A Heist Story

by Ellen Simpson

  LePage raised his eyebrows at Wei. Wei wanted to sink into the floor. She had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that the details of her affairs would not be broadcast so publicly to the tune of her humiliation before a man she already despised for what had happened in Rio some five years ago now. Johnson loved to get people under her thumb and push though. Wei didn’t know why she’d expected any different.

  “All my research indicated that Barber was the heir apparent to Charlie Mock’s empire,” Wei answered. She shifted forward. “Devon Austin Jackson—”

  “Who is a blight on my good profession,” Johnson put in.

  Wei inclined her head. She’d never much cared for lawyers who defended criminals willingly, seeming not to be bothered by their crimes. Charlie Mock’s lawyer was among them, and he wielded the shield of attorney–client privilege like a weapon.

  “Indeed,” Wei continued. “Devon Austin Jackson did not give me much, only that the estate in question, which I can only assume means the book, was sent by courier upon him receiving notification of Charlie Mock’s death.”

  “And you were with the individual who should have received it at the time you found out?” Johnson sat down and wheeled her chair forward to get a better look at the paperwork Wei had laid out on in the small space of desk not overtaken by leaning towers of case folders.

  Very carefully avoiding looking at LePage, Wei nodded. “I was with Kathryn that morning. I left briefly, to go into the office to receive the confirmation from William.”

  “There’s no chance she got it while you were out?” LePage asked.

  Wei shook her head. “I can’t see how. Devon Austin Jackson said he sent it by courier. He wouldn’t have been able to send an in-person delivery on an international flight that quickly. I checked the flight manifests that evening. Any courier would have missed the 10:00 p.m. flight bank on account of Charles Mock dying at 9:15 that evening. There simply wasn’t time.” Wei indicated her notes. “I attached that to the back of the second page, Linda. My theory is that it was delivered to someone in the city.”

  “Really?” LePage scratched at his already growing shadow. Corsicans. Wei wrinkled her nose. “That would make sense. Would we need to run down the regular courier services to see if we could locate a delivery around that time?”

  Johnson closed the folder. “I don’t care how you do it. I just need you to find the book. It was supposed to be in my hands by now. The election is coming up, and with it the window of my ability to prosecute this case to the fullest is closing. I will not miss out on a chance to right a wrong just because of my own ambition.”

  Frowning, Wei took her notes back and tucked them into her folio. She didn’t say so, but she did think pushing so hard for Charlie Mock’s book was only going to get them more trouble. The investigation was falling apart already. Wei’s one chance to make things right between herself and Kat hung in the balance. They were dismissed, Johnson turning her attention to her files enough to drive that point home to Wei. She followed LePage out of the office and out into the cluttered bullpen.

  “Want to get a coffee?” LePage asked.

  Wei didn’t want a coffee. She wanted to go back to her hotel room and sleep. Decorum and partnership forced her to nod, head dipping jerkily. Americans couldn’t make a decent cup of coffee if their lives depended on it, and LePage was not the type to seek out the un-American parts of the city to find a place that understood how to appropriately brew.

  She followed him outside, dug a cigarette from her pocket, and lit it. The nicotine hit took down her anxiety over Johnson’s edict.

  “You’re still sleeping with Kat Barber, then?” LePage asked, lighting his own. He exhaled smoke up into the gray sky above them.

  The city was caving in on Wei. To admit the truth was to subject herself, and her methods for controlling a volatile situation, to a man she loathed, but to lie was not an option. She walked slowly, shivering in the cold. Her thick leggings beneath her professional dress and wool overcoat did her little favor. Did she want to tell LePage the truth? Was that worth the humiliation of it?

  Was she even humiliated by it?

  “Yes,” she said.

  The end of LePage’s cigarette burned bright. He led her north to the subway stop, taking the J train toward Brooklyn. Wei did not want to venture that far away from the office just yet, but it seemed that to earn whatever modicum of respect she could claim back from LePage, she was going to have to grit her teeth and bear it. At least the train would be warm.

  “Why still do it? After Rio, I’d assumed you’d stopped. Is she making you?”

