The Day Before Yesterday's Thief: A Prequel to the Eric Beckman Series

by Al Macy

  “Wow.” She moved into the room, examining each painting in turn. Soon, she was focusing on the signatures, the wheels obviously turning in her head. “Are famous paintings but all with same signature. Some have two signatures.”

  Bolton nodded.

  “Is your signature! You painted these, yes?”

  “I did.”

  “What, are art forger?”

  He flushed. “No. Of course not. I wouldn’t have put my signature on them in that case.”

  “For fun?”

  “No, for practice.” He swept his hand out, gesturing toward the wall and almost spilling his drink. “I did these as part of my art education.”

  “Is very impressive. Nice etchings. Want to look more but have to get dinner started.” She gave him a quick peck that made him want more then pushed him to the stool.

  “What’s for dinner, Ma?”

  “We are having tochitură moldovenească. Is Moldavian stew. Very popular in my country.” She opened the suitcase and pulled out the largest cast-iron frying pan he’d ever seen. It was well over a foot in diameter. The tendons in her forearm stood out as she placed it on the stove.

  “Fee-fi-fo-fum!”

  She threw him a questioning look.

  “It’s what the giant says in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’”

  “I need big pan. By the way, you had very nice luggage. I noticed it before Gestapo took me away. Can I see it again?”

  “Your luggage looked fine. You’re replacing it?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “What was that all about, anyway? With customs?”

  “They had me confused with someone else. Annoying.”

  “I don’t have the luggage anymore.”

  “No?” She seemed alarmed somehow.

  “Well, I still own it, but I lent it to a neighbor who is on a trip to New York.”

  Viviana took a deep breath.

  * * *

  La naiba! Damn. The priceless diamond was flying back and forth across the country, unless someone threw away the Chapstick container. Easy come, easy go, not! I worked hard for that.

  It didn’t matter. At all. Who needs a million dollars?

  I took a big, cleansing breath. “Kitchen is very nice. Are sure you can’t cook?” The counters were gray granite. The range was restaurant quality and the faucets could be operated with foot pedals.

  “I make a great grilled cheese.”

  “But—”

  He gestured with his arm. “All this is left over from the previous tenant. Some famous chef. Chef Boy-ar-dee, I think. Tell me about the stew.”

  I started cutting and chopping. “Let’s see. Pork neck, lard, onion, smoked sausages, garlic, white wine, eggs, and sheep cheese. We will have it on balmoș, a kind of cheese polenta.” Snap out of it. Diamond wasn’t that important.

  I prepared the food without talking. Bolton opened a bottle of Beaulieu Vineyards Zinfandel.

  Once I got the stew simmering, I said, “I need to use little girls room, now.” It was a long shot but worth a try.

  In his elegant bathroom, I locked the door and took a breath. I opened the medicine cabinet. No. Yes! There it was behind a container of Advil. The French Chapstick: Dermophil Indien. My heart jolted into my throat. I pictured him unpacking, finding the Chapstick, shrugging, putting it in his cabinet. Now need to pee for real! I took the replacement stick that I’d found after an all-day search at beauty shops and, careful not to get them mixed up, made the swap. Succes!

  Even better than finding the diamond: I realized I had no intention of discarding Bolton Vance. I’d worried that once he’d served his purpose, allowing me to retrieve the Portensia diamond, I would lose interest in him. Instead, thinking of him—out there in his dining room, waiting for my return—sent a cozy wave of heat through my body.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bolton was daydreaming, marveling at his luck at finding Viviana when she came back to the dining room and tickled him on the ear as she passed. “Miss me?”

  Bolton reached for her waist, but she twisted away with a girlish yelp. She was fast. Still smiling, she pointed an index finger at him and loosed a string of rapid Romanian. “Cine aleargă după doi iepuri, nu prinde nici unul.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You must not run after two hares at the same time.”

  “Rabbit?” He leaned over the counter and frowned into the frying pan. “I thought we were having pig neck and sheep testicles. I hate rabbit.”

