Heist Society

by Ally Carter

163

  5 DAYS UNTIL DEADLINE

  PARIS, FRANCE

  164

  [Page Blank]

  165

  CHAPTER 21

  Amelia Bennett had not been the youngest person in Interpol's Art Crime division to achieve the rank of detective. She was not the only woman. And yet, in an agency that was in every way a part of the Old Boy network, it was impossible for anyone to look at her without first registering that she was neither old nor boy. This was only part of the mystery that surrounded her when she'd moved from London to the Paris branch. The thing that most mystified the professional mystery solvers of the small branch of Interpol's main European office was that Amelia Bennett was so lucky.

  And this morning, of course, was no exception.

  No sooner had she walked into the cramped, unglamorous office, than one of her Old Boy colleagues met her at the door.

  166

  "You've got a witness to your gallery robbery," he said in English, and Detective Bennett did not seem the least bit surprised that her cold case was warm again. "An American girl," the man continued. "A tourist. She was down the street the night of the break-in. She says she saw a man in the area, acting suspiciously."

  At this, Detective Bennett raised her eyebrows. "Is he anyone we know?"

  The man smiled and led her into the room where the young girl sat waiting.

  "Thank you so much for coming in. I'm Detective Bennett," the woman said. "I'm sorry. I don't believe I got your name?"

  "O'Hara," the petite girl said. "Melanie O'Hara."

  "The Henley?"

  Kat heard her father's voice. Through the small binoculars she always carried, she saw him walking through the crowd of the familiar square, his phone held to his ear, oblivious to the fact that his only daughter was standing in the bell tower of the church, watching everything.

  "That's a nice way to greet your daughter. No 'Hi, honey, how's school?'" she teased.

  Her father kept his left hand shoved in his pocket, deep inside his cashmere coat, and Kat couldn't help thinking that it had gotten a lot colder in the past week.

  "The Henley?" he asked again. "You know, someone said that my daughter was going to"--he stopped and surveyed the crowd while lowering his voice-- "rob the Henley, but that can't be. My daughter is at the Colgan School."

  "Dad, I--"

  167

  "Leave the Henley alone, Kat," he blurted. "Take a test. Go to a pep rally or--" "A pep rally?"

  "Kat, kiddo, you do not want to do this." "Of course I don't want to, Dad," she said, too aware of how true and deep the sentiment ran. "We have to." "We? Who exactly is we?"

  "Hale," Kat said. Even from a block away she saw her father grimace. "Simon. Gabrielle." Kat wanted to keep her voice even, steady. "Hamish and Angus--"

  "The Bagshaws?" he said, not hiding his disapproval.

  "They didn't know she was a nun!"

  A cold wind blew through the tower and down onto the square where her father stood.

  "So that's it, huh?" her father asked. "You've got your own little heist society and now you're gonna rob the Henley." He turned and started moving down the busy street. "Call Uncle Eddie, Kat. Tell him it's over. You're out."

  "You think Uncle Eddie is putting me up to this?" She watched the words wash over him. "You think he hasn't already gotten on a plane and told me to let him handle it?"

  "Then let him handle it."

  "Yeah." Kat fought back a laugh. "Because Uncle Eddie always has your best interest in mind."

  "Kat ..." Her father's voice was softer. "You stay away from Arturo Taccone. He's--"

  "Coming for you."

  "I'm fine, Kat."

  "Now, Dad. You're fine now. You can get coffee and read newspapers and put on a show for whoever Interpol has following you that day. But if Taccone doesn't get his

  168

  paintings back, five days from now there's going to be a moment when Interpol isn't watching and you're not thinking, and then Arturo Taccone's gonna be here and you will be anythingbut fine."

  He shook his head. "You don't know that."

  "I do." Kat turned away, leaned against the cold, rough stone of the tower wall as she spoke softly into the phone. "I do know, because he told me."