  “William, there is very little about my personal life that I am willing to discuss with you, let alone Linda Johnson. My work on the Mock case, and in conjunction the Barber case, is a matter of public record in this country. Anyone from you to Johnson to Kathryn is able to look at that record.” Wei glared at him. “My personal life, however, is just that: private.”

  The train arrived. They got on and sat down. LePage got up to allow a pregnant woman to sit down. He loomed over Wei, grinning down at her. “Barber’s a looker. I don’t blame ya.”

  “You’re a pig,” Wei muttered in bitter French. She wrapped her arms around herself, thinking back to a moment long before this had become so complicated.

  Kat, sun-kissed and freckling in the heat. Her knees skinned, splattered in mud from a puddle on the roof of the world. A snow-capped mountain rose behind them, giant and menacing. Its crown was almost a cragged, sleeping man against the backdrop of an icy blue sky. Kat’s hair had been frizzing out of its braid and her lips had been warm against Wei’s, kissing her in the shadow of that terrible mountain. This had been a future, a past, and a present, all rolled into one, this moment of adoration, of falling in love. This moment had been the breaking of the surface, twenty days in Nepal, walking counterclockwise and ever upward. That had been the Kat Wei fell in love with. The one before the mess in Rio and the Mock trial. Johnson had chosen to exploit that relationship, encouraging Wei to let it grow when her better instinct upon discovering Kat’s true nature had been to cut all ties.

  “Love’s complicated.” LePage was still talking, rambling on about love like he had some sort of experience. “People come and go, but the ones who are true, they stay forever.”

  “Do they?” Wei asked mildly. They were racing under the river.

  LePage nodded. “There was this girl, once, Gwen. Beautiful as can be. She and I got involved about seven years ago now.” He still had that nostalgic air about him when they got off a few stops into Brooklyn. They emerged in Williamsburg, and Wei relaxed immediately. There was something about being in a neighborhood that could remind her so strongly of home that put her at ease. She let LePage lead her to a small shop in the basement of a house; the place smelled of roasting beans, smoky and soothing. Wei looked around. Kat would love this place. If this worked, and Wei was able to secure her freedom, they’d have to come here.

  Over surprisingly tolerable coffee, Wei listened to LePage’s theories about Charlie Mock’s book and shared a few of her own. They didn’t have much to go on, but the investigation would have to progress quickly if they wanted to catch the new owner before they realized how valuable a resource they now had in their possession. Wei wanted to look up that girl from Johnson’s campaign poster and Devon Austin Jackson’s office.

  “Why?” LePage asked. “What does Interpol care about some drug dealer’s reputation?”

  Wei looked away. She’d seen the girl in person. She saw the resemblance. That nose. She’d know it anywhere. “Call it a hunch, as you Americans say.” She sipped her coffee, worry gnawing at her gut. Would she be able to pull off the ultimate coup?

  CHAPTER 6

  Marcey, Starting Things

  When Marcey was a child, her mother had put up constellations that danced across the sky at midwinter on her bedroom ceiling. Ursa Major dipped just at the edge of the crown molding, Orion at full prominence, Cancer and Gemini glowing stark a
gainst the blank canvas of her cracked eggshell-white ceiling. When Marcey was little, it had been a gateway to another world. Now it was just another place, fleeting in its prominence. Her bedroom was like everything else in the apartment: neat, square, and suffocating.

  Late on Wednesday night, Marcey lay awake, turning over the events of last Friday. This was the first time she’d allowed herself to think about it. She’d gone to work on Monday and tried to ignore the itch to return to the Bronx and dig through Charlie Mock’s files until she found something she could use. She’d pushed Shelly’s accusations and Darius’s warnings to the side. They would understand—they had to understand. She had to find something that would allow her to define herself beyond the bitter knot of feelings that settled at the pit of her stomach whenever she thought about Charlie.

  She wanted to track down Shelly, to take the woman’s love of the man who’d passed and find a way to use it to her advantage. Shelly would be key, Marcey was sure of it, in understanding what Charlie was planning. The letter was scant on the details. Marcey heaved a frustrated sigh. Shelly had made it clear: she had no interest in having any further involvement with Marcey. If Marcey wanted the answers to her questions about Charlie, she had to find them somewhere else.

