The birds sat adrift above a sea of foggy clouds. Despite the beauty, the place was cold, soulless. Marcey didn’t like its emptiness, the hollow feeling as her feet fell on the scuffed floors. The echo reminded her of how much she’d lost, in a way, and how much she wanted to go back on everything and try again. Marcey leaned forward, her forehead pressing on the cool glass. Her breath fogged before her.
Somewhere behind her, a kettle whistled. Through the reflection in the glass, Marcey watched Kat. She’d rolled up the crisp white sleeves of her blouse and was in the process of getting down mugs and a box of tea. When she stretched, the sliver of skin that appeared at her stomach was enough to make Marcey’s mouth go dry. She had birthmarks, little moles. God, she was beautiful.
The ritual of tea was easy: boil water, steep, flavor, enjoy. Marcey took solace in it when very little else seemed familiar. Kat stood before a stove, her sleeves rolled up. Her hair was curling at her neck in the steam, a frizzy halo.
“Do you take sugar?” she asked, not looking at Marcey.
Marcey didn’t look away from the window, staring at Kat’s reflection, warm and inviting in the pale-yellow glow of the kitchen light. “One,” Marcey answered. Tea was a universal language. “Thank you.”
A mug, handmade of gray clay and beautifully glazed in blue and green, was presented to her. Marcey cupped it to her chest as Kat came to stand beside her at the window. Her mug was blue, the handle chipped, red clay showing the fleshy inside of the pretty exterior. “Why so quiet, Marcey? Surely you have things to ask me.”
“I do. I’m just picking what I want to ask first.” Marcey hid behind the mug. The tea was still too hot to drink.
“Why not start with the painting?” Kat’s prompt came with a wicked smile. “Since that’s what had you storming across the Atlantic to give me a piece of your mind.”
Marcey set her tea down and met Kat’s smug gaze. She was enjoying this. Marcey itched to do…something to her to make her stop looking so damn happy about this development. “No. Your stunt with LePage was what got me here.”
“William’s presence was…unintentional on my part, but it opens up a bigger playing field.”
Exhaling, Marcey steadied herself before speaking. “With LePage comes Linda Johnson, and with Linda Johnson, apparently, comes your Interpol agent.”
“What of my Interpol agent?” Kat asked. Her expression was unnervingly blank. Marcey chanced a glance at her, only to look away hurriedly, cheeks coloring. Kat seemed as though she could outwit death. “What happens between us has very little to do with any of this.” She gestured at the space between them, hand moving as if it were caught on a wave.
Marcey let out a quiet breath of air. “Well,” she began, forcing herself to look at Kat’s politely disinterested smile and carefully measured blinking. “You tell me. I find myself in possession of an artifact belonging to Charlie Mock, one that Shelly tells me your Interpol agent was very keen to get her hands on. And then, less than a week later, I’m hauled off to jail by one of her known associates.”
Kat was silent, her lips pursed. Thinking. Marcey wondered if she was trying to decide how much to disclose. Marcey wished she’d just say everything. Secrets were a currency in this line of work, and Marcey was only just starting to learn how they could change the conversation effortlessly, depending on how they were applied.
“Wei works for Interpol. Not the New York District Attorney’s office. I see no reason why you should assume the two are connected other than a healthy case of paranoia.” She looked down at the mug in her hands for a moment, her cheeks puffed out slightly, as if deep in thought. Marcey followed her movement, the way her hands splayed, long nimble fingers stark white against the blue. Some deeply buried and oft-ignored part of Marcey—the romantic in her, perhaps—found the way Kat gripped the mug to be desperate and angry, but really, her grip was like her face: artfully arranged into a perfectly friendly expression. Marcey’s throat went dry. “But…I’d imagine that you’ll want assurances that Wei won’t be a problem?”
“I want more than assurances. You might dismiss this as nothing more than a coincidence, but I don’t think it is.” Marcey frowned, remembering the woman in Devon Austin Jackson’s office the first time she was there. The one looking for the estate. “She was after Charlie, wasn’t she?”
“Many people were after Charlie. That goes with the job description.”
