by Jeff Lindsay
“Well, well,” he said at last. “Well, well, well . . .” He put the pad down in his lap, looked up at Katrina, and oddly, he smiled. “In fact,” he said, “very well.”
“What?” Katrina said, and she could hear the quaver in her voice. “What is it?”
Brilstein’s smile grew until he was showing an entire mouthful of bright white teeth. “Remember what I said about the old Brilstein Luck?” he said.
* * *
—
Katrina was covered in cold sweat, and her heart was pounding wildly, thumping so loudly she could barely make out what Brilstein was saying. He sat right beside her on the sofa, and she was aware that he was speaking, but the words seemed to be warbled indistinctly in some foreign language. She glanced at him; he was looking at her gravely, and she tried to focus in on what he was saying. “. . . nothing at all, do you understand?”
Katrina clenched her fists until she felt her fingernails dig into the flesh of her palms. “I . . . what?” she said.
“I said—don’t say anything at all, Katrina. Nothing, not even hello, not unless I say so, all right?”
Somehow the words got through the fog, and Katrina nodded. “I—yes,” she said. “I understand.”
“It’s crucially important,” Brilstein went on. “Vital. We don’t know what he’s going to say—and, more importantly, who he’s saying it for, all right? So just sit tight and hear him out and don’t say anything.”
Katrina just nodded.
There was a soft knock on the door and a young woman stuck her head in. She smiled at Katrina and then said to Brilstein, “He’s here, boss.”
Brilstein nodded. “Send him in,” he said. He glanced once more at Katrina and held a finger to his lips. She nodded and turned to face the door.
Randall walked in. He seemed slightly unsteady, as if walking on a wobbly floor. He stopped in front of Katrina and Brilstein and looked at her, then at him, then back to her, very uncertainly. His face was pale and sweaty, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He stood there for a moment looking at Katrina. Then he swallowed and said, “I—I only . . .” He glanced at Brilstein. “I’m sorry, I just— Can I sit down, please?”
Brilstein nodded at a chair, and Randall sank into it gratefully. “Thank you,” he said in a raspy voice. He cleared his throat, said, “Thanks,” and ran a hand over the top of his head. It came away wet with sweat, and he stared at it for a moment, as if not sure what he was seeing. Then he dropped his hand and swallowed hard. “I just, I don’t know where to—I mean how to, uh—” He glanced down at his lap, clenching his hands into fists. Then he looked directly at Katrina. “I just came from the district attorney’s office,” he said. He looked even more worried. “They, they—she asked me about the alarm? A lot of—I mean, the alarm at your house?”
He waited; Brilstein nodded, and Randall went on. “A lot of questions—and it’s like, they think it means something, what I said about the alarm, and, and . . . She said that I was the final proof, a witness that—” He swallowed audibly and looked at his hands again. “She, uh—I mean, the DA? She said that unless I testify—and I mean, if I did, what I said would prove—I mean, to a jury, not—but that any jury would believe that you . . .” He shook his head, his face a mask of bewildered anguish. “But if I don’t testify . . . Katrina, if I don’t testify for the prosecution, I am looking at fifteen years in prison? Uh . . . accessory something?”
“She’s exaggerating,” Brilstein said. “Probably more like five to seven, with time off.”
Randall didn’t look reassured; he went right on, as if he hadn’t heard. “And she said if I refuse to say anything, it’s obstruction of justice, and that’s almost as bad, and—and I thought, I can’t do that. Fifteen years? That’s—but I could never . . . I mean, but how could I live with myself if anything I said might, you know—if it could hurt you?”
Randall looked at her pleadingly, and Katrina felt her heart go out to him. But she felt Brilstein’s hand clamp down on her arm, and she said nothing. “Go on,” Brilstein said.
Randall’s glance flicked to him, then back to Katrina. “Katrina, I—I could never hurt you. But to go to prison for . . .” He swallowed hard again and dropped his eyes. “I—I—I tried to think of what I could do that might—but everything seemed like it was either . . .” He looked up at her and quickly down again. “I couldn’t see any way out of— I mean, either you go to prison or I do—or both of us—and that was . . .” He took a deep and very shaky breath. “And then I thought, um . . .”
Randall jerked abruptly to his feet, glanced at Katrina, and wobbled over to the window. He stood there for a moment, looking out while he clenched and unclenched his fists spasmodically. “Okay, I know this is . . . I mean, I know we’ve never talked about our feelings or anything, so it just seemed so—and it hasn’t been that long, either, so . . .”
He turned and looked at her, and for the first time he met and held her eyes. “Katrina,” he said in a wounded-puppy voice. He walked jerkily back toward her and stood in front of her, swaying slightly. “I could never—really! I can’t testify against you—but I can’t go to prison, either, and the DA is—I mean, it’s like—”
Randall shook his head with a rapid, jerky motion. “I don’t know, maybe this is stupid, I’m really sorry, but—I had this idea? It was in some old movie, I can’t remember what the—but I Googled it? And it’s true! It would mean they couldn’t compel me to testify, and I mean I’ve been thinking about it anyway, just not so soon, but now it’s like—”
Once again he swallowed, swayed on his feet—and then abruptly lurched over onto one knee. “Katrina—will you marry me?”