  She laughed. “Have you ever eaten rabbit?”

  “No, and don’t tell me it tastes like chicken.”

  “Silly! In this case, proverb means, ‘Don’t try to seduce the cook until after she’s made the dinner.’”

  She was back to her old self. While she fussed over the meal, he went over the evening in his head. When she arrived, she was the fun, clever, affectionate woman he’d driven to Marin with. Then, while cooking, she was a little more distant. No, it was just his imagination. She was intent on her task: assembling all those ingredients without a written recipe in sight. But when she’d come back from the bathroom, she was glowing.

  The candlelit dinner was better than he could have imagined. For dessert, Viviana served something she called mere coapte, baked apples filled with crushed pecans, butter, and sugar. They went through almost two bottles of wine. Afterward, they snuggled together on the couch, fitting together like a long-married couple. They watched the fading light over the City by the Bay.

  “That was an amazing dinner,” Bolton said.

  “Thank you.”

  He chuckled a little, jostling her head.

  She turned her face up to him. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s one thing that could have made that taste better.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Some rabbit.”

  She punched him gently on the thigh, and they both chuckled some more.

  Bolton put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. He kissed her, and she kissed back. He placed a hand on her waist. He moved it up as they kissed.

  They stopped watching the fading light over the City by the Bay.

  * * *

  The next day, I walked alone along the waterfront in the Fisherman’s Wharf neighborhood of San Francisco. Just west of the construction at Pier 39, I went into the marina, down past the collection of boats. Some were pristine oceangoing yachts, others were grimy fishing vessels. I came to The Ugly Duckling, parked back-in to the slip. A lanky thirty-something man lay on the cushions of the cockpit sound asleep, a canvas hat over his face.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  Despite my quiet tone, the man startled violently and sat up, rubbing his face. He was completely bald like Kojak. Afro-American. Nice smile.

  “Hi,” I said. “I have flyer here. I’d like to go on the champagne cruise.” I waved the pink sheet that had been on my windscreen.

  He took his hat off and scratched his head. “Sure thing, ma’am, but can you come back in about an hour?” He looked around the marina.

  “Sure. Will come back at two, yes?”

  “That would be great. You’ll enjoy it. We’ll sail out to Alcatraz and back. Sound good?”

  “See you at two.”

  I wasn’t concerned about getting on the boat with a stranger. I had checked out FBI Agent Dwayne Sibbett not by calling the number on his card but by calling the general FBI number and asking after him. After a bit of a runaround, I was able to find that he was indeed an agent in good standing. I’d made the call from a pay phone.

  Many criminals like me hate the police. I’m sure that comes from interactions with overzealous prosecutors or sadist cops. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid all interaction with law enforcement. So far, I haven’t been caught.

  My closest call had come in the Epoque Hotel in Bucharest. My victim was a rich and famous baritone who was performing at the opera house while I made my visit. Or so I though
t. I learned later that he’d decided, at the last minute, that he wasn’t well enough to sing, and his part had been covered by an understudy. Apparently, he’d just been in the hotel’s sauna while I was in his rooms.

  As happened in Saint-Tropez, he opened the door to the suite just as I had pocketed his valuables. I was dressed in the hotel’s maid outfit, but it didn’t fool him. He roared in a way that only an opera singer can and charged me. His huge size gave me an advantage in quickness of movement, but he was still able to snag the sleeve of my blouse. I ripped it loose and flew out the door. He soon came charging out, but at that point, I was already at the end of the hall, about to disappear into the stairwell.

  That’s when it happened. I felt a bee sting, nothing more, on my side near my waist. I was blocks from the hotel before I realized I was bleeding. I’d been shot. I’ve replayed the scene many times in my head but cannot recall hearing the gun go off. Just the bee sting. Adrenalina can sure affect one’s perceptions.

  Without a visit to a proper doctor, the wound had resulted in complications which almost killed me. That forced my kleptomania into the background for a while, but of course, it returned like a persistent infection temporarily knocked down by an insufficient course of antibiotics.