“But many people aren’t also fucking you.”
Kat tilted her head to one side. “There’s no need to be crude, Marcey. I don’t get involved with just any old girl off the street.” Kat’s lips pulled into a smug smile.
People with old money are not deviant. They’re eccentric, but they do what’s right in the end. Kat positively oozed old money. Marcey watched her with narrowed eyes, watched the realization grow and watched the sadness creep in. People like Kat, like Marcey, they were touched with that sadness, because it’s so easy to recognize in each other’s eyes. The touch of hidden identities and masks worn in public. “I’ve shocked you,” she said.
“No.” Marcey shook her head. “Not really.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”
“People should be free about stuff like that.”
“If we’re being free, Marcey, then you should know that I had no idea William was skulking around the gallery. If he was, it changes things.”
“But Wei won’t be a problem?” Marcey raised her eyebrows. “Sounds to me like she’s already involved in this”—she gestured to the space between them—“whatever.”
“Do you want to see it?”
“What?”
“The painting.”
“I saw it in the gallery.”
Kat’s smile broadened. “You saw the original, yes, but mine’s much better.” She moved across the room to where the apartment turned cluttered. A long table was shoved against the far wall, covered in what looked to be bookbinding supplies. Paint splatter covered everything. A drop cloth formed a sort of rug, secured with little hooks that came up from the floor. “There’s a mat underneath it, so don’t worry about slipping,” Kat explained as she stepped onto the drop cloth. Kat didn’t seem bothered as her bare feet traversed a sea of splotches—the paint was dry. She crossed to the far wall, where canvas after canvas leaned. Kat bent, reaching behind a large, partially finished large-scale reproduction of a fresco Marcey was pretty sure she’d seen on a trip to Italy as a kid, and pulled out a smaller canvas.
It was maybe two feet by eighteen inches, but when Kat flipped it over, showing it to Marcey, her breath caught at the back of her throat. Her first instinct was to turn away, revulsion welling in her stomach.
Marcey had known when she’d drawn the comparison to The Scream that it wasn’t the closest painting that she could think of. It was far darker than that. Less of an impression and more of a grotesque romantic horror. It reminded Marcey of those Baroque paintings… The ones depicting beheadings and crucifixions in all their bloody gore. Maybe Kat had been right and this work was an inspiration to Munch’s piece, but it lacked the bright swirls of colors that made that piece so intriguing to look at. It was far more realistic, there was none of the impressionist flair that characterized Munch’s work. The tiny thumbnails on Charlie’s printouts did not do it justice.
Kat’s open palms cast odd shadows down the deep brown of the background. The face itself was stark white. The skin was stretched tightly in places, as though the model was bone-thin and starving. His face was contorted, wrapped around something unseen, caught in a horrible yell that echoed through the empty space of the loft. That’s the remarkable thing about it, Marcey thought as she stepped onto the drop cloth. The scream reverberates without making any noise at all.
“You forged it?”
Kat made at tutting sound. “Forge is such a loaded term. Perhaps I’d hang it in a child’s room, remind them to behave.” Kat bent forward to take in the horrible, yellowing teeth of her reproduction and shook h
er head. “Perhaps I copied it because Charlie and I were going to steal the original, the one you saw at the gallery, before he got locked away.”
Charlie had written of Kat as though she possessed all the secrets of the universe at times, but this was the first time Marcey’d seen the plot through to the end. She exhaled, her hands slipping into her pockets, thoughtful. “Is that why LePage and Topeté are so set on keeping tabs on it?” Is that why you asked me to try and steal it even when you didn’t want it gone?
Kat set the canvas aside, carefully turning it around and leaning it against the other canvases. She came to stand before Marcey, her eyes a little hooded and her fingers twisting in the soft knit of Marcey’s sweater. “Perhaps I was hasty in my assessment of the safety of this enterprise, when Charlie and I first hatched this scheme. Perhaps it came from a place of guilt, rather than mutual appreciation of the job at hand. It’s complicated. Everything we do is complicated.”
“No such thing as an easy job.”
