrison wince. The timing on that question wasn’t ideal, considering I had just been fired. Or let go, I guess.

  “Yes, they’ve been great,” I said. It was essentially the truth, and I saw no reason to cause any of them any more discomfort. Aggie raised her eyebrows and her bright lips pulled over toward her right check.

  “Really? Even this one?” She used her thumb to point to Lucky, and without turning her head to look at him she used her foot to swipe at his chair in such a way that it came slamming back down onto four feet.

  “Hey!” he protested, but I could see that the light in his eyes had returned after the dismal morning.

  “Aggie is our number one client,” Harrison told me, flashing Aggie a warm smile.

  “Number one?” Aggie said, “I thought I was number two for referrals and case volume after that guy Fitz.” She only needed to take in Harrison’s expression to get the gist of what had just occurred.

  “I see,” Aggie said. “Cheer up, will you? You’ll rustle up some more business in no time. If there’s one thing people can’t stop themselves from doing, it’s eating cake and committing crimes.”

  “By the look of your figure, plus your law degree, it doesn’t look like you do either of those things.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said, winking at him. Harrison turned and started walking back through the office, grabbing his coat on the way. Aggie followed him.

  “Great to meet you, Kacey. I hope I’ll see more of you,” Aggie said brightly before she followed Harrison out the door.

  “You too, see you soon,” I called back. I felt a pang in my chest, remembering that I wouldn’t see her again. Lucky stood up suddenly.

  “I’ve got to go do something,” he said, and made for the door as well. Owen and I stood from the table and walked back into the main office. Lucky paused halfway across the room as if he’d forgotten something. He turned back toward me and stretched out his hand.

  “Thanks, Kacey Chance, it’s been a slice,” he said. His tone held something like sadness, but he flashed me the kind of grin I wouldn’t have minded getting used to.

  Before I knew it, Lucky had gone and it was just me and Owen in the office again. Owen shifted uncomfortably in his shoes. His right hand was cupped around the back of his neck.

  “Can I help you clean out your desk,” he asked.

  I shook my head, and picked up my purse.

  “Everything’s here except a snack or two.” I pulled open one of the lower drawers that I’d designated for emergency sustenance, to find a bright red, unopened bag of shrimp-flavored chips. I held it up to Owen.

  “All the talk of shrimp puffs gave me a craving,” I said. Owen cocked his head to the side and examined the packaging..

  “Strange, I’ve never tried those,” he said. The way he said it made me imagine he’d spent a day sampling every possible junky-snack food that was sold in the U.S. and he’d somehow managed to leave Nongshim shrimp crackers off the list. That actually sounded like a very good time. Again, I felt a painful contraction in my chest at the the bizarre thoughts of all the things I could have gotten up to with the Booker brothers.

  I extended the bag toward him as a parting gift.

  “Keep them,” I said.

  I scanned my desk and then the rest of the office to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Even though I knew I hadn’t, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was leaving something important behind. It was such an uncomfortable feeling that it brought a hot, stinging sensation and a pressure behind my eyes. Owen was watching me, so I gave him a quick smile and started for the door.

  “I hope everything works out for all of you. This week was great,” I said, pushing the door open and getting a whiff of what I guessed was a batch of deep-fried pickles.

  “I’m sure that we’ll figure out the budget, Harrison always does, and you’ll be back again next week,” Owen said. He took a couple steps forward, and I could see that his brows were slightly furrowed.

  “I’ll save these for the upcoming celebration, we’ll share them,” Owen said, smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  I nodded, feeling a warm pressure behind my eyes from his sincerity. I let the door swing shut, and left the Booker Brothers Detective Agency behind me.

  CHAPTER 19

  By the time Rosie walked through the front door into our dingy little apartment I had already uncorked, or unscrewed rather, a bottle of rosé.

