I snatch the flyer off my chest and unfold it, reading out loud, “Birmingham greater area lock-picking event. Analog and Digital.” There’s a nice little graphic of a padlock around a float screen. “Bring your own tools or borrow ours. No experience required.” I snort at that. “Sponsored by the Amateur Sleuths Birmingham Chapter as a fun informational event. It’s tonight.”
Puo says, “They’re the main bounty hunting group.”
Yeah, I’ve been seeing these around town. The British authorities put out a large bounty for information leading to the capture of the criminals responsible for the British Museum heist: a lá me and Puo. The effort has spawned all types of amateur sleuths, bounty hunters, and conspiracy theorists—my favorite conspiracy theory involves Nessie no longer being bound to Loch Ness and stealing back her eggs interred at the British Museum in a secret vault.
“Could be good for leads,” Winn calls out from behind the open refrigerator.
I stare at the flyer. “What’s for dinner?”
“Pork loin and Brussels sprouts,” Winn answers.
I eye Puo at this proclamation, but Puo doesn’t react to the news of Brussels sprouts.
“Are you going to go?” Puo asks.
“Yeah.” I shrug. An idea is starting to form—what we need is a patsy.
“Uh-oh,” Puo says. “I know that look.”
“Is she smiling?” Winn asks from the kitchen over the regular thunk from cutting Brussels sprouts on a cutting board.
“Yeah,” Puo says resignedly, “she’s grinning like a maniacal idiot.”
“Relax, Puo—” I say.
Winn stops chopping Brussels sprouts and walks over to look at me. “You are smiling.” He smiles at me. “You’re pretty when you smile, you know.”
Uh. My mind goes blank at this.
Puo barks a laugh.
I mentally pass over the lime-green throw pillows and look for something harder to throw, first at Puo then at Winn. “Go back to the kitchen!” I bark at Winn a bit more harshly than I intend. “And no more of that crap. Got it?”
Winn says, “Understood.” Soon the thunk of the knife on the cutting board resumes.
Shit. Winn and I were in a nice limbo. A look but don’t touch détente. A silent truce to be formalized later. And now he fired a shot across my bow. What does that mean?
“You were starting to tell me to relax,” Puo prompts into the silence.
“What?” I look at him, annoyed. “Forget it. The moment’s ruined.”
“No,” Puo insists. “You got that look in your eye when you’re about to do something stupid. Then you were starting to tell me to relax about it.”
“No, no,” I say. “No need now. You look nice and relaxed to me after your little laugh.”
“Isssaa ...”
I sit there and ignore Puo, passing the time until dinner is ready by chewing on my forefinger and wondering what I’m going to have to do about Winn to restore our détente.
CHAPTER TEN
AS FAR AS STUPID ideas goes (at least as Puo considers them), this one is downright benign: con the Amateur Sleuths Birmingham Chapter into thinking Ham is connected to the British Museum job, then sit back and let them do the legwork of finding that piggish bastard by pointing them at the local Cleaners first.
But I keep Puo in suspense all through dinner anyway. I refuse to tell him anything until he finishes eating his Brussels sprouts—an extra helping and all, but the turd doesn’t even complain to spite me, just makes mmmm sounds throughout the meal. They are tasty marinated in balsamic vinegar with little pieces of bacon on them.
Now it’s fifteen minutes after seven in the evening as I walk down the cold, snow-lined street toward the Brummie Artists Co-op building where the lock picking event is being held. The streetlights push the night away, but it’s overcast tonight, which adds to the oppressive darkness. The lights of the hovercars overhead are like foggy whispers, with even their sound muffled in the night.
The Brummie Artists Co-op is a four-story chic modernist building built of silver and red metamaterials, with curving edges, that looks like it shouldn’t be able to support itself. My immediate reaction is: neat, but makes my head hurt.
I push through the glass front door, advertisements morphing in the glass to welcome me by my chip name: Kristy Peters. The lock picking event is set up in the lobby and already underway—I’m fashionably late.