“No,” Kat agreed. “Never.” Her fingers burned through two layers of Marcey’s clothing. “I think you’ll find, Marcey,” Kat continued, “that there is a great deal you can get away with without your bedfellows finding out.” Her voice was honey. The lying smile that went with it set Marcey’s teeth on edge. But the touch at her shoulder was an invitation. A confusing, messy invitation.
Marcey didn’t move away. She stayed there, close, perhaps too close. Kat Barber was offering something Marcey had never thought possible. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.” Kat’s voice was breathy, hot on Marcey’s cheek. “Just yet. We can talk about those plans in the morning.”
“Why not now?” Marcey’s fingers twitched. She was seized in the moment of decision. She had two options: continue, or allow this to dissipate and lose whatever chance she had at understanding. She reached out, her fingers slipping on the soft fabric of Kat’s shirt. “Why not lay it all bare for me to see?”
The smile Kat offered then wasn’t lying. It wasn’t anything at all, but an easy sidling closer into Marcey’s personal space and nails gentle as Kat wove her fingers into Marcey’s hair. “You catch on quickly, Marcey Daniels, but even you deserve a little distraction…time to process these things. No sense dumping this on you all at once.”
She was close. So close. Marcey swallowed. Kat was involved with someone else, and this—this was clearly manipulation. But she smelled so good and she was there and real and warm. Heat radiated off Kat, and Marcey grabbed her, pulled her closer still. Their lips met briefly, and the triumphant gleam in the blown black-green of Kat’s pupils was the last thing Marcey saw before she closed her eyes.
It was quick, heated. The sort of kiss that could start something far, far bigger. She saw it for what it was, like the scattered remnants of bookbindings and leather journals stacked on a paint-covered table. It was just a piece of a larger puzzle. Kat had a plan, and Marcey was a part of it. If this was a distraction for a few hours, Marcey would take it.
“Now.” Kat’s lips brushed against Marcey’s cheek. “Why don’t I take you out? I can show you parts of this town a tourist will never see.”
Marcey smiled, just a little shyly. She leaned in, her fingers tangling in the soft fabric of Kat’s sweater. Kat came closer, willingly, breathlessly. Marcey kissed her again. When she pulled away, her fingers were on the hem of the sweater, pushing it up, touching warm skin. “What if we just stayed in?”
Kat’s laugh was wicked.
CHAPTER 13
Wei, Shattered
Kat’s phone went straight to voicemail. Wei frowned, perplexed, looking up at the building. There were lights on, and Kat hadn’t mentioned returning to the country for the weekend. A sick, anxious feeling crept over Wei. The knowledge of what she’d been denying, the printout of the details of Marcey Daniel’s flight—thanks to a flag on her passport—were sitting in her pocket. Kat wouldn’t…
Except that Kat would, and that was exactly the problem. Shelly Orietti was many things, but Wei would never outright call her a liar. No, that was reserved for other cutthroat villains in Wei’s acquaintance. Shelly, though, Shelly’s heart was in the right place.
“Kathryn, it’s me. Where are you?” Wei hung up and made sure her ringer was on before shoving the phone into her pocket. “Merde.” Wei’s breath fogged in the cold rain. She stood under an awning, staring up at Kat’s building. She didn’t dare go up, not without a reason. There were rules to their arrangement. Rules that made this work. Wei didn’t like them, but they were what she knew. Kat’s space was her sanctuary. Wei wasn’t about to push past that protective barrier. Not without cause. And Kat hadn’t given her any. Yet.
That was the problem with Kat. There were so many unknowns: variables that hurt Wei’s head and heart to think too much about. She couldn’t be trusted. Kat could never be trusted. She went and told tales and sold her soul for the six pieces of silver that Wei could not get back.
Long ago, before Wei had met Kat, she was warned by her mentor about women like Kat. “Anyone who is bored is a threat. Fonts of endless creativity, they are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Thrill seeking is a matter of pride for some of these people. They’ve never hungered for it. It makes them dangerous, risky people. Wildcards.”
