I make a silent outraged face at him. How dare he? He knows damn well I’d forget. And he didn’t even say anything.
“Wasn’t me,” Puo says, raising his hands defensively.
I flop back around to look at Winn.
Winn smiles to himself while working in the kitchen.
Damn it. I feel a flutter at wondering what he got me. But now I have to think of something to get him—on top of everything else!
I turn back to Puo and silently mouth at him, What’d he get me?
Puo solemnly shakes his head no and then crosses his heart with his thumb, sticking out his lower lip in an awww face that he’s sworn to secrecy.
Freaking Puo!
The gifts are not even the worst part. Winn is right. Everything shuts down around Christmas. People go home to family, get out of their routines. It’s a great time to pull a job, not so much to shadow someone to exploit their routine for a con game.
“We’ll have to move quick,” I say. “We’ll need to set up the covert shadow op before Christmas and everyone disappears.”
“Yup,” Puo agrees. “What’s the angle?”
I sit back and think. Winn goes back to fiddling with whatever contraption he’s been working on in the kitchen. “It has to start with a plant on Ty,” I conclude. “Once we have a tracker on him, we can follow him to where the group meets and where he lives. We’ll set up surveillance of those areas separately.”
“Who’s going to do the plant?” Puo asks.
“Me,” I say. “The application test is tomorrow evening. Plus, Ty couldn’t keep is eyes off of me and made a beeline straight for me as soon as he could.” I resist the urge to turn and see how Winn takes this news. Did Winn just fumble with whatever he’s working on in the kitchen? Score one for Isa.
Puo watches me, a bemused smile growing on his face. His gaze flicks to Winn and back to me and then he bursts out laughing.
“What?” I ask, my cheeks heating up.
“Ty is gay,” Winn calls out from the kitchen.
“What?” I twist around to stare at Winn who has dimples on his cheeks from a suppressed smile and is studiously not looking at me.
“It’s in his Amateur Sleuths Birmingham Chapter profile,” Puo says, his eyes alight with mischief.
Damn it! I frantically think back through our interaction. He was definitely interested in me. Wasn’t he? If it wasn’t romantic interest, then what was it? Professional? “And you couldn’t tell me this before I left?”
Puo shrugs with a stupid little smirk.
Grr. “Shut both your faces,” I snap, and cross my arms in front of me for warmth.
“Besides,” Puo says ignoring me, “The paramour angle is too obvious in the timelines we’re working with. The rest of the group would immediately distrust you once you started to wield influence. We need to rope the entire group from the start, not just Ty.”
Ugh! “Maybe he’s bi,” I say.
“Nope,” both Winn and Puo say simultaneously. Puo explains, “We scoured the internet.”
“You scoured the internet on his sexual preference?” I ask.
“We heard the audio,” Puo says. “ ‘He is, like, such a good teacher,’ ” he mocks me.
“I did not say ‘like.’ ” I flick him off with my right hand. “Oh, and what’s this, a gift for Winn?” I raise my left hand up and flick Winn off in the kitchen.
Puo rolls his eyes at me. “You should be studying.”
“You should shut up.” I drop my hands and stick my tongue out at him. “This isn’t over.” Oh, we’ll be revisiting this, Puo my friend, when you least expect it. “We need a plan.”
Winn goes back to fiddling with whatever contraption he’s been working on. An electronic whir of hot air fills the flat.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask him, turning around.
“Making popcorn,” Winn says. “We used to have late-night group study sessions in med-school. I thought it might be fun to study together.”
I look back at Puo and cock an eyebrow. Puo shrugs and says, “I do like popcorn.” He gets up and walks out of the living room area. “I’ll go get my laptop.”
“Get some computer paper,” Winn calls out, “to take notes on.”
“What are you, an anachronism?” Puo snarks as he passes by. “Handwriting is sooo slow.”
The pops of popcorn fill the flat as the white fluffy kernels pour out the popcorn maker into a large bowl. Winn turns around to get some smaller bowls. “Yeah, that’s the point. The hand-to-mind connection helps a person retain more. Trust me—I’ve been through med-school.”
I’ve never been to any fancy-schmancy school, but I’ve had to memorize plenty of cover stories and material without ever writing anything down—kind of important in our line of work not to leave a trail.
But despite myself I find myself considering it. Eating junk food, pretending we’re in college studying for an exam, pretending we’re somebody, anybody, else for one night—sounds kinda nice. I feel a tension ease out of my forehead at the thought. “I’m in.”
“You need to change then,” Winn says. “Sweat pants are mandatory for study sessions. Only comfort clothes allowed, no dressing up.” He walks out from behind the white quartz covered kitchen island and does a full three-sixty turn to show off his ass in his stone-colored sweatpants, or maybe it was to show off his sweatpants—I’m not sure.
Mmm. And maybe some light flirting with that cute pre-med student. I wonder if he likes me, likes me?
I bounce off the couch to go get changed and wonder what other silly thoughts college girls have about their crushes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WINN WAS RIGHT, studying together last night was fun. The role-playing created some distance and helped me separate what Isa-the-underwater-reclamation-specialist-extraordinaire would know versus Kristy-the-American-tourist. The distance also helped in a weird sort of way when planning out our next moves with Ty’s amateur sleuth club. Puo even played along, complaining and making fun of our supposed ‘professor,’ which, refreshingly, didn’t even remotely refer to me. Actually, with all the shit that’s been going on lately, I can’t remember the last time I had such a peaceful night.
I smile at the thought as I walk down the hall toward the kitchen getting ready to head out to the application test. I’m totally going to ace this thing.
The strained silence in the kitchen quickly smothers my buoyant mood. Puo and Winn are huddled around Puo’s laptop at the white kitchen table in the breakfast nook with frightened faces.
“What?” I ask almost breathlessly, knowing damn well what it is, but hoping it’s something else, anything else, anyway.
They both look at me in surprise. Winn straightens up, and tries to wipe the worry off his face. Puo makes to close the laptop, but stops halfway.
“Well?” I ask again.
Winn searches for words.
Puo nods at the silent question—instead of shaking his head no like he had done all those times before.
News of my father.
I steel myself and start to walk over.
“I don’t think you want to see this,” Puo says.
I stop in my tracks. “Is he alive?”
Puo nods again.
I exhale, but the news does nothing to dampen the churning mass that is clawing away the insides of my stomach. The news prods me forward of its own accord. The sounds of my movement are swallowed up into the heavy silence that is hot on my face. Puo and Win appear frozen as I approach.
Somehow, too quickly it seems, I come to stand next to Puo who is still holding his hand on the halfway closed laptop. “Show me,” I order in someone else’s voice.
There’s no going back now. I cannot not see it. My imagination, my uncertainty, would be far worse than the truth, or so I tell myself.
Puo opens the laptop and my breath catches in my throat. Winn shifts toward me with an outstretched hand.
There he is. My father’s beaten and bloodied
face staring listlessly out of the laptop screen from a local Atlanta news article. The edges of the photo are distorted, warped. His left eye is nearly swelled shut. It looks like someone tried to shove a bloody baseball under his pallid skin. His blonde hair is matted, stained red and plastered to his face with