Katrina could only stare. She felt her mouth moving open and closed, like a fish out of water, but no sound came out, and anyway, she wasn’t supposed to speak at all unless— She glanced at Brilstein. To her astonishment, he was beaming, a huge smile. And he nodded at her happily.
Katrina looked back at Randall and took a ragged breath. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”
CHAPTER
20
Monique could feel herself getting fat and lazy. If not literally, physically fat—no more than maybe a pound or two?—then mentally fat. Because she had just been sitting here waiting for Riley, and she hated being idle. She’d never really learned how to do nothing. She couldn’t stand to watch TV, and she had no training in how to relax, kick back, mellow out—and no desire to learn. She had been a relentless worker her entire life. If she was not working on something, she started to go crazy after just a few days. And it had been far too long since Riley’s last visit. She had received a half dozen calls absolutely begging her to take a job—but how could she take on any new projects when Riley might show up at any minute with the job of a lifetime? Whatever it was—
And that was another thing making her buggy. What was it?
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d never asked him for details before—it didn’t seem all that important. But this time . . . the way Riley had been acting, not just mysterious but hesitant, as if this time there was some doubt in his mind. Riley Wolfe never felt doubt. If he was feeling it this time—why? What did Riley want her to make that could command that much money? Hundreds of millions of dollars—and Monique knew how Riley worked. His payout was usually from the insurance, for much less than full value. That way the settlement was quick and painless for both sides. So if he expected a few hundred million, then whatever he was after would be worth three or four times that much. Which meant . . . a billion dollars?! Two billion? There were no more than a handful of objects in the entire world worth that kind of cash. And Monique couldn’t think of one of them that was even a remote possibility.
Obviously, Riley could. Riley had.
If Monique had had some project to occupy her, it wouldn’t have mattered as much. But just sitting here waiting for Riley, it
was absolutely impossible to stop wondering, turning over the possibilities in her mind, rejecting them all a dozen times—and still wondering. She tried distracting herself by catching up on the long list of movies she’d been meaning to see. Not a single one of them kept her attention for more than ten minutes. She cleaned her studio until it sparkled, organized her paints and brushes, tried on her new clothes in dozens of combinations—and nothing worked.
After a week of chewing her teeth, Monique had had enough. She went to her sparkling-clean, newly organized work area and began to work on a painting she’d wanted to try since grad school. It wasn’t a copy; it was an original work based on an abstract expressionist interpretation of West African symbology. She’d abandoned the idea long ago. It wasn’t contemporary, and it wasn’t something she could sell. But it was interesting to her, so she took out her old notes and began to sketch.
For three days she roughed out designs for the canvas, and for three days she rejected them. But on day four, something began to click. She had been playing with a trio of adinkra symbols. One of them looked a bit like two crossed, curved blades—but also a bit like a ceremonial mask. That gave her an idea, and she began evolving the adinkra until it began to take shape as a powerful abstract form. Looking through her sketches, Monique began to feel a small tickle of excitement. This could be good. She could see it on a large canvas, limned in black to give it more power, and then around it she could take some of the other symbols, evolve them to fit this new pattern, make them into a border for the main shape—
Happily working for herself for the first time in years, Monique began the canvas.
* * *
—
It had been several weeks since the last time I saw Monique. I had been busy, but that was no excuse. I knew her well enough to know how she would take it that I kept her hanging like that. She would be Actively Unhappy—meaning I’d have to be on my guard, or she just might smack me. And Monique punched, hard enough to ring your bell.
So I approached her carefully and quietly. She’d left the window open again, which I thought was pretty nice of her. I slid inside, and right away I saw her, working at her easel. It pissed me off a little. I mean, I know I should have found a way to check in with her so she didn’t go totally squirrely. But I still couldn’t believe she’d take another job when it might interfere with mine. And here she was working on a new project.
And so because I was pissed off, I decided to sneak up on her, which had not been my intention when I came in. I figured it would serve her right if I scared her into messing up the canvas. Probably just another fucking Cassatt or something anyway.
But when I got close enough to see what she was doing, I could tell it wasn’t anything like I’d seen her do before. She’d started to put in a big, powerful shape, right in the center of the canvas. It was obviously abstract, but something about it seemed sort of familiar. I moved closer, until I was right behind her, and looked closer. Two big dark lines crossed in the center. They had a kind of West African feeling to them that looked almost familiar—
“An adinkra!” I said as I finally recognized it. Monique jumped about three feet straight up. Very gratifying.
“Jesus FUCK, Riley!” she yelled when her feet were back on the floor. “I swear to Christ, I will kill you—!”
I know it makes me a bad person to take so much pleasure out of scaring the shit out of somebody—but Monique looked so damn hot when she was angry that I had to smile. Just in time I remembered her fists and stepped back. I’m pretty sure I heard her punch whistle as it went through the place where my head had been a second before.
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” I said, both hands raised palms up.