  “I’m sorry. I’m late, I’m late,” Rosie said, dropping her large coral purse next to the coat rack. On its own it was a stylish enough bag, even if it was from about thirteen seasons ago. It was the brownish-tan color of Rosie’s courier uniform that made it look outrageous and tacky when she wore it. Those were her words, not mine, but she didn’t seem to mind day-to-day. When bright coral is your favorite color, you don’t let a silly thing like a work uniform change your style, she’d told me once.

  “I had a last minute delivery clear across town right before closing today. Angus was there, and I’m still in line for that promotion I told you about, so I didn’t have a ton of choice. Sorry, girl. But I did make it back in twenty-two minutes instead of the map’s estimate of fifty-four!” Rosie announced proudly. She hopped on one foot while she yanked off a worn pair of red Converse.

  “Nice job,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up. “And no problem, I wanted to wait for you.”

  When I had arrived home earlier that evening, I unscrewed the cap of the bottle while I sat alone on our big fifth-hand gray couch. But as down as I was about the outcome of the week, I didn’t feel like I was at the point of drinking on my own. I hadn’t waited, however, to delve into the snacks I had strategically placed around the couch and coffee table so that I wouldn’t have to get up all evening. In case I had to pee. I crunched away some shrimp-flavored chips. I had picked up a replacement bag from the corner store down the street. I hoped Owen would eat his, they were actually really good.

  The wine bottle sat in a mixing bowl of ice on the coffee table to keep cool. All the salty snacks I’d been eating, combined with a rough day, made me eager to make a dent in it.

  “Besides, I think I read somewhere that it’s good to open your wine early, to give it some air.” I propped myself up on an elbow from my lazily reclining posture on the couch to drag the bottle off the table. I gave it an exploratory sniff, which made my eyes water a little.

  “How is it?” Rosie asked, swiping the two wine glasses off the coffee table and holding them out for me to pour.

  “Still twelve dollars,” I smiled brightly. Much brighter than I felt.

  Rosie bumped the rim of her glass against mine and took a gulp.

  “Mmm, yep,” Rosie said. “So, is this a happy wine or a sad wine?” she asked, taking a second gulp.

  After leaving the Booker Brothers office earlier that day I’d sent Rosie the wine glass emoji and the word tonight. It was not an unusual text for either of us to send or receive, but it could mean a multitude of things. We usually waited for the evening to unpack the meaning properly with the pretty pink liquid strength in our grasp.

  I watched four bubbles float around in my glass before one of them popped, leaving three.

  “I’m just going to go ahead and guess we’ve got ourselves a sad bottle. What happened?” Rosie asked. She tucked her feet under a cushion between us and I pushed over some of my blanket toward her.

  “No more Booker Brothers,” I said. I wiggled myself even deeper into the couch, hoping to be swallowed whole.

  “Oh no!” Rosie said. She laid her hand on my ankle beneath the fuzzy blanket and gave me a gentle squeeze. “You were liking it so much,” she said.

  Her lips turned down and I could see real sadness in her eyes on my behalf. I was comfortable, for the moment, wallowing selfishly in my misfortune, but I suddenly had a rush o
f affection and appreciation for my best friend and roommate. We’d been in that exact spot time and again over the years over lost jobs and breakups, and Rosie always cared. Maybe a little too much. Sometimes she’d still be hung up over one of my exes or employers long after I’d moved on. But I loved the loyalty and the constancy.

  “I know, I loved it. And I gave everything else up to be there. I lasted three days, that’s definitely a record. I don’t know what to do anymore,” I said. I reached down beside the couch for a two-bite brownie. By the time I’d pulled one out Rosie was at the ready with the whipped cream canister. Bless her heart. We were one well-oiled machine.

  “It’s a total shame, girl,” Rosie said, loading up my mini brownie with a fluffy white tower. I immediately stuffed it in my mouth, but continued talking anyway.

  “On Monday I was on my way to a new career, a new dream to finally replace acting. And by Wednesday I’m careerless and dreamless,” I said. Rosie nodded and topped up my wine glass before reaching for a brownie herself. She liked hers with caramel sauce, which I’d already set down next to her side of the couch.