  Work had been a wash on Tuesday, and again on Wednesday. Now, Marcey couldn’t sleep. She wanted to know more about Charlie Mock, about this job. She hated that she couldn’t just come right out and ask someone for all the details.

  That wasn’t how the game worked. Marcey’d been in and out of it enough to know that much. The game was played in a series of moves within moves.

  Marcey got the book from her bag where it lay by the apartment door. The picture was tucked into the inside cover. Marcey had caught herself looking at it more than once over the past few days. Just seeing it was enough to make her heart race again, the euphoria of Shelly’s game still fresh in her mind.

  There was only one Kat Barber in the book. A Kathryn, actually. A Google search of her phone number indicated she lived in the UK, more specifically London. Five hours ahead. It was seven in the morning there.

  Marcey took the book and retreated to her bedroom. Her mother was asleep. Screwing up her courage, Marcey typed the number into her phone. Her fingers trembled as she hit send and raised the phone to her ear. She didn’t know what she wanted. Or rather, she did, just not how to ask for it.

  How do you ask for someone to tell you all their secrets on the off chance they want to be involved in a dead man’s last stand?

  The static of an international call faded into the pulse of the phone connecting. Marcey’s stomach churned, and her tongue felt sandpapery in her mouth. She wished she’d brought the glass of water with her.

  The phone rang three times before a sleepy voice picked it up.

  “It’s awfully rude to call people at this hour.” Though a little hoarse from disuse, Kat Barber’s voice filled Marcey’s stomach with a deep warmth. It dragged, low in tone, over Marcey’s mind, touching, tasting, sampling the wares in the sort of accent Marcey would find dismissive and polished in any other setting. Thick with sleep, it was merely intriguing.

  Glancing at the digital clock by her bedside, Marcey forced herself to speak. “I’m sorry. I thought…the time.” She gestured lamely in the dark.

  “It’s two in the morning. What do you want?”

  Marcey inhaled sharply. “You’re in New York?”

  “Where the bloody hell else would I be? I have work in the morning.” There was a rustle of blankets, and another voice, accented in a way Marcey did not recognize, murmured sleepily.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcey said quickly, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “With the number, I just assumed you’d be in the UK somewhere. Where it’s seven in the morning.”

  “Who is this?” There was a shuffling on the other line and the sound of a door closing gently.

  “My name is M—”

  “Christ, you are new at this. Don’t share your name, it’ll make it easier for one of us to come and find you.”

  Sticking her chin out defiantly, Marcey countered, “Then how can I tell you who I am?”

  Chuckling with a still-sleepy warmth that set Marcey off-balance, the woman laughed. “You know who I am because you’re the new point of contact. The heir to that massive fortune. I don’t give this number out to just anyone, you know—certainly not to strange women without enough sense to call at a decent hour. You’re the new Charlie. You must have his book. How else would you get my number?” She drew out the word like she was savoring a fine wine.

  “Then we understand each other,” Marcey answered. “You’re Kat Barber. I have a picture of you. In Rio. With Charlie.”

  Kat hummed as if nostalgic. “That was a good day. Are you offering me a job, Young Charlie? Or is this purely a call to reminisce?” She paused, creating a tension Marcey felt thrum in her chest. Marcey’s heart raced, waiting for her to continue. “Because, if it is, bugger off so I can get some sleep.”

  “This isn’t a social call,” Marcey said quickly. “But it isn’t to offer you a job either. I…” She ran a hand through her bangs, staring out into her bedroom, at an absolute loss for words. Marcey had no idea what to do. She couldn’t just ask Kat Barber for help, could she? “I’m not sure I fully understand what Charlie intended. He left me the plans for his final job, the one he meant to pull up in the mountains.” Marcey swallowed but pressed on, anxiety making her heart race and her voice move just as fast. “I met Shelly Orietti Friday night and she pulled me into some card game and I helped her play this guy outta at least fifteen grand in cash and diamonds at a poker table with a hundred-buck buy in.” Marcey sucked in a deep breath. “I didn’t ask to be brought along, she just did it, let me feel what it’s like to be on a con with her like that. Told me afterward she doesn’t work with others. I—”

  “You’re green.” Kat said the word like it was dirty. She exhaled, a long sigh. “Why would you send her the book, Charlie?”

