A Heist Story

by Ellen Simpson

  “Then why is she with Kat?” Marcey frowned, thinking back to the Perôt’s pristine white gallery walls. Was she witnessing the calm before bloody fallout of some arrest years in the making? “Shouldn’t she want to lock Kat up?”

  Frowning, Shelly nodded. “I’ll go with you to look at this painting, Marcey, but I won’t help you steal it. If you want that, you’ll have to ask Kat Barber for help. There’s too much risk here. I don’t want you getting into this life only to have it ripped away from you by someone like Topeté.” She didn’t meet Marcey’s gaze as she spoke, gathering her things. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Shelly inclined her head to the door. “We should go.”

  Marcey locked up before they fell into step together. Marcey was wrapped in her own thoughts, and a quick glance at Shelly told her that the other woman was as well. She was lost in the possibilities of taking the job, and she wondered if Shelly was thinking the same.

  “I’m not going to ask Kat Barber for help.”

  “Then you’re not going to get away with stealing this painting.” Shelly raised her hand to hail a cab. “Sorry, kid, them’s the breaks.”

  Sticking her jaw out, a little more determined than ever before, Marcey shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Wei, Rekindling Friendships

  Wei wove through throngs of pedestrians, heads bare and faces shining. The mood was infectious when the weather was like this. The clouds broke and faded into sunlight, and the sun-starved people of the city basked in its warmth. It was just spring, a moment of renewal.

  Her destination was a small bar on the Lower East Side, a place she knew well enough but hadn’t been to in years. She never called New York home. She never stayed long enough to put down roots. That chaos, the constant movement and hard-won sense of place, was learned when she was a child—her father had been in the Belgian foreign service, her mother the daughter of Chinese émigrés had come to the West just after the second World War. He’d never been posted at one place long enough for Wei to feel as though she belonged. Shanghai, Algiers, Moscow, Berlin—the cities had been stopping-off points, nothing more. It wasn’t until London that Wei had settled enough to start tentatively putting down roots, and the roots were largely because of Kat.

  The nomadic lifestyle suited Wei. It kept her life simple.

  Simple, though, would be the last word to describe her life of late.

  The bar was small and homey, brightly lit by wide windows. At night tea-lights dotted the ceiling to look like the stars the city swallowed in itsfluorescent glow. Wei glanced around. There were a few happy-hour patrons lingering into the dinner hour, but the floor was quiet.

  A woman sat at the back, tall and broad shouldered. Her fingers splayed out over the lip of her wineglass. It was a red, the same deep color as her nails. It had been some time since Wei had seen this woman, and it took a moment to recognize her. Time had been kind to her. Transition had too.

  Wei approached the bartender and ordered the house whiskey neat. She took her time ambling over to the woman at the back, watching, and waiting. She wanted to see if she’d be noticed. She set the glass down on the table before sliding into the seat opposite, a smile pulling at her lips. “Hello, Shelly.”

  She did so enjoy these moments where she pounced.

  Shelly looked up, her eyes going wide and her hand jerking before she stilled it. “Wei.” She cursed. Wei wished people would learn to say her name properly, to let it roll off their tongue in a breath the way Kat did.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” Wei confessed. She smiled, the small, polite smile of one reminiscing with an old friend. “Time has been kind to you.”

  The compliment—and it was one truly, for Shelly was a beautiful woman and Wei was not without eyes—seemed to take Shelly aback. She glanced down at her hands, fidgeting with her wine glass. “It hasn’t been easy.”

  “Such things never are.”

  “Especially in my line of work.”

  “You could always get out of it, you know.” Wei sipped her whiskey. “Do something more interesting—like youth advocacy.”

  Shelly picked up her wine and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, the transgender woman, exactly the sort of person parents would want mentoring their kids.” She sighed and sipped her wine. Setting her glass down, her expression grew more serious. “I’ll take the compliment for what it is, Wei. It’s been a long road. One I’ve had to walk alone for a while now, thanks to you.”

  The intensity of Shelly’s words bit into Wei’s psyche, and she felt guilty again. Shelly’s transition was a joke in some of the circles, but Wei admired her for doing it despite the implications for her career. The game was hard enough without the added complication of gender politics. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Wei did not feel sorry, but it was better, sometimes, to give the lip service required. “Charlie was…well, a good man.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I thought I’d look you up,” Wei answered. “Offer my condolences.”

  “Did Kat send you?”

  “I’m not her messenger, Shelly. Never have been. We don’t work like that. If anything, you could say Linda sent me.” Wei tipped her drink and smiled smugly. She sipped, feeling the warmth of the whiskey filter down her throat and settle in her stomach. “You know what she’s after.”

  “She won’t find it if she’s having you look me up.” Shelly took a large swallow of her wine. Wei watched the way her throat worked around the wine. It was a larger swallow than Shelly must’ve intended; it took her a moment to continue. “I haven’t the slightest idea who Charlie sent it to. I would’ve thought”—she paused, eyeing Wei thoughtfully—“that it would have gone to Kat. She was the heir apparent, after all.”