  Sometimes I think that without my compulsion, I’d be a law-abiding citizen. But that’s like someone who feels that without his gambling addiction, he’d be financially responsible.

  After some sightseeing and a cup of coffee, I returned to The Ugly Duckling, which was, in fact, a rather attractive sailboat. The hull was light blue, and it had one pole—mast. The lanky man—an agent?—had the boat ready to go and a bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket near the steering wheel. As soon as I stepped aboard, we motored out of the slip.

  The lanky man leaned over to me. “Look happy.”

  Right. I was playing the part of someone who had decided she needed a little break in the form of a sailing trip. As we puttered out of the marina, I saw some people looking at us, but that was to be expected. Was the FBI being paranoid?

  Once clear of the marina, the lanky guy had me man the big steering wheel, which I learned was called the “helm,” while he raised the sails. He came back and steered the boat away from the wind. The sails snapped tight, and the boat tilted way over.

  “Is okay?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  The wind was strong, and we sliced through the water toward Alcatraz. It was marvelous, my first time on a sailing boat. A splash of spray hit my face, tasting salty on my lips. Bolton and I would have to do this together sometime.

  “Okay,” I said to the man. “We can talk now, yes?”

  He looked back to the shore. “Soon.” He handed me a yellow raincoat. A “slicker” he called it. Boating has its own language, apparently. He let me steer for a while, showing me how to turn away from the wind just enough to keep the bigger sail from flapping. “Luffing,” he called it.

  Finally, far from any shore, he said, “There’s someone in the cabin who would like to speak with you.” Was there some hesitation in his voice? “I’ll be up here if you need me.”

  I took off the slicker, slid some kind of lid back, opened the door, and went down a few steps. The cabin had a tiny kitchen on the right with two couches toward the front against the walls. The rocking and bucking of the boat was even more noticeable here, and sound from water rushing against the hull filled the room.

  A man stood up from one of the couches. He was around fifty, with a florid, jowly face. The hair on the back of his head was thick enough, but the hairs growing on the front part of his scalp numbered in the low double digits. He had a salt-and-pepper goatee, and his flabby throat made me think of a pelican swallowing a jellyfish. He wore aviator glasses with a bluish tint and a pin-striped suit, not what you’d expect on a sailboat.

  “Welcome, Viviana.” His voice was that of the man who had sat behind me several days before: Dwayne Sibbett.

  He walked over, obviously not used to the rocking, and closed the entrance to the cabin. He shook my hand, holding it a little too long.

  “I don’t think people on shore can hear you—oh.”

  “Right,” he said. “The man above is also FBI, but he doesn’t need to know what I’m going to tell you.”

  “Am ready to listen. As I told you on the bench, am not involved with Mafia.”

  “This isn’t the Mafia but something like it. It’s a powerful crime organization. We know they have suddenly become very interested in you—”

  “How do you know this?”

  “That, I can’t tell you. But they are convinced that you can help them with their criminal activities. Can you tell me why?”

  “Am here to listen only,” I said, “but I do not know why, if what you say is true.”

  “It’s true.”

  “They contacted you recently. Do not lie to me, Viviana.” He put his hand on my knee.

  I swatted it away. “Listening only, thank you.”

  He shook his head. “You have no idea of the danger you are in. The people in this gang are a bunch of violent psychopaths. You and your family are at risk. Once they get their claws into you, they won’t let go.”

  “Isn’t all this—” I waved my hand around the cabin “—overelaborate? Is FBI paranoid?”

  “We have to be. The organization is extremely competent in surveillance techniques. We know they have been watching you closely.”

  “Please get to point.”

  “The point is,” he said, “that I’m here to help you. If they get their claws into you, you can contact me, and I’ll come to your rescue.”

  “And in return?”

  “In return, you will tell me what you know about them. Tip me off as to upcoming jobs, for example.”