It was a damn shame Wei had been so bad at listening when she was younger. That lesson never took. Which was for the best, because without it, Wei would be alone. There would be no Kat to feel heartbroken over; there would be no ghost of Charlie Mock to chase. There would be nothing but the bitterness that radiated out of Wei’s heart. Kat had changed all that, on a road around an incredible mountain that stole Wei’s breath away. She’d taken Wei’s hand and led her down a path that was full of secrets and lies. The lies were the easy sort; they betrayed everything with a bewitching smile and the passing, if not fully cognizant, acknowledgment of the roles each of them played. Nepal was a different place, but they’d gone there for the same reasons. Two people wanting to walk a circuit and know themselves. Maybe that was too much to expect from a place like Nepal.
But vacations and their absurd ideas had happened, and Wei was ready to embrace it as it was presented. There was nothing that stopped her from finding herself, or Kat Barber, along the dusty path. And find both she did. That was the curse of Kat, the memory that would not go away. Wei chased her, because that was what her job told her to do. She chased her because she loved Kat, and Kat was pulled apart and made whole again by her love of Wei.
Were they wrecked by this? Even now, years later, Wei couldn’t say. Kat destroyed her effortlessly, fraying her in ways that Wei could scarcely articulate. Wei would do anything for her, and Kat would do what she could to make their situation better. Away from those beautiful weeks in Nepal, they couldn’t be together. Their love affair was problematic for them both—doubly so when they found themselves on competing sides of legality.
With a last, forlorn look, Wei turned and headed up the street. She was drawn to Kat’s favorite haunts, only to find them devoid of any sign of her. She wandered from bar to gallery to bar again, sticking her head inside to find many familiar faces but not the one she was looking for. The last pub was on the corner, not far from the apartment. Wei stuck her head into the dingy space. It was a Friday night, and the place was packed.
“Wei!”
She started, turned, surprised. Not far from where she stood at the doorway, a friend of both her and Kat was smoking a cigarette, his beer hanging loosely between the fingers of the other hand.
“Nev!” she said. His cheeks were rosy with drink, but she was glad to see him. “Have you seen Kat?”
“Kat? No.” Nev frowned, drunken logic taking an extra moment to process. “Haven’t seen her in ages. Have you locked her up finally?”
“Locked her up for what?”
“Stealing my Wi-Fi.”
Wei threw her head back and laughed, just a little hysterical. “She’s not.”
>
Nev nodded. “She is. Thinks I don’t know either. I’m watching her, though. Got that network monitoring in place.”
An idea took Wei—a bad one, if the paper weighing in her pocket rang true. “I could come up,” she offered. “Take a look.” She forced her smile to look mischievous. It was hard when she felt anything but. Where was Kat? What was she doing? And, perhaps more importantly, where was Marcey Daniels?
Nev contemplated this for a moment before he threw his cigarette down on the street. “Maybe we could mess with her a bit. She’s stealing all of my daytime bandwidth. How else am I going to watch Game of Thrones if I can’t torrent it?”
Wei wrinkled her nose. She understood that they were friends and technically she had no jurisdiction to cite him for the crime, but it was still a blatant undermining of her authority. Kat did that too; it drove Wei to grind her teeth and huff dismissively. She did that now, scowling at Nev. “You’ve been downloading things illegally.”
“Whatever. The Americans like it. They keep track of the numbers.”
Wei folded her arms across her chest, scowling.
“Don’t be an arse, Wei.” What he didn’t say was that she could not, in fact, do that. Wei was grateful he didn’t hit her with the sting of honesty about how neutered she really was. At least in America she had the clout of the New York DA’s office behind her. She could force issues where here she had to liaise with local police to get anything done.
“Sorry.” Wei wasn’t sorry.
Nev drained his beer and ducked inside to return the glass. Rain was spitting from the heavy clouds overhead. Wei tugged the hood of her rain jacket over her head and shivered. The night had taken on a bitter chill during her search, late winter still clinging to the harsh cold that came from northerly winds gusting arctic air southward. Nev emerged from the queue of people by the door a moment later, pulling his collar up against the wind, and together they walked back to his place in silence.
A Heist Story Page 12