“I’ll take your fucking head off, scare me like that,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to,” I said. “But then I saw you working on something for somebody else and I thought—”
“For ME, asshole!” she said, and she took another swing that just missed. “I am painting for me because you left me sitting here chewing my goddamn fingernails and wondering what the fuck was going to happen, or even IF, and who knows when—”
“Jesus, slow down, I’m losing track here,” I said. “The painting is an original?”
“It will be,” she said, kind of sullen now. “If I ever get to finish it.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to do.” I shrugged. “I guess I can ask Tony Gao to do this job with me.”
“You do that and I really will kill you,” she said. “Goddamn it, I have been spinning my wheels for fucking weeks! Waiting for you to— Damn it, Riley, I turned down half a dozen jobs, and never a single fucking word from you!”
She was glaring, but she didn’t swing again. I thought it might be safe, and I stepped a little closer. “I’m really sorry, Monique,” I said, and I meant it. “Things got a little complicated?” I shrugged. “Never mind, all better. We’re ready to go.”
“Great! Wonderful! We’re fucking ready to fucking go!” Monique snarled. “Go on fucking what?!”
I felt a wave of excitement whip through me just thinking about it, and I closed my eyes and let myself feel it for a second.
“Riley, holy shit, come on,” Monique said. “You’re practically scaring me—I’ve never seen you like this. What the fuck is it?”
I opened my eyes, and I took her hand. A row of gooseflesh ran up her arm. Even gooseflesh looked good on this girl. “Monique,” I said. My voice sounded funny to me, like I’d swallowed something wrong. I didn’t care—this was going to happen. Everything I had planned, everything I had done to make the plan work—it was all in place, and I could see it happening, and it filled me up with a kind of wild joy like I hadn’t felt before. And when I had this final piece from Monique . . .
I shivered. She did, too. “Monique,” I said again, “we are about to make history. We are going to do something impossible, something so unlikely that there’s not a single goddamn person in the world, cop or thief, who could possibly imagine anybody doing it—not even me! Except—” I took a breath, and I could taste it, taste what we were about to do.
“Except what, Riley?” Monique said, and her voice had gone soft and husky, too.
“Except . . . we are going to do it,” I said. I looked into her eyes, and she looked back, and after a moment her breath went ragged and her knees wobbled. I started to move toward her. But she straightened up and pulled her hands away from mine.
“Do what, for Christ’s sake?” she said with a frown.
The time had come. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a small packet of photographs. I tossed it onto her worktable. “This,” I said.
Still scowling, Monique picked them up, glanced at the top picture—and went very still. Inside and outside of her nothing made a sound; nothing moved. It felt like the entire world thumped to a halt, and Monique just stared at the top picture. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered at long last. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Since I agreed with that, I didn’t say anything.
Monique thumbed through to the second picture, stared at it, then went through all the others, faster and faster. “Fuck,” she whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ, oh, fuck,” over and over. She came to the last picture and remembered she still needed to breathe. She took in a big lungful of air and then started to shake her head. “No,” she said. “Uh-uh, no, can’t happen, no way. No, this is just—” And she slammed down the stack of photos. “For fuck’s sake, Riley!” she practically screamed. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
“Maybe,” I said. She had me smiling again. “But I’m gonna do this.”
“What you’re gonna do is get yourself fucking killed!” she yelled. “Every fucking electronic security device in the whole fucking—I mean, things you’ve never even heard of, and—and the guards, Riley! They’re gonna have armed fucking guards! And the motherfuckers will be looking to kill somebody, and you just st
roll in and—goddamn it, NO! This is totally fucking impossible!”
“Yup,” I said. “And that’s why I have to do it.”
She stared at me, then shook her head. “You are totally fucking nuts.”
“But in a really nice way?” I said.
That pushed her back to being mad again. “Do you even fucking know how much fucking security is around this fucking thing?!” she shouted.
“Yup,” I said. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Doesn’t matter. Because Riley fucking Wolfe is on the job, so it doesn’t matter. Because Riley fucking Wolfe is SOOOOO fucking smart it doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t stop him.” At least she wasn’t screaming anymore.
“You could say that,” I said.
I should have been ready and seen it coming. I wasn’t, and I didn’t. She smacked me so hard on the side of the head that I saw stars.
“You ignorant, dumb-ass, arrogant, conceited, stuck-up motherfucking pig!” she said. “I am not going to help you get yourself murdered or—I mean if you’re lucky, it’s just prison forever!”
I didn’t say anything. I just waited for the stars to fade so I could see again.
“Goddamn it, Riley, it can’t be fucking done,” she said.
“I can do it,” I said. “I have to . . . if you don’t knock my head off first.”
“Somebody shoulda knocked your head off years ago,” she snarled. “You sure as shit aren’t using it.”
“Well, shit, Monique,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Does that mean you can’t do it?”
“It means I’m not stupid enough to try! For God’s sake, that thing is—and it’s totally impossible! You’ll be killed or— No, Riley! Absolutely not!”
I raised one eyebrow at her. “Are you that worried I’ll get killed? Wow, so you do care about me, don’t you?”