  The comment wasn’t for Marcey. She bit her lip, before flopping back on her bed. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

  “I would’ve gotten up soon enough. Jet lag goes both ways, you know.” A smile, or at least a hint of warmth, crept into Kat’s voice. “What do you want from me? I’m not in the business of offering to engage in enterprise with total strangers.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “Then tell me, what do you want?”

  Marcey stared up at the constellations on her ceiling. What did she want? “Do you know what happened when Charlie was arrested, right after that picture was taken, in Rio?”

  “I know of it, yes.”

  “The woman who represented the state of New York on that case is no friend of mine. I know what she did to Charlie. And I know what she did to me and mine. Shelly hinted at how angry she was that Charlie did not end up in prison under her watch. I handled the aftermath of that in my dealings with her.” Marcey exhaled; she hated putting on airs to make herself sound smarter. “I want to take this job of his, this last idea he had, and use it to see her hanged on a rope woven of her own hubris.”

  “That’s an awfully large request of a total stranger, Young Charlie.”

  “My name is Marcey.” She didn’t like being called Young Charlie. The name stripped away who Marcey was and replaced her with the name of an old dead guy. And while they might be kin, he was nothing more than a sperm donor. One Marcey still wasn’t sure she wanted.

  “So, your name is Marcey.” Kat hummed thoughtfully. “A little girl who wants revenge and to carry out a dead man’s last request.”

  A small bark of laughter escaped Marcey’s lips. “Oh, this isn’t for Charlie. I don’t give a shit about him.”

  “You’ll find that a great many of us do.” Kat’s tone was curt. Marcey mentally cursed; that wasn’t what she meant. A silence drew out. Marcey wondered if she’d gone and put her foot into it, but Kat finally continued. “My experience with revenge is that it
sours with time. The vindictive desire fades and you’re left with the pieces of a job you’d never attempt, had you not been pushed the point where you decided to get comeuppance. It never ends well.”

  “Shelly said the same thing.”

  “Shelly would know better than most.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, my dear Marcey, that isn’t my story to tell. If you want anything from Shelly, you need to approach her with a plan. She’s rubbish at planning, logistics, and such, you know?”

  Marcey frowned. “That’s hardly fair.” Shelly seemed to have her wits about her.

  “Shelly’s skills at planning have gotten me into some uncomfortable situations in the past, sorry to say.” With a yawn, Kat continued, “Why don’t you come find me tomorrow? I can show you something that you might like to try.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why is that? I don’t bite.” Kat’s tone of mock hurt was transparent.

  “As you said. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, Kat Barber. Why would I willingly walk into a potential set-up? Give me something to do, let me prove to you what I can do, and then maybe we can meet in person.”

  “Mutually assured destruction. Smart.”

  Marcey sat back, biting down on her curiosity. Would Kat agree to tell her what to do without a face-to-face meeting? Was that a faux pas? All she could do was listen to Kat’s quiet breathing and wait. Discomfort made Marcey shift. Navigating on a minefield when she was so tired was leaving her drained.

  The sounds of the city at night filled the phone line. Kat had gone outside. A siren wailed in the distance. Marcey imagined her, the beautiful woman from the picture, standing in a nightgown and robe on the roof of some high-rise hotel, her hair blowing in a stiff breeze. She was clean, pure, a white splash of paint high above the smell and grimy grays of the city.

  “But…” Kat spoke in a low voice, barely audible over the wind. “There’s a way to go about doing this, Marcey, and this isn’t it.” Whatever she said next was lost on the wind. Marcey strained to hear, but there was nothing but static. She frowned. Had Kat hung up on her? She was about to hang up too, when Kat continued. “There’s a painting. On display at the Perôt in SoHo. I’m meant to appraise it later today. It’ll be kept there over the weekend, and then returned to its owner on Monday.”