Steal

by Jeff Elkins

  Next, in the file, was a testimony from the building’s owner, Theo Thalberg. He explained that the painting was from his personal collection and was worth two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars. He had purchased it from a gallery in New York and had hung it in the bank three months before the robbery. The detectives asked him if the painting was insured, and Mr. Thalberg said it was.

  The final testimony was from George Hayes, Mr. Thalberg’s head of security. Hayes explained that he painting had been secured in a special frame that should have been near impossible to remove from the wall. He also said that his team had gotten an alert from the security service the second the power had gone out, had immediately informed the police of the break-in, and were in route to the bank as the robbery went down. While his team had beaten the police to the scene, they weren’t there in enough time to apprehend the thieves.

  The last thing, in the file, was the detective’s thoughts on the case. He knew less than Moe and Stacie had already uncovered. He speculated the team was probably military trained. He said their hardware was high tech. He postulated that there needed to be at least one other person to cut the power to the building. Finally, he commented that there was no evidence that anyone from the bank’s staff had been involved in the robbery.

  Moe closed the file, put it to the side, and took another one from the box. The contents of the file were the same: pictures of the scene, hand scribbled notes, and a typed report. This time the robbery had taken place in an art gallery. There were no witnesses. Theo Thalberg, the gallery’s owner, was interviewed. This painting had been worth four-hundred-twenty-thousand. Again, the detective made sure to note that the painting was insured. It didn’t seem the detective was pursuing a fraud charge, but rather that he was leaving a note for future readers that this crime wasn’t that big of a deal. At the end of the transcript, George Hayes was again interviewed. His comments were much the same before. The painting was secured. The alarm system was state of the art. His team and the police were on the scene within ten minutes of the alarm being tripped. Moe noticed an interesting addendum to the report that explained that the painting was “recovered by the owner at an auction eight months after the robbery.”

  Moe closed the file, put it on top of the last one, and then took another from the box. She and Stacie continued in silence reviewing the files for over an hour, until they had both read the reports of all nine cases. As Moe was finishing her final file, Stacie closed hers, sighed, and complained, “I thought we would find something in these, but they’re all the same. Lots of high-tech tools. A few guys break in. They go right for the painting, take it and leave before anyone can do anything about it. They never hurt anyone. And the painting is always insured.”

  “The detectives like to note that, don’t they? It’s the last question they always ask Thalberg,” Moe said, closing her file as well.

  “Right? Where’s your sense of justice? Who cares if he is getting his money back?” Stacie said, standing to stretch.

  “So, there were some differences,” Moe said, as she arranged the files into two stacks. These four all happened in high trafficked places like banks and the lobbies of offices buildings. But, these four happened in less trafficked spaces like art galleries, hotels, and restaurants,” she said, taking four more folders and placing them in front of Stacie. She then held out the file containing their current case and placed it in the middle of the two piles.

  “But, ours was being hidden in the middle of nowhere,” Stacie said, finishing Moe’s thought. “We could, also, do it like this. These six pieces,” she said, rearranging the stacks so they were in chronological order, “were recovered after being resold at auction eight months after the theft. While these two are still missing, but it hasn’t been eight months yet.”

  “Mr. Thalberg has had nine paintings stolen. Eight were in semipublic places,” Moe recapped. “And only ours was in a private location. Also, it seems the paintings are all recovered after eight months. You think Thalberg is stealing his own stuff, collecting the insurance, and then buying them back cheaper?”

  “If this is about insurance fraud, then he is winning, and he has no reason to hire us. We’re just going to ruin the game he’s playing,” Stacie said.

  “That’s true,” Moe said with a sigh.

  Stacie stood and stretched. “So, what do we know?” she asked.

  Moe casually flipped through the files again. “I think these other cases tell us two things. First, our employer has two more paintings that are about to be sold somewhere. If we can figure out who is selling, then maybe, we are one step closer to catching whoever is behind all this.”