  Kat turned back to the square in time to see the shock sweep over her father, followed quickly by fear. "You stay out of this, Kat. You stay away from--"

  "It's too late, Daddy."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  When the sirens first broke through the damp chilly air that surrounded them, Bobby Bishop didn't even seem surprised. He had made his peace long before, but his daughter's conscience wasn't so clean. She shivered.

  "It means you taught me well."

  "Robert Bishop?" Kat heard Amelia Bennett's voice come clearly through the phone. She watched her father study the woman who was walking toward him, with her chic haircut and designer coat, and Kat knew that if it hadn't been for the badge in the woman's hand, her father would have never guessed she was a police officer. Or, more specifically, Interpol.

  "Hang up the phone and put your hands behind your back, sir," a uniformed officer said, appearing at her father's side. But her father didn't move. Instead he yelled, "Don't do it, Kat."

  She watched the officer reach for the phone, heard her father call out one last time, "Go back to school, Kat."

  169

  And then nothing. The scene in the square was like a movie with no sound as Kat said, "Dad," but no one heard her. The crowd parted. Sirens wailed. And high above the chaos, Kat whispered, "I'm sorry."

  170

  CHAPTER 22

  Kat used to love Paris, but as she walked away from her father that afternoon, the sidewalks seemed too crowded and foreign and cold. She wanted to go home. Wherever that was.

  She felt someone bump against her as she waited on a street corner for the light to change. She heard a soft "Sorry," but didn't turn to acknowledge whoever had spoken her native language on that foreign street.

  Of course, in the weeks that followed, Kat would look back on this decision from time to time and allow herself to feel at least a little bit stupid. She'd had a lot on her mind at that moment, it was true. She'd been worried about her father. Worried that the cops might realize that Melanie O'Hara and Katarina Bishop were one and the same, and that the eyewitness account of the former was good enough to hold the latter's

  171

  father and keep him from Taccone, but not quite good enough to keep him in jail.

  She'd worried what Uncle Eddie would say when he found out that she'd broken the thief's (much less the daughter's) ultimate code.

  Given her current mindset, it was understandable that it was instinct alone that made Kat brush against the boy who, two seconds before, had brushed against her.

  Or maybe, Kat wondered later, it was fate.

  "Did she find you, sir?" the bellman said as he passed the boy on the hotel stairs.

  The boy stopped. "I'm sorry?"

  "The young lady, sir. She said she was your cousin." The bellman paused, concern growing on his face. "She said she had a key, sir. She knew your name and room number."

  The bellman didn't notice the worry that briefly flashed in the boy's eyes.

  "Oh good. She made it," the boy said calmly, as he processed the news that was anything but good.

  The bellman saw the boy turn and walk casually down the hall. But he didn't see the look of shock on the boy's face when the door to room 157 swung open freely, unlocked.

  The bellman certainly didn't see the girl who sat with her legs thrown over the side of a wingback chair as she cocked an eyebrow and said, "Welcome home."

  The element of surprise is one of the greatest weapons at a thief's disposal, or so Kat had to think when she saw the boy's face. He stood framed in the doorway of his own hotel room, staring at her, shocked.

  172

  "What?" Kat asked, feigning ignorance. "No 'Hello'? No 'Honey, I'm home'?"
>
  "You." He turned his head and looked down the narrow, empty hallway, as if she had just rushed inside and that was how she'd gotten into his room.

  "I don't believe we were properly introduced on the street." Kat swung her legs off the silk-upholstered arm. "I'm Katarina Bishop. But you already know that if you looked in the wallet you've got in the inside left pocket of that coat you're wearing." He touched his pocket as if checking to see whether or not she was correct. She was.

  "My friends call me Kat." She looked the boy up and down. "I'm not sure what you should call me."

  At the end of the hall, a television blared. Kat heard a French anchorwoman announcing the arrest of a suspect in the robbery of a local gallery where a valuable statue had been stolen. She flinched and hoped the boy didn't notice.

  "How'd you get in here?"

  She raised her eyebrows. "You can pick pockets." Kat watched his hand fly to his back pocket. "I can pick locks. Looking for this?" she asked, holding up his wallet. "Oops. Maybe I can pick pockets too."