  “It’s a double shame because I was up late last night googling—

  “—You mean stalking?” I said, rolling my eyes and nudging her with my foot.

  “Googling, and those Bookers are hot stuff,” she said, widening her eyes and pretending to fan herself in the heat.

  “They are,” I admitted. We both let a couple moments pass by daydreaming about the Bookers. Now that I was out of there for good I felt it was safe to agree. It was probably just the wine but I felt some heat rise in my cheeks.

  “My day wasn’t great either, but something funny happened,” Rosie said. She created suspense by taking a second to pour herself more wine.

  “I was doing a residential delivery today, near the hills, and this guy wouldn’t open his door all the way. He was being super-weird about letting look inside the house. From what I could see, it was just your average, run of the mill, millionaire living room,” Rosie said.

  We both glanced around our own living room with its old, taped-back-together furniture and bars on the one window. “Well, you know what I mean,” Rosie said, laughing.

  “What could he have had in there?” I asked.

  “Some fifty-shades stuff?” Rosie suggested.

  “Maybe he was one of those people who like to pretend they’re babies, you know? Like with adult sized onsies, and bottles and cribs and stuff,” I said. I leaned over to the small bookshelf near the TV for a bowl of popcorn I’d forgotten about.

  “Or a seance?” said Rosie.

  “Money laundering?”

  “Cooking up some meth?”

  Rosie and I kept on going with ideas through our snorts and giggles until I felt something vibrate and heard my phone let out a short beep. I had to sit up and look under all the blankets I had on top of me to find it. When I opened up the email I threw myself down onto my back and pulled the covers over my face. Rosie picked up my phone and read.

  “French Maid Service? Uniformed cleaning? Is this your plan?” Rosie asked. It sounded like she was trying to keep her tone neutral.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know,” I said with a sigh. “I guess I could find something else somehow, but the pay is really good. Is it crazy that I’m considering it?” I asked her, and peered out from under my blanket.

  “No, it’s not crazy. Just give it some time. Don’t make any decisions tonight. You’re upset and stressed,” Rosie said. Suddenly, she put her wine glass down and clapped her hands together, wiggling into a higher seated position on the couch.

  “Why don’t I run some audition lines with you, to cheer you up?” she said.

  Before I could answer, Rosie had hopped off the couch and gone into my room to find a couple sets of sides. I could hear her rummaging around on my floor and under my bed.

  “Eww,” she called out, a couple moments later.

  “What?” I shouted back.

  “You’ve got to deal with that hoard of snacks under your bed, girl! You’re definitely the reason we have such a bad problem with the...” Rosie stopped talking and pointed aggressively at the rat trap near the kitchen door. We’d had some issues with the landlord and some of our neighbors about dealing with the rats, so Rosie and I just referred to it as “the problem." Sound really carried through our apartment walls. We’d found out the hard way over time what those constraints were in a variety of different ways.

  “They’re in a bucket,” I said.

  “Not all of them,” she assured me.

  “Okay, I will deal with it when I have a better day,” I said. Rosie rolled her eyes and crawled back into her place on the couch with the scripts.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that thinking about acting was probably the last thing I wanted to do. Instead, I sat up to get ready when she hopped back onto the couch.

  “What emotion should I use, for reading my lines?” Rosie asked excitedly.

  “Surprise me,” I said. The truth was that I just couldn’t think of anything. Or didn’t want to.

  “Alright…” Rosie cleared her throat and squared her shoulders to face me. “He’ll never make you happy, Elena, not the way I can,” Rose said, deepening her voice to sound more husky and masculine. She sat up straight, and pushed her chest out. There was a sparkle in her eye and she wore a smirk, no, a sneer.

  “But, George, he’s safe. And he’s good to me,” I paused, reading the beat in the script, but I used the time to look at Rosie some more before continuing.

