Sting

by Jude Watson

  “I don’t want a castle,” Izzy said. “And we’re already rich.”

  “We were in for one heist to help you out. Not three,” March said.

  “I realize that, but if you are sitting on a beach fishing and a wonderful starfish falls into your lap, do you throw it back?”

  “Yes!” March cried.

  “Bad example. If you buy one lottery ticket, but the game is fixed and you know the next ticket would net you a hundred million dollars, do you just pay for your one scratch-off five-dollar ticket and your pomegranate juice and leave?”

  March pretended to knock his head against the table.

  “You’re on a video feed. I can see what you’re doing,” Hamish said. “My point being. There are undoubtedly certain parties who would in fact pay a tremendous amount to reunite these stones. Maybe even remake the Gate of Heaven. There’s some rich dame out there who wants Marie Antoinette’s necklace, you can bet on it. Thirty, forty, fifty million — who knows? All it takes is a bit of research, some nefarious contacts — both of which I am good at — and then planning, to which I tip my hat to the mastermind, March McQuin, the worthy successor to his noble father — don’t shut off the computer — my dearest pal, Alfie, plus the stealthiest, smartest gang of thieves on the planet.”

  March looked at the others. Jules was frowning, Darius looked uneasy, and Izzy eyed the sapphire with something close to fear.

  As for him, his blood was racing.

  “Look, I was in this for one job,” Jules said. “I like being retired.”

  “This was a close one, Ham,” Darius said. “We’ve got one gem. We’re already sitting on a fortune. I’ve invested it wisely in tax-sheltered accounts with high-yield securities.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Izzy said. “But thanks.”

  “In other words, we have enough for ten lifetimes,” Darius said. “Love you, man, but I’d rather just chill on my pile of cash.”

  “I don’t like that sapphire,” Izzy said.

  March knew they were right. He felt everything they felt. So what if he also felt a sharp pang at the thought of missing out on the Gate of Heaven?

  It’s a lifetime score, kid. Only comes around once. Who doesn’t want thirty, forty, fifty million? Plus, you know, jewel thief history. You’d be up there with your old man. You and me, kid, legends in our own time.

  March tried to ignore Alfie. His dad was a nag. “Sorry, Ham. We’re —”

  “Now, don’t rush to answer yet —”

  “— not interested.”

  Hamish’s long, mournful face got even longer, even sadder. “Oh. Well. Far be it for me to question why the son of Alfie McQuin would turn down the chance to make jewel thief history, but what can you do?” He brightened. “I have an idea! You deserve a vacation. Why don’t you come to Miami? I’m at my condo. The sunshine is sublime.”

  “No, just get us out of here,” March said. “Last night was too close. Can we get an earlier flight?”

  “I live to serve. I’ll text you the deets.”

  They said good-bye, and March closed the computer.

  “He’s not going to give up,” Darius said.

  March stretched. “I know.”

  “Sunrise in an hour,” Jules said, crossing to the window.

  March dived into the sofa and curled around a pillow. He remembered back to another almost-dawn, just like this one. The sky had been this same dark blue, his heartbeat had been jumping like this, and he’d been filled with a grief so huge he was afraid it was crushing him so hard he’d never walk again. He’d seen his father fall from a roof, had knelt by him on the cold, hard stones, and had seen the instant life left his body, and he had never felt so alone. The earth had seemed so wide and empty, and yet it had no place for him.

  Now he had a place. He had family. He had Jules. He had Darius and Izzy, a tight group around him, all of them standing back-to-back against the world. He often pictured them that way, in a tight circle, faces out, ready for anything. It was a comforting way to fall asleep. He had his people, shoulder to shoulder. He had a place in the world.

  He jolted awake when Darius said, “It’s made the news.”

  Sunlight now streamed through the window. Darius held the tablet in front of March’s face. Under a blurry sense of headlines (TALKS CONTINUE/IMPACT REPORT/FRENCH REFUSE/AMERICANS INSIST …), one smaller headline popped out:

  ROBBERY AT INDUSTRIALIST’S PARIS MANSION

  Police Suspect Organized Gang

  Housekeeper Insists Kids Were Culprits

  March groaned and put his hands over his face.