  That was why Linda had called Wei away from London, from her actual investigation. Kat owed Interpol that book, and she’d bargained far more than her freedom for it. Wei was here to make sure it ended up in Kat’s hands, rather than Linda Johnson’s mess of an archive room. It would never see the light of day again if it were left there, especially not if it contained everything Wei suspected it did. Charlie Mock’s career had spanned decades, and he’d documented everything. Wei couldn’t even begin to think of the power Johnson would hold with that document in her hands.

  Wei drained the rest of her drink and motioned to the bartender that she wanted another.

  Shelly ran a finger along the edge of the table. “Say it were to resurface. What would you want from it?”

  The bartender brought a second glass over. Wei almost asked him to leave the bottle, but this was a game of cat and mouse she couldn’t play drunk.

  “You know Kat, how she is.” Wei shrugged, deliberately evasive. “You know what’s in the book.”

  “Ah, that dirty secret of yours.”

  “Too right.”

  The wine in Shelly’s glass cast a ruby-colored shadow on the table. It almost matched the color of Shelly’s lipstick. “Kat’s in town.”

  “Appraising a painting, yes.”

  “She’s not trying to steal it?”

  Wei glared. The hobbies of her lover were not something Wei discussed in the company of anyone, let alone fellow criminals. “The lesser nature of it doesn’t carry much weight—even if it’s suspected to have been an influence for The Scream.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Of course it isn’t, but Kat can talk a pretty game and there are some similarities.”

  “Why’d she appraise it for two mil then?” Shelly raised an eyebrow. “You and I both know that’s a price tag reserved for lesser great works. That smells like Kat’s on the job. Which isn’t a good look for the collar you’ve effectively slapped around her neck for your bosses in Lyon.”

  “She can’t be—” Wei thought back over the past week. There’d been nothing to indicate… The phone call. She’d pretended not to notice Kat stealing away in the night. She’d pretended because that’s what they did around each other when their lives butt
ed against the truth. It was a relationship founded on lies. Unhealthy, perhaps, but it was what allowed them to work as one.

  “It’s enough for Johnson to hang you out to dry, Topeté.” Shelly reached across the table, a heavy hand on Wei’s shoulder. “And if she ever gets the book she’ll find out about Berlin and Algiers, and your career’ll be ruined.”

  Wei ground her teeth. She needed something stronger than this weak whiskey. She couldn’t acknowledge the accusation. She pulled her arm away from Shelly’s superficially kind touch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She drained the rest of her glass. This conversation was not going the way she wanted it to go. “Be careful, Shelly. One word and I could have you arrested.”

  “You’ve got no jurisdiction here. Interpol’s gotta be invited in,” Shelly shot back. “And besides, with both your feet firmly planted on this sinking ship, you’ve got no place to judge.”

  Frowning, Wei asked, “Did you come here thinking I would come by?” This was an old haunt of Shelly’s, her turf, a place where Shelly felt safe. Wei had come here knowing there were only a few places in the city where she could “bump into” one of Charlie’s old crew regulars.

  Shelly smiled the elusive smile of a con artist. “See, that’s the problem with you, Wei. Once, you had this all figured out. You played both sides like a fiddle and used them to propel yourself forward. Now, with too much time on the side of angels, the devils are getting the jump on you.” She took a sip of wine, savoring it before setting the glass down. There was a smudge of lipstick on the glass. Shelly swiped it away, smearing it with her thumb. “Johnson can’t get her hands on the book for obvious reasons, and you’ve made promises, clearly, for Kat’s future. Why not work together?”

  “And what?”

  “Stop Kat from recruiting someone new into the fold. Stop Johnson from getting her hands on the book. All that foolishness. I know what you’d do for her. What you’re doing for her now.”

  They stared at each other, Wei steely and Shelly smug.

  Wei got up, tossing a crumpled twenty down onto the table. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She left in a hurry, walking aimlessly in the growing twilight. She went north, and then west, before getting turned around and heading down to the subway platform to find her way back to the hotel. She couldn’t get the thought of what Shelly had said out of her mind. Kat didn’t bring people in. That was the job of the leader. It was what Charlie Mock had done before he died. He’d brought people of unique skillsets together for work, and he’d allowed them to thrive before turning them loose onto the world. That was what had made him dangerous as a criminal—he was able to draw people in and have those people commit the crimes for him. He was the facilitator. The liaison. He wasn’t the man who did the work, most of the time.

  Another player was on the board.

  Emerging from the subway station in a part of the city she did recognize, Wei headed up to the crosswalk that would allow her to walk the two blocks to the hotel. She drew her cellphone from her purse and called LePage.

  He answered on the second ring. “What?”

  “Get down to the Perôt. It’s a gallery in SoHo. Broadway and something. I think someone’s going to make a play at that painting.”

  “I’m on it.”

  It was a lead. A lead Johnson would jump on.

  CHAPTER 9

  A Heist, Considered

  The Perôt had a top-notch security system. Marcey typed the name she saw printed on the side of the small box affixed to the wall into Google on her phone. Her eyebrows shot up, reading the rave reviews from newspapers as far-flung as Moscow and Shanghai. Christ, she was fucked. This was, despite it not being Marcey’s first rodeo with the law, the first time she’d ever come face-to-face with something so daunting. She’d never stolen anything so valuable either. She didn’t know if it could be done.