“I’m here,” I whisper into the comm-link that Puo and Winn are listening in on. “You reading this?”
“Reading you loud and clear,” Puo says. “Got visual. Go ahead and disengage.”
“Disengaging.” I take the comm-link out of my ear, keeping the device activated and slipping it into my jacket pocket. The first step in any con is putting the mark up: identifying the rube to play. We’re already essentially locked into this—we’re playing the whole Amateur Sleuth Birmingham Chapter. This evening is really about the second step, playing the con for them: making contact and starting to establish trust.
So the goal tonight is simple reconnaissance, figure out the group dynamics, make some inroads, and most importantly not arouse suspicion. Wearing a comm-link all through the event might make me more noticeable for the wrong reasons.
A motley set of temporary tables are laid out in a two-by-three grid over the white scuffed-up linoleum floor. All the tables face away from the door toward a temporary raised stage. A black man with a buzz cut in his mid-twenties stands on the stage passionately giving directions while pointing to a large float screen with a diagram of a cutaway padlock. He’s fit, but not muscly like Winn, doesn’t have that nice “V” shape. Nice face though, well-groomed goatee, easy smile, and light-brown eyes.
I hug my arms across my body—there’s a chill in the air that most large entryway places have after hours. The bubble of a coffee maker draws my attention to a table set up along the back with a haphazard set of refreshments.
“Hi,” a woman with wide shiny cheekbones framed by red curly hair says, walking up to me from behind the table. “Are you here for the event?”
“Hi. Yes.” I fidget with my hands and nod, looking uncertain what I should do. There are already people at every table.
“Let’s find you a spot,” she says with a smile that doesn’t look like it’s used to being there.
I follow her lead and walk toward the tables, stopping behind the back row as she surveys the options.
“There’s a spot up here!” the main speaker interrupts his instructions to say with a big smile. He’s pointing to a table in the front row.
Everyone turns around right on cue to stare at me—so much for not being noticeable the first time out.
I smile uncertainly at everyone staring at me—which is what would be expected. But I can just imagine what Puo would be saying about this if the comm-link were in my ear. He and Winn are watching everything through the video-link discretely hidden on my jacket as a button.
“Thanks, Ty,” my escort calls out perfunctorily and leads me up to a black foldout table just left of center stage. A younger couple already at the table make room for me. Whoa—the guy in the leather coat is awash in cologne. First date? Yeesh.
Ty launches right back into his explanation, explaining about tumblers and spin locks.
The top of our table has several types of locks and an array of lock picking equipment I all recognize—although a lot of it is redundant, but I assume it’s there for explanatory purposes. You can do almost everything with just a good tension wrench and hook pick.
Soon we’re all playing with the padlocks on the tables and starting to try and pick them. The guy at our table goes first. The technique Ty was advocating is a little old fashioned and you can see it in the way this guy is struggling to run an S-rake (a thin flat metal pick with two peaks at the end) through fast enough to jump the pins to the shear line.
Cologne Guy’s face is turning red from embarrassment, which only makes me more sure it’s a first date, but I contin
ue to wait patiently and not say anything helpful. If he’s not careful he’ll snap the pick. Although.... No. No, I’ll keep my mouth shut. This guy is wound tight; his posture is stiff.
His date comes and stands next to me, creating a welcomed buffer between me and Steaming Cologne Man. “Would you like to go next?” she asks me, clearly avoiding talking to her increasingly frustrated date.
“No,” I say magnanimously, “you can go next. I missed the start.”
“You sure?” she asks uncertainly. “You look like you really want to give it a go.”
I do? Damn it. I can practically hear Puo chortling. “No really, it’s okay.”
“Well, I insist,” she says with a smile. She’s pretty, with dark-rimmed glasses, a clear complexion, and red-tinged cheeks.
“Thanks. What’d I miss?” I ask to change the subject.