  “We’re made,” Darius said.

  Izzy sat in front of the laptop. “No video, no pictures of us,” she said. “That’s good.”

  Darius sat down close to March. “Hey, Marcello. Do they have food in Paris?”

  “Is that a hint, Mr. D?”

  “Nah. Just an idle inquiry. From someone who could basically eat a bear right now. And I’m a vegetarian.”

  “You’re not a vegetarian.”

  “Well, except for pepperoni. Even vegans don’t expect you to give up pepperoni.”

  “Don’t try to figure it out,” Izzy said. “Just feed it.”

  Darius tossed a pillow at her, and she stuck out her tongue. Darius and Izzy had the longest history of the gang. Darius had watched over Izzy since she was a tiny nine-year-old who’d arrived in the group home straight out of a psych ward, where they’d put her after she had been left in a locked bathroom by her parents while they went off to Atlantic City to gamble. They’d left her with food for two days. They were gone for five.

  “I don’t think we should all go out,” March said. “I’ll grab some food and be right back. In the meantime, pack the gear. Hamish got us on the noon flight. We can take the RER train to the airport.”

  The streets were full of morning commuters, heading to or from the metro, stopping for a quick espresso, riding bicycles in traffic, walking dogs and kids, doing all the things French people do while looking amazingly nonchalant and cool. There was nothing like a day in early September in Paris to make you feel that the world was a lovely, busy, well-groomed place. March tried not to look too American. It was ridiculous how you could instantly spot an American in Paris. Baggy pants, fleece pullovers, running shoes. He passed an ambling middle-aged guy in a University of Michigan T-shirt. They might as well carry a sign saying PICKPOCKETS CHOOSE ME.

  He remembered enough of his time in Paris to know where the farmers’ markets — les marchés — were, and on what days. Alfie preferred to shop in open-air markets in Paris rather than the local bakeries and greengrocers, where a face might be remembered.

  Paris had been their favorite city. He and Alfie had stayed here in flush times and lean times, and it was always fun. He climbed the gentle hill behind the apartment and made his way through Saint-Germain. March cruised by the offerings, picking up fruit, cheese, a dried sausage, and some pastries. He bought more than he needed and told the stall owners to keep the change. Scrounging was a thing of the past. He left the marché and stopped at a boulangerie for baguettes. The yeasty, warm loaves were too tempting, and he tore off the top of one to munch on the way back to the safe house.

  It was amazing to think that last night he’d been under all this sunlit busyness, in candlelit caverns and twisting corridors carved out of ancient rock.

  He wasn’t sure when he had become aware, but suddenly he knew he was being watched. Something had triggered it, some sixth sense he’d developed growing up with Alfie. It was as though a shadow cast from nothing suddenly hit the back of his neck. March knew better than to turn. He glanced in a shop window.

  The guy in the University of Michigan T-shirt was behind him now. The same guy he’d seen near the market.

  Coincidence?

  If Coincidence shows up, Trouble follows.

  “Hello, March.”

  The guy looked like just another American tourist in Dad jeans. Except … not. />
  How to ID a cop: Just look at the eyes.

  Thanks, Pop. I’ve got this. The guy’s a cop.

  “Saul Dukey, FBI.”

  Not just a cop — a fed! March’s gaze moved fast, searching out the exit options. No metro station nearby, and if he ran, the street was wide and straight. But the Boulevard Saint-Michel was only about five blocks away, and he could lose himself in the students …

  “Relax, kid. Nowhere to run. Let’s have a chat.”

  It was the way he said it. With authority that didn’t have to push. March knew it would be a mistake to run.

  And, looking at him, March knew it would do no good to pretend he wasn’t March McQuin. This guy knew exactly who he was. “You’re out of your jurisdiction,” he said. “The FBI can only operate in the United States.”

  “Not really. Interpol called us in. I’m an invited guest.” He studied March for a moment that felt longer. “I was a friend of your dad’s.”