  I squinted. “Wear wire?”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Okay, I understand your proposal. Are done?” I stood.

  “Viviana, you are so beautiful. I really want to protect you.” He stood quickly, put his arms around me, and mashed his mouth against mine.

  Stunned for only an instant, I leaned back and brought my elbow around, smashing it into his windpipe. It was his turn to be stunned. I pushed him, and he fell back, hitting the side of his head against the sink area. He got onto his hands and knees, coughing.

  I started toward the ladder. “Why did you think you could do that? Are lucky I went easy on you.”

  The lid to the cabin’s door slid back, and the lanky man appeared, a gun pointing toward us. He held it with two hands. “What’s going on down there?”

  “Agent Sibbett tried to rape me.”

  “I did not!” Sibbett choked out. “I only—”

  I stepped on his hand while passing and spoke to the lanky man. “Please include that in your report,” I said, though I knew it would probably not happen.

  Sailing back, letting me steer, he lowered his voice. “That’s happened before. I’ll make sure it’s reported. My name is Elon Bah.” He handed me his card.

  I looked back at him “Bah?”

  “Like ‘bah, humbug.’”

  * * *

  At 2:00 a.m. on the dot, I parked two blocks from the mobster’s house. Mizrachi had one guard in a car on the street.

  I wore dark clothing but not my full cat burglar outfit. That is, I had a black top and skirt over a black leotard. Someone seeing me on the street would not be alarmed. I also had my body-hugging backpack.

  Since his home was on a steep hill, the rear was simply a one-story garage. From that angle, you’d never know that this was the mansion of an organized crime boss.

  The streetlight by the house was out. Mizrachi probably ordered one of his goons to “take it out,” making late-night visitors less visible. Mulțumesc. Thank you. Bushes are a burglar’s best friend, and the mobster’s neighbors had all done their part to beautify the neighborhood with greenery. I started three houses away, fading into the shrubbery and making my way toward my goal. The garage
doors and driveways were a problem. No plants there, of course. But I got all the way down and slithered my way across each door, as if I could blend into the darkness of its bottom edge.

  I wasn’t dressed warmly enough, and squeezing my body against the damp concrete was unpleasant. I should have taken the fog into account. The only sounds were from the traffic far below.

  Finally, I had only one more driveway to cross: Mizrachi’s. It was the cypress tree on the other side of his house that would let me get to his roof.

  An orange, pinpoint glow came from the guard’s car. He was smoking, which meant that he was awake. Being caught sleeping on guard duty would probably result in execution. He was only nine meters away.

  I waited for something to distract his attention. I’d considered setting up a diversion, but later, the mobsters would figure it out. For my purposes, my visit needed to remain a secret. Because of the FBI’s paranoia, I made sure I hadn’t been followed when driving to Golden Gate Heights.

  I waited. If a car were to drive by—there! Someone honked their horn down the street. The guard turned and looked back, and I went. I pulled myself across the driveway with my elbows and turned the corner, sliding through a flower bed. I checked the guard.

  He turned back to the front of the car. No sense of alarm. Bine.

  The tree growing on the side of the house wasn’t much more than a bush. I think it was a young Monterey pine. But the roof of the garage was barely four meters above me. I climbed up through a few of the skinny branches. Would one break? I wasn’t afraid of falling, just worried that the crack would alert the guard. One branch had grown over the garage and was thus supported on two ends. Holding it, I kicked one leg up and got a heel onto the roof. A few contortions and I found myself on the top of the garage.

  I pushed one finger against my thumb. Sticky. The gloves had picked up some pine sap. Not a problem. I listened for sounds of alarm. All clear.

  The roof was flat with a one-meter step up to the roof of the main house. I moved in slow motion, like a pantomime of a cartoon burglar. I reached the front edge of the house. The view would have been spectacular without the fog. As it was, I could barely see the street below. I shivered and looked down the wall. Good. The window was wide open as it had been before. Sick mobster must have perpetual fever.