  She held his wallet toward him. "Care to trade?" Then she opened it and looked at the I.D. "Nicholas Smith. Sixteen. British citizen." She glanced between the I.D. and the boy in front of her. "Not very photogenic."

  She hopped from her chair and plucked her own wallet from his limp hands. She tossed his onto the hotel bed.

  "How . . ." he started, but Kat's look stopped him.

  "You're telegraphing your cover," she said matter-of-factly.

  173

  Kat was prepared for an argument and lies--anything but the sight of the boy smiling, the sound of him saying, "Wow. Talented and cute . It's very nice to meet you, Katarina." The boy dropped onto the corner of the bed and pulled off one shoe. "How old are you, anyway?" Kat didn't answer.

  She turned instead and fingered the fresh flowers on the table, eyed the silk window coverings blocking the view. "This is a nice place. You pay for it working short cons?"

  The boy looked up at her. He had short dark hair and bright blue eyes and the kind of smile that made you forget what you'd been thinking. "Among other things."

  "And you've been practicing for"--Kat eyed him again-- "two years?" she guessed. The pleased look on his face was answer enough. "Where did you learn?"

  "Around." He shrugged. "You pick up things. You prac-

  tice.

  Kat had been picking things up since her third birthday, when Hamish and Angus's father took them all to the circus because he needed to "borrow" an elephant.

  "You ever get caught?" she asked, and he shrugged again.

  "Not by the police."

  "Do you have a record?" He shook his head. "Do you have a crew?" she asked. "I work alone."

  Kat wondered whether or not the boy who had bumped into her on a Paris street was as good as she thought he might be. And whether or not he knew it.

  She studied him, wondering if the missing piece of her plan might have strolled into her life. "Do you want to keep it that way?"

  174

  [Page Blank]

  175

  4 DAYS UNTIL DEADLINE

  WYNDHAM MANOR, ENGLAND

  176

  [Page Blank]

  177

  CHAPTER 23

  Of all the things that should have fallen within Katarina Bishop's comfort zone, sneaking into a mansion (especially this particular mansion) at three o'clock in the morning should have been incredibly high on the list. After all, she knew the pros and cons of the security system (because she'd been the one to recommend it). She was familiar with the house and was well aware of the fact that the patio doors were painted shut and the rosebushes beneath the dining room windows were equipped with a particularly nasty supply of thorns.

  But that night, walking through the front door of the Hale estate felt a lot like walking back into Uncle Eddie's kitchen-- like she'd left without permission, and she might never really belong inside again.

  178

  So she tried to cling to the shadows. She wanted everyone to be asleep. "Kat?"

  She froze and cursed the creaky floors.

  "Kat, is that you?" Gabrielle's voice was high and scratchy. Despite the darkness, Kat could easily make out her cousin sitting at the top of the stairs. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy mess on the top of her head.

  "What is it?" Kat asked. "What's wrong? Is it Taccone? Did he--"

  "It's your dad, Kat. He was arrested."

  A light turned on in one of the rooms upstairs, and Kat heard voices approaching.

  She looked at Gabrielle, praying she would understand. "I know."

  "You did what?"

  Kat wasn't sure who said it first, because it seemed like her entire crew had blurted the question at the exact same time. She wasn't even sure where to look, because every eye in the billiards room was staring at her with such heat and scrutiny, it was like squinting at the sun.

  "I made an executive decision," Kat told them.

  "So you went to the police?" Simon said as if he'd plugged that piece of intelligence into his monster mind and the data didn't quite compute.

  "Interpol, actually." Kat managed a casual shrug. "Technically, I went to Interpol."

  "And you ratted on your dad?" Angus asked.

  "He's better off where he is. Trust me," she said.

  179

  "But you're his daughter, Kat." Hamish's eyes were wide. "Uncle Eddie's gonna kill you."

  "I'm also the girl who's trying to undo the only Pseudonima job ever done in our lifetime, Hamish. Not even Uncle Eddie can kill me twice."