“Not much,” she answers. “Just introductory information on the Chapter, history, that kind of boring thing.”
“It’s not boring to all of us,” my redheaded escort from before cuts in as she walks among the tables. She keeps moving though, leaving the chastisement for us to digest.
“Sorry,” my new friend calls out. Then she looks at me and raises her eyebrows in a these-people-take-this-too-seriously look.
I grin back at her. “What was that about?” I whisper.
She takes a step closer, enjoying the gossip, “They’re recruiting. They spent the first ten minutes on it and their patriotic duty to find the perpetrators of the British Museum heist. Very solemn stuff.”
“And we’re going to need to pick locks to do that?” I ask conspiratorially.
My new friend’s giggles are cut off by Red-Faced Cologne Man dropping the lock back onto the table with a huff.
“I think he might have wanted to join,” she barely whispers and bobs her head at her date.
I resist the urge to snort since Red-Faced Cologne Man has turned his attention back to us, and I just smile blandly at her instead.
“Well,” Red-Faced Cologne Man says, frustrated, “your turn then. Have a go.”
I reach out and pick up the padlock and the S-rake pick. They’re warm and sweaty—eww. I twist the tension wrench in the lock and slip the pick in and pretend to struggle with it for as long as I can stand it. Using an S-rake pick is really only reliable on cheap locks like this one, which is why I prefer a bogota rake, which has three peaks instead of two. The key is to pull the rake out in one swift, smooth motion.
Puo and I figured out we could do this sooo much faster and on better locks with an invention of our own: an air-key. It’s like a little balloon that you shove in and then with some high-pressure air it expands out to push the tumblers up. You can be in and out in under two seconds. It’s great if speed is essential, otherwise it admittedly is a little clumsier to use, having to carry around a bottle of high-pressure air, which is why we don’t use it as much as we once did.
There. The padlock opens with a heavy click. “Ha!” I exclaim with a big ol’ fake smile.
“Cheers!” the stocky woman says. “You did that fast, didn’t you?”
“I did?” I ask.
Red-Faced Cologne Man looks like he ate something sour. He visibly relaxes his face with an exhale and asks me, “How’d you do that?”
I look at him puzzled—his countenance doesn’t match his face.
“Well, yeah,” he says, “go on then, explain. Please.” He raises his chin at me and struggles to look calm and patient.
Meh, whatever. I show the couple how I did it, following Ty’s instructions. After a few tries they each are able to do it.
After padlocks we move on to spin locks, and then a simple digilock. Most of Ty’s instructions are sound but basic. There are better ways, both dirtier and quicker, or more stealthy and longer. It really depends on what the job calls for.
For my part, I continue to follow Ty’s instructions and show restraint, not doing everything perfectly the first time. But pretty soon I take on the role of secondary teacher at the table after demonstrating proficiency, and Ty has certainly taken notice. I decide to use Ty’s attention and start sending “unconscious signals” at him: mirroring his movements, leaning in toward him when passes by, darting my gaze toward him when I know he’s looking.
The hour and half flies by—there’s something peaceful about picking locks when it’s just practice. Ty finishes with another plug for applying to their amateur sleuth club and to sign up for their newsletter (what is it with people and newsletters?) to notify them of events and membership opportunities.
Soon everyone is packing up and heading out. I linger behind and say goodbye to Sean and Nicky (the couple at my table) as they head out. Turns out Sean wasn’t that bad after all. He’s just like most people: he doesn’t like to look stupid.
Ty makes a beeline straight for me once I’m alone, which isn’t surprising based on how he’s been watching me throughout the night. He strides confidently right up to me, little dimples on his cheeks from an easy smile. “Hi. I’m Ty.”
I shake his outstretched hand. “I’m Kristy.” He has a strong grip.
“You did quite well. The best of the class,” he declares with a beaming smile—I think he must bleach his teeth.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear. See, no comm-link. “I moonlight as an amateur jewelry maker.”