  “Yeah, I remember all those heartwarming family dinners we had with you.”

  Dukey gave a half smile. “You remind me of him.”

  “Must be the chin.”

  “No, it’s the mouth, actually. Look, I owe him a favor.”

  “I’ve got news for you. It’s a little late.”

  “What I’m saying is I’m passing it along to you. The favor.” He tilted his head. “Let’s walk, all right? Paris is a great city for walking. So they say.”

  Like he had a choice. March tried to unobtrusively look around. Were there more agents hovering, ready to pounce?

  “Relax, it’s just us. This time.” Dukey looked over March’s bag and selected an apple. He polished it on his shirt. “Ever hear of the Top Cat gang?”

  “Who hasn’t?” They were the most nefarious jewel thief gang in Europe. Known for their daring and style, they pulled off heists in broad daylight. Their escape methods were legendary — a speedboat in Cannes, a helicopter in Zurich, the Underground in London. They had dressed up as women and bank officials and rich clients. They would go anywhere and steal anything. There were dozens of members, maybe more, a whole network of larceny that crisscrossed Europe and Asia. They took their name from an old television cartoon about a tribe of thieving street-smart alley cats.

  “French police got a tip that they’re targeting the States. Setting it up for a full-scale invasion of the gang. So I came over here to share information with Interpol. Being the jewel thief expert and all.” He took a bite of the apple.

  “Not sure what this has to do with me,” March said.

  “We hear that they have an American associate. I’ve been looking for that contact for months.”

  “Yeah, it might net you a big promotion, right?”

  “It would make my career, sure, but who cares,” Dukey said, his eyes flickering briefly. “But let me tell you about this weird coincidence. So I’m here, meeting with the officers assigned to track the Top Cats, and what do you know, they pull off a heist last night! There I was, right on the front lines.”

  March’s pulse ticked. He moved the bag to the other side and squeezed it tight. Dukey chewed and swallowed. “Typical heist. The housekeeper is pretty hysterical. Came home early, caught them in the act. The rich French guy is groggy — said he’d taken a sleeping pill. One thing is funny, though. The housekeeper says the thieves were kids. Can you imagine that?”

  “You said she was hysterical.”

  “Stuck to the story, though. She said they did some major acrobatics on these crazy pipes they have in the place. And the investigators who know everything there is to know about the gang? They say she must be mistaken — kids don’t work for the gang. Interesting tidbit, am I right?”

  “Bewitching,” March said. “But —”

  Dukey held up a hand. “Wait and see where I’m going with this, ’cause it’s a great story. We get a message that the police are in the middle of a high-speed chase. We got the coordinates, so we take off, take a couple of shortcuts, wind up near the river.”

  “They call it the Seine.”

  “You don’t say. So the getaway car is this big old convertible Mercedes, interesting choice, but come to think of it, Top Cat style. We hear that the gang’s best wheelman was spotted at the wheel, only now it’s driving like a crazy person, weaving all over the place. It crashes through a barricade and dunks in the river. We’re pulling up, okay? I’m looking down that walkway by the river. And I could swear I see a couple of kids. Running. So what do I do? I take off after them. I lose them for a sec, and they just … disappear. What do you think about that?”

  “I think you owe me a euro for that apple.”

  “Hang on, it gets better. One of the cops tells me that we’re near an entrance to these tunnels below Paris. I say, ‘You’re kidding me,’ and they say, ‘Hey, let’s check it out pronto.’ Or however you say that in French. So I spend about an hour down there in these tunnels, and let me tell you, it’s amazing. Quite a scene down there. Kids everywhere, but suddenly, there was some kind of signal, because … poof! They disappear! So we all give up.”

  March felt relief flood him. Dukey had nothing after all. He was just fishing.

  Dukey waved the apple. “And that’s when I meet Juliette.”

  Hooked.

  March swallowed. He tried not to show his panic. Never let them know they’ve got you. “So it’s a love story. Aw. Congratulations.”