  “He thinks you’ll leave me before we even make it to the altar,” I said. I was half-heartedly reading my lines back to Rosie, but she was doing far more work on the acting. She was succeeding in making me feel uneasy by channeling her character.

  “But think about it, darling, do you want safe? Safe is boring. You want me, I know you do,” Rosie said. Her voice cracked a little and she giggled.

  “What is that? What emotion did you choose?” I asked her as myself.

  “Malicious glee,” she said and wiggled her eyebrows like a maniac.

  “Hmm,” I replied, looking back down at my script. Something was nagging at the edge of my mind. Or maybe it was just the beginning of a rosé buzz starting to pull at the edges of my awareness. I tried to focus back down at my script; the letters were starting to look a little fuzzy on the page.

  “George, you’re right. But if I do this, there’s no turning back,” I read aloud.

  “So let’s go forward, Elena,” Rosie said. She was trying to suppress her giggles at the awful script, when everything suddenly became clear. I leapt up off the couch, sloshing some wine out of my glass, and raised my hands above my head triumphantly.

  “Rosie! I know how to solve the case of the missing artwork!”

  CHAPTER 20

  I could feel a dull throb in the back of my head as the bright morning sun beamed through the window of my old Prius. I’d probably had a glass of wine too many the night before. Rosie always swore that drinking too much rosé was impossible, due to its being pink, of course. But that morning I felt as though I had officially proved her wrong.

  I kept my chunky, oversized sunglasses on while I opened the pouch to my “uniform” and began pulling it on the various pieces. I twisted my body to one side and had to lift my butt off the seat to pull on nylons. I dropped down suddenly, pulling my jean jacket over my lap when an older woman in her seventies walked by with her poodle across the street. She peered over at me and glanced around for a moment before she kept walking. I went back to putting on the wardrobe for my new role. I realized it may have just been my mismatched driver’s side door in a neighborhood like this that caught her attention, but I decided that if somehow I ended up getting my job back with the Bookers, tinted windows would be an excellent investment.

  There hadn’t been enough time to properly get hired by the cleaning company, and I wasn’t confident about the legality of impli
cating them in my plan, so I’d had to improvise.

  Before Rosie had left for work I got her to call August’s house, pretending to be the cleaning company offering its promotion. She had a peculiar knack for imitating voices, even male voices. Thankfully August had taken Rosie up on her falsified offer and the plan was set in motion. By 8:30 I was waiting outside the costume shop, and by 9:15 I had pulled up a block and a half away from August’s house.

  The geeky guy at the costume shop, with greasy hair and acne, had grinned at me the entire time while he rang through all of my purchases. The store didn’t have any thigh-high white socks, so I was stuck with the slightly more risqué option of fishnets and sheer nylons. I had found the flouncy little black and white dress without any issues, and it came with a headpiece. I bought a blonde wig to strengthen my disguise, and planned to wear an old pair of glasses of Rosie’s. She’d bought them last year more as a fashion statement than a tool for her vision. She’d actually popped out the fake lenses one day when she started to feel like they were making her dizzy, but I thought they would work well enough for my plan.

  I sat in my parked car on August’s street. Once I had hiked up the fishnets and pulled the flimsy dress over my head, I pulled on the plain black heels that I wore to most of my auditions. Sweat started to prickle under my arms and I fanned myself with a People magazine on the floor. This was just like an audition too, only the stakes were much higher than usual. I reapplied my crimson lipstick and checked my eyeliner in the rearview mirror. I grabbed the handle of a plastic tray from the back seat. I’d crammed a bunch of cleaner bottles and sponges from under the sinks of our apartment earlier that morning. There were at least three that neither Rosie or I had even known were there. Finally, they would be getting put to good use. There was no way my phone would be able to fit anywhere in my outfit, not even in my bra. My boobs, which were usually a little below average, size-wise, had become ample and voluptuous squished together in the corset-like dress. I slipped my phone between the Windex and the tile cleaner and stepped out of the car.