  Simon dropped to the couch. "I don't think I'd do well in prison."

  Kat tried not to notice the way Hamish and Angus gripped their pool cues, or the way Gabrielle sat quietly beside the window, a worried expression on her face.

  "Guys, I--"

  "She did the right thing." They were the words she never expected to hear, from the one person she never expected to say them. Hale dropped onto an ottoman. "If this doesn't work, and"--he almost smiled--"it'd kinda be a miracle for it to work . . . then your dad's gonna need as much standing between him and Arturo Taccone as possible."

  He looked at Kat. Something stretched out between them in that moment, and she knew that no one would deny Hale-- or doubt him. That no one would fight them both. And so maybe they could have left it at that. Maybe the tension would have blown over if an unfamiliar boy hadn't chosen that moment to appear in the doorway and say, "Hello."

  Simon lunged for a laptop that sat open on the wet bar and shut it with a snap. Hamish threw a coat over the model of the Henley that lay on the floor beside the couch, but Hale didn't make a single move. He just looked at the boy in the doorway and back at Kat.

  "Who's this guy?" he asked, jerking his head toward the boy extending his hand.

  180

  "Hi, I'm Nick. Kat told me--"

  "To wait outside," Kat warned.

  "So?" Hale asked, still staring at Kat.

  "Nick's a pocket man. He and I ... bumped into each other in Paris." Kat wanted to sound sure and in control--like someone who deserved to be there. "Nick, this is Gabrielle." Her cousin gave the faintest hint of a wave with two fingers. "The Bagshaws, Angus and Hamish. Simon--I told you about him. And this is Hale," Kat finished. "Hale's--"

  "Hale's wondering exactly what Nick's doing here."

  Kat listened for the familiar teasing in Hale's voice, but she knew he wasn't even the tiniest bit amused.

  "You said it yourself, Hale." Kat lowered her voice. "We need one more."

  "Two more," Hale corrected. "Actually, I said we needed two more, and he--"

  "He's in," Kat said flatly. "We can do it with seven. And es in.

  Kat looked at her crew: Angus was the oldest, Simon was the smartest, Gabrielle was the quickest, and Hamish was the strongest. But Hale was the only one willing to say what everyone else was thinking.

  "I knew it," he said, turning away. "I knew I should have gone with
you. First you tell some phony story about your dad to the police--"

  "Interpol," Hamish, Angus, and Simon all corrected.

  "And then you come home with this?" Hale snapped, pointing at Nick as if the boy couldn't hear. As if Kat were an amateur. A fool.

  Kat shook her head, wishing she could say for certain that he was wrong.

  181

  "Can I see you outside for a second?" Kat glared at Hale, then walked to the patio doors and out onto the veranda.

  As Hale closed the door behind him, Kat heard Angus say, "Ooh, Mom and Dad are going to fight now."

  Outside, the air was cool. She wished she'd brought a coat, that Hale would put his arm around her and tease her for bringing home strays and lost causes. But his tone was anything but warm. "You're too close to this one, Kat. You're way too involved to think--"

  "I know," she practically yelled. "I am close. This is my life, Hale. Mine. My father. My job. My responsibility."

  "Clearly." He sounded so calm and detached. Everything she wasn't.

  "I know what I'm doing, Hale."

  "Really? Because I could swear that in the past twenty-four hours you've turned your father in--"

  "Five minutes ago you thought that was a great idea," she reminded him. He pushed on.

  "--to the cops, and brought home a stranger."

  "Nick's good, Hale. He picked me clean and I never saw it coming."

  Hale shook his head. "This is a bad call, Kat. If Uncle Eddie were here--"

  "Uncle Eddie's not here," she snapped. "Uncle Eddie isn't going to be here." Her voice cracked, but Hale either didn't hear or didn't care.

  "Uncle Eddie would stop you."

  Kat looked at him, read the cool indifference in his eyes. "So that's what you're going to do?" she asked. "Stop me?" She wanted him to say, "Of course not," but instead, he