  It was Sunday afternoon, and Marcey was inspecting the mostly empty gallery. A security guard drifted around the space with his smart haircut and ill-fitting uniform, leaving Marcey alone with the grotesque painting that dominated the far wall. There were other pictures in the gallery, but it was consuming, drawing Marcey into it.

  She stared up at the painting, trying to figure out how the hell she was going to get it off the wall and out of the building. Kat Barber had said to impress her. Marcey wanted to impress her. But this was a far more daunting task than she’d initially imagined.

  “It’s creepy, isn’t it?”

  Marcey started. Shelly was standing beside her, hands in the back pockets of her jeans, her shoulders squared back, defiant.

  “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  Shelly tilted her head back as though taking in the painting. “Call it a change of heart. Or a want to not see Charlie’s only kin end up in jail at the hands of an ally.” She didn’t meet Marcey’s eyes, and the dishonesty of the statement hung heavy. Why was she lying?

  It didn’t take much to knit the implication of Shelly’s presence together with her previous reluctance to be involved. The truth was there, drifting like a half-imagined slight. Marcey looked away from Shelly. “You’re here to babysit me.”

  “You asked me for help. This is me helping you, hon.”

  “Did she send you?”

  “Who? Kat?” Shelly shook her head. She glanced toward the doorway and jerked her head, indicating Marcey should follow her outside. The temperature had turned chilly overnight, and Marcey shivered as she stood under the gallery’s awning. Shelly stared down at Marcey, her expression unreadable. Her hair drifted in the slight breeze. “Kat doesn’t even know you’ve involved anyone else, if I’m right about this.” From the back pocket of her jeans, she produced a single sheet of white paper. “I thought you should see this.”

  Marcey took the paper and unfolded it. In the shadow of the screaming man was the same printout of the painting from Charlie’s storage unit, only with significantly more information filled in than a simple Google image search. There was an appraised value and a signature that began with a sharp downward stroke before slashing back across the line with a relish. Kathryn Barber’s signature was cutting. “Two mil?” Marcey read the number in disbelief. “This isn’t even that good a painting. Or that important of one.”

  “What do you know about art?”

  “Admittedly very little, but that is a ton of zeroes.”

  Shelly took the paper back from Marcey and folded it carefully. “You don’t know anything about this world and yet you want to live in it. Come with me.” There was still a tension on Shelly’s shoulders. She headed up the block. Marcey hesitated, glancing back at the painting one last time through the Perôt’s window. The screaming face stared back at her, sending a shiver up Marcey’s spine. She exhaled and hurried after Shelly.

  Once out of view of the outdoor security cameras, Shelly visibly relaxed. Her expression became less pinched and worried. It was still early on Sunday, but already the street was crowded with shoppers. “You can’t just walk into a place and look like you’re casing it. The guard noticed you. He could describe you to a cop.”

  “He wasn’t even paying attention.” Marcey scrunched up her nose. “How could you tell he was paying that much attention?”

  “Because I know how to look in a room and see things you don’t even know exist.” Shelly folded her arms over her chest, scowling. “How many security cameras were in the room?”

  Marcey thought back. There were two outside, plus one that she’d noticed, mounted in a corner. It was static—pointing solidly in the direction of the door. There had to be others. She closed her eyes, picturing the gallery: a wide bright space full of natural light. There were no walls to break up the visual, just white space. It was logical that there would be others, and she could guess where they were. “There were five,” she answered. “Two out front. One at the back that was static, and two on two-eighty-degree rotations in the front corner. There’s no large blind spot that I can think of. The coverage is unif
orm.”

  Shelly nodded approvingly. “And the rest of the security?”

  A shopper bumped into Marcey. She stumbled slightly. “There’s something on the back of the painting. I couldn’t see what. Regardless it will need to be cut directly from the frame for transport.”

  “Very good.” Shelly started to walk once more. “That was a motion detector, rigged to a pretty low-end security system, by this gallery’s standards, but you missed the motion detection at the door and two secondary cameras trained on the painting. That two-million-dollar price tag will make even the most miserly of gallery owners take extra precautions.” Shelly shook her head. “Even with an elite crew and plenty of planning time, this would be a risky job.”

  They reached the corner. Marcey chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking hard. Was Shelly just trying to scare her away from trying to take the painting? “What if we were to approach this differently? Like, I don’t know, waylay the transport crew that’s set to move the painting tonight and take it then?”

  Shelly laughed and paused at a street corner, waiting for the light to change. “Now you’re thinking.”

  They sat in a Starbucks and watched the crowd for a while, not speaking. Shelly bought Marcey a coffee. Marcey sipped it, the worn leather of her jacket creaking as she moved. “This isn’t going to work, is it?” The thought, like the coffee, was bitter.

  “Probably not.” Shelly was shredding a napkin slowly. “You’re rushing, and rushing is dangerous. You have to be careful with these things. The more you hurry, the more the moving pieces come apart. You’re playing into a larger hand now too. Kat Barber wants something from you. I think you know what it is.”