  “Awesome. I like that,” Stacie said. “What’s the second thing?”

  “Well, this robbery is different than the others,” Moe said. “If he isn’t playing at insurance fraud, then Thalberg is setting a trap. The new security system. The low trafficked hallway outside his old mentor’s office. But the question is, ‘for whom?’”

  “We should ask him,” Stacie said with a smile.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They drove home with the windows rolled down. Few things were as nice as a Maryland fall. Moe loved how the trees became a collage of oranges, yellows, and reds; the air smelled like rain and earth; and that people started wearing jackets and sweaters. Moe was a sucker for a comfy sweater. She rubbed her arms as the night air had turned a few degrees colder. “I think tomorrow, we should go to Sarah’s house and talk to her neighbors. See if they saw anything the cops haven’t uncovered,” Moe said.

  “Sounds like a plan. And at some point, I’d like to meet our shorter client,” Stacie said. After a few moments of silence, Stacie added, “Tell me something about your parents. You never talk about them.”

  The question gave Moe pause. She guessed she didn’t really talk about her parents, but it wasn’t a conscious choice. “I don’t know,” she said. “They were my parents. What do you say? Dad worked really hard. Every spare second was spent doing something. When he wasn’t coaching, he would be reading or talking on the phone. He was always on the phone. And he would leave journals and articles he was reading all over the house. It drove mom crazy.”

  Moe was surprised that talking about him felt good. As she spoke, a weight in her chest lifted. It was nice to remember. “And Mom was always there. She made dinner every night. She took care of all our school stuff and drove us to all our activities. She was a great mom. Plus, she and I had a special bond – being the only two girls against five boys.”

  “I bet that was crazy. I always wanted siblings,” Stacie said.

  “What were your parents like?” Moe asked.

  “Well, Mom left when I was four and I never saw her again, so I barely have any memories of her. I remember she was fun and that we laughed a lot. I remember that she was beautiful, but I also remember her and Dad yelling all the time. Dad told me later that she was a drunk, but I don’t know how much I trust his version of events. My dad was, well, he was passionate about my career. He was always more a manager than a father, but that was our life. My acting was his job, too,” Stacie said.

  They came to a stop light. The city was dark and quiet. “That doesn’t sound like much of a childhood. I’m sorry,” she said.

  Stacie nudged Moe and said, “I just had to learn to find family in other places.”

  Moe laughed and took her hand and squeezed it. The light turned green and they started driving again.

  “Were your parents gifted, too? Like you and your brothers?” Stacie asked.

  “My mom was,” Moe said. She spotted a parking spot in front of the large Catholic Church a block away from their houses. She considered turning the corner to see if there was something closer but decided this was probably the best it was going to get. Carefully, she pulled her car into the spot.

  “What was her gift? Was it about memories and stuff, too?” Stacie asked.

  “Sort of. Mom could predict outcomes. It was like she could see all the possibilities, a
nd she instinctively knew which one was the most likely,” Moe said, as she and Stacie got out of the car and started walking toward their house.

  “That’s kind of cool. Not as cool as reliving someone’s memories, but still cool,” Stacie said.

  “It was really helpful financially. Whenever we needed money for a bill or something, Mom would just open the newspaper, look at the stocks, and make a call to her broker. Then, wham, money in the account the next day,” Moe laughed.

  “Are you rich?” Stacie asked with shock.

  “No. Mom only did it when we needed it. She was real big on keeping everything a secret. She said if she did it too much, people would notice,” Moe said.

  They made the turn onto their street. Before she understood why, Moe could sense something wasn’t right. It took a second for her brain to catch up to what her eyes had already processed.

  Stacie let go of her hand. “Oh, shit,” she said. She started running up the street.

  Moe chased after her yelling, “Stacie! Wait! Don’t go in!”