“Nice accent,” he says, looking at me directly in the eyes. “Ex-pat or visiting?”
“Visiting for a few months,” I answer, trying not to match his gaze toe-to-toe. “My friend works nights. So I was looking for something to do.”
“So then,” he says, “you’re used to smaller, detailed work.”
The jewelry bit. “Yeah,” I say and then pause awkwardly. When he starts to speak I stammer, “Do you—?”
We mumble at each other for the other one to talk.
“No please,” he insists, “go ahead.”
“Do you have another one of these events? It was fun, and you’re a great teacher,” I say, avoiding eye contact and trying to make myself blush. Winn’s not the only that can be a flirt.
“Tonight was the first of its kind,” he says. “So, unfortunately, no. But we are taking new members right now. We need some fresh blood, new ideas. You could join. We meet in the evenings.”
“Yeah, sounds like fun,” I say. “So do I need to fill out an application or something?” The lobby has mostly cleared out and the coffee maker has long since stopped bubbling. It’s now just Ty, the redheaded escort cleaning up the refreshment table, and me.
He bobs his head. “The application test—”
“Application test?” Are you freaking kidding me?
“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, but we’ve found a more involved process helps weed out the lookie-loos so we end up with a smaller more serious group.”
“Makes sense,” I accede. “What’s the test on?”
“The British Museum heist,” he answers.
I bob my head at him. “Sounds good.” Yeah, I might know something about that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PUO WAITS FOR the door to the flat to close before starting to lecture me. “You’re actually going to need to study.” He’s sitting back on the loveseat in warm-looking lounge wear, including a soft blue hoody with the hood pulled up and his long dark ponytail spilling out over his shoulder.
I shrug as I unwrap my gray cashmere scarf from around my neck. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the news.”
“It’s more than that,” Puo says. “You need to trawl back through local and national news. Know every tidbit, every theory. And most importantly—”
“Not reveal anything that isn’t already known?” I ask, too tired to drum up the necessary sarcasm. “Yeah, I know.”
“So you’re going to need to study,” Puo reiterates.
“Great,” I say getting annoyed at the repetition. “Then why don’t you go create a study packet for me?”
Winn walks around the corner,
barefoot, in stone-colored sweatpants and a V-neck caramel-colored T-shirt. His black curly hair is wet like he just got out of the shower.
Why has he been showering?
“Puo’s right,” Winn says. “You need to be careful.” He walks into the kitchen and makes a glass of water for himself.
Ugh! Winn wasn’t even a part of the heist! I throw off my coat and flop down on the dark gray couch. The square cushions don’t have much give and my back is still sore from all the abuse it’s been taking recently. “How are we going to rope them in?” I ask instead, about the next stage of the con.
Puo shrugs back at me. Winn is silent in the kitchen rummaging around.
After a few silent seconds, I say, “Great ideas, you two. Thanks. Very helpful.”
“Would you like me to piss you off?” Puo asks with a ghost of a smirk.
“You’re already pissing me off.” I slap my boots down on the blocky wood coffee table in front of me and pull them off with my toes. One of them falls down on the shag rug with a thunk, while the other lies across the table. “Well,” I say with a yawn—woman, I’m tired. “At the very least we need covert shadowing. Unless—” I turn around to look at Winn in the kitchen. “—there’s some obvious laci thing I’m missing here.” It wasn’t that long ago that Winn was a full-fledged laci: a law-abiding citizen.
Winn stops fiddling with some contraption I can’t quite make out and looks back at me. “Nope. Nothing I can think of with the time constraint we have.”
“Time constraint?” I ask.
“Christmas,” Winn says simply.
Puo adds in deadpan, “Ho-ho-ho.”
“Damn it!” I swear and flop around on the couch. I forgot all about Christmas with my father missing and trying to figure out what’s going on and trying not to get killed or arrested. “No gifts,” I say quickly.
“Too late,” Puo says.
The Brummie Con Page 10