  He pointed the apple at March. “Happily married man, son. No. She’s hanging out by the entrance, gets freaked by the cops, but she calms down when I tell her I’m looking for a couple of kids. Turns out she walked them to an exit and was worried. They seemed kinda young. So I ask her what exit, and she brings me there. And so this morning I hang around — these French cafés are great for that, by the way — and what do you know, I see Alfie’s kid March. As they say in France, quel surprise-o.”

  “So you’re fluent in French,” March said. “Mais ce n’était moi.”

  “So you can lie in French, too.”

  Dukey’s gaze had turned hard. March felt a sudden lurch in his stomach. His mouth went so dry he couldn’t have spit if he’d wanted to.

  “Funny how you’re here at the same time as when a big heist goes down,” Dukey continued. “You’re in a tunnel at four o’clock in the morning.”

  “Agent Dukey, I’m not in the family business.”

  “Seems to me you were mixed up in a moonstone caper last year. Ten million dollars in bonds went missing.”

  “I hadn’t heard about it,” March said. In his head, Alfie said, Never admit anything.

  “I know you didn’t steal them. I understand your aunt was involved. Becky Barnes, also known as Blue.”

  “We’re not close.”

  Dukey snorted. “Good call. I’ve been trying to get the goods on her for fifteen years.” He tossed his apple in the trash. “You want to talk to me about last night?”

  “Did some sightseeing, went to bed early.”

  “You want to rethink that answer?”

  “No. You don’t have anything,” March said, returning the man’s stare.

  Dukey sighed and looked off for a second. “The only reason we’re having this conversation is because your old man was a stand-up guy — for a crook. He saved my life a couple of years ago. And he didn’t have to. I was undercover, the deal went down, and suddenly everything went south. If it wasn’t for Alfie McQuin, I’d be at the bottom of the Thames River.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s in London.”

  “Who knew?” March felt a memory kick to life. He was eleven. He was waiting in a hotel in Calais for Alfie to return from London on a big caper. Alfie didn’t show up for three days, and then they jumped on a train and went to Spain. Now he remembered Alfie’s nerves, how he didn’t relax until they crossed the border. Busted, bud, Alfie had said. Back to living thin.

  “Cost him a cool million. Had to give up his share to save me. So, I owe him. Otherwise you and your little gang of four would be back on a p
lane, headed for juvenile hall, but not until you’d been thoroughly questioned by the French police, Interpol, and the FBI.”

  The panic he’d managed to tamp down was now banging on every nerve.

  How does he know we’re four?

  “Yeah, I know who’s in the gang. Apparently you’re not as good as you think you are at hiding out.”

  Is he bluffing? March wondered. How could he have found us?

  “I had a notion you’d turn up at Alfie’s grave sooner or later.”

  March’s heart fell. He knew it had been risky. It had been only a few months ago, the anniversary of Alfie’s death, and he just couldn’t help himself. They had all gone, taking the train upstate and leaving some of Alfie’s favorite things — black licorice, a bottle of cream soda, a John Scofield jazz CD — on his grave. Stupid.

  They catch you on sentiment, kid. Wall it off.

  He wanted to kick himself. How many times had Alfie told him not to look back? If we could do a 180, we’d be owls.

  “Cemetery owner tipped me off. I had local cops follow you to the train. Gave me enough time to get to Grand Central, but you never showed up.”

  Because they’d gotten off the train in Harlem and taken the subway. Darius had been hungry for pizza.

  “It was easy to track back and find out where you and your sister, Julia, were assigned. A couple of really heartwarming types named Pete and Mandy Sue clued me in that you disappeared with two of the kids there — Darius Fray and Isabel Mercado. Mercado’s parents are rumored to be hackers operating in Argentina — when they’re not gambling in Macao — and Fray’s mother has a rap sheet as long as my arm, currently out on parole. Nice group you run with.”

  Made. All of them. March tried to keep his face neutral, but his pulse was skittering. How could he have missed that tail? Small-town cops from dinky Fortune Falls, following them to the train?

  Because he’d gotten lazy. Because he’d been dazed and sad from standing over Alfie’s grave.