  Stacie came to a stop at her front door. It was wide open. The frame was splintered. Moe could see through the opening that the apartment was destroyed. She could hear Bosley barking in her house across the street. She looked at her door and front window. Her house appeared to be undisturbed.

  “They destroyed my home,” Stacie said as she took a cautious step toward the entrance.

  Moe grabbed her by the arm. “They may still be here,” she said. Pulling her friend across the street, away from the house, she took her cell phone out of her back pocket and made a call.

  “Hello,” a sleepy voice said on the other end of the line.

  “Baba. It’s me. Someone broke into Stacie’s house. We need some cops you trust,” Moe said.

  Baba’s voice changed from waking up to alert. “Mason will be there in fifteen. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t go in the house.” The line went dead.

  Moe put her phone back in her pocket and put her arm around her friend. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  A tear rolled down Stacie’s cheek. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” she asked.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The first thing Moe felt in the morning was the painful dryness of her mouth. Her head was pounding and her joints ached. She sat up in bed. It had not been a good night sleep. After the Baba and Detective Mason arrived and started investigating the scene, Moe took Stacie back to her house. Detective Mason sent a pair of uniformed officers with them to take their statements. It was early morning before Baba finally came over to tell them the crime scene techs were finished and that Detective Mason was putting a squad car out front.

  Moe looked over at Stacie. A low hum of a snore radiated from her open mouth. A small pool of drool had formed on her pillow. Laughing to herself, Moe grabbed her phone off the night stand and thought about taking a picture to use as blackmail later, but then decided her friend had been through enough. Forgoing her typical morning ritual, she headed downstairs to make coffee. Her head pounded in rhythm with her footsteps as she walked down stairs. Bosley followed at her heals.

  Moe knew Stacie took her coffee with lots of cream and twice as much sugar, but she wasn’t sure what her friend would want for breakfast. Before she could decide what to take up, Moe saw Bosley do a circle in front of the door. “I guess that won’t wait, will it boy?” she asked. As she snapped his leash onto his collar, Moe heard the shower come on upstairs. It seemed her friend was up. She wondered how Stacie would be this morning. She hoped her friend wouldn’t be too devastated that her house was ransacked.

  Moe waved to the officers in the squad car as she let Bosley out. When he came back in, she filled his bowl and he lunged at it, devouring the food. Seeing him eat made Moe happy. Maybe whatever had made the dog act strange was over. Moe searched her fridge. There wasn’t much there. She settled for a bowl of Lucky Charms with almost-turned-but-not-yet-sour milk. As she poured the bowl, she noticed the shower had stopped. Stacie must be done. Grabbing the two mugs of coffee and the bowl of cereal, Moe headed up the stairs, mentally preparing herself to spend the day consoling her friend.

  Moe pushed open the door and was surprised by two things: first, Stacie was wearing a pair of Moe’s jogging pants, Moe’s Sabrina-movie-poster t-shirt, and a towel around her head; and second, Stacie was on her cell phone. “Yep. Today. As soon as you can. Meet at the Silver Spoons. Thank you, darling. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” she said, while giving a small “Good Morning” wave and smile to Moe. Hanging up the phone, Stacie took the coffee from Moe and said, “Thank you.” She took a sip and then motioned to the cereal with her mug, adding, “Don’t eat that. We’re going out. Breakfast is on me.”

  Moe placed the cereal on her dresser and sat down on her bed. She took a sip of her coffee hoping it would make her as alert as her friend. She watched Stacie paw through her closet. “You seem chipper this morning,” Moe said.

  “How is it the only thing you own is t-shirts?” Stacie said, looking at a shirt disapprovingly, sliding it down the bar, and then examining the next. She pulled a burgundy red shirt off its hanger and took a pair of jeans from the floor. Handing them to Moe, she said, “Here. Put this on today. It matches the one I’m wearing.”

  Moe took the clothes from her friend and said, “So, who were you talking to?”

  “An old friend. Now come on. Go get dressed. We’ve got a breakfast appointment, and I’m absolutely starving,” Stacie said.

  As Moe got dressed, she laughed at how wrong she was about her friend.

  The coffeehouse, where Stacie took Moe, was far fancier than Moe preferred. Decorated with burlap bags of coffee beans and indecipherable paintings, the room was filled with people in suits and business attire speaking in competitive and strategic tones. After taking a sip of her coffee, Moe tried to precisely place the white mug on the brown circle it had left on the white table cloth.

  “It’s like my dad used to say, ‘There’s no point in dwelling. Just push it down and keep pressing forward. Never let them see you cry,’” Stacie said. Her mouth was full of French toast. She’d been talking since they left Moe’s house. Moe was amazed she hadn’t choked on her food. “I mean, what am I going to do? Sit around sad all day that someone trashed my house? Nope,” Stacie continued.

  Moe swirled a bite of pancakes in the pool of syrup on her plate. “There’s nothing wrong with being sad or upset,” she said.

  “Of course not,” Stacie agreed. “Absolutely nothing wrong with it. It’s just not helpful. When I used to get sad as a kid, my dad would hand me his credit card and say, ‘Go get yourself something nice. You’ll feel better.’ As messed up as that is, he was right. Nothing heals a broken heart like a new pair of shoes. Which is why we’re going to buy a few essentials when we finish up here.”

  “Ms. Howe. Ms. Watkins.”

  The grizzled voice made Moe jump. Moe turned to see a thin, white-haired woman dressed in a black suit. While the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth gave the impression of wisdom, her expressionless lips, cold stare, and cropped hair made her feel dangerous.

  “Francine!” Stacie said, standing and giving the woman a hug. “Take a seat,” she said.

  The stoic woman joined them at the table.

  “Moe, this is Francine. She was my bodyguard. Francine, meet Moe. My best friend and partner,” Stacie said, as she reclaimed her seat at the table.

  “Nice to meet you,” Moe said.

  Francine nodded and then turned to Stacie and said, “So, tell me what happened.”

  “Like I said on the phone, my place was trashed. We think it has something to do with our new case,” Stacie said.

  Francine gave a small smile and said, “You’re working for Theo Thalberg. He’s had a number of valuable pieces of artwork stolen from various places. The most recent theft seems to have troubled him more than others, so he hired you to investigate.”

  “How do you know all that?” Moe asked, leaning
back in her chair and crossing her arms suspicious as to why everyone seemed to know so much about her new case.

  “I’m very good at what I do. Give me specifics about the break in,” Francine said.

  “We were looking for a team of well-funded ex-military types. Yesterday morning, we had breakfast at a breakfast for Veterans, asked a few questions, followed a few leads,” Stacie said.

  “What about your security system? It didn’t notify us.” Francine asked.

  “It was on,” Stacie said, definitively.

  “The team we’re hunting seem very tech savvy. On their jobs, they cut the power before they go in,” Moe offered.

  “What did they take?” Francine asked.

  “Nothing. They just trashed the place,” Stacie said.

  “What involvement does your previous adversary have in all this? He is still in contact with your client’s son,” Francine asked.

  Stacie sighed and said, “I don’t think it’s him. He couldn’t have gotten past the alarm. He was never that bright.”

  “What protocol do you want to initiate? I’d recommend Active Intimidation. My team and I will be by your side until this is over,” Francine said.

  Stacie reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s necessary. We’re big girls. I was hoping for something more like Proximity Surveillance,” Stacie said.

  When Francine smiled, Moe thought she saw actual warmth seeping through the woman’s hard exterior. “I don’t like it, but you’re the boss,” Francine said, her voice momentarily softening.

  “What’s Active Intimidation?” Moe asked.

  “That’s when Fran straps on a big gun and follows us everywhere, scaring anyone who comes near us,” Stacie said.

  “Got it. That would make investigating difficult. People are less likely to talk to us if Fran is trying to scare them all,” Moe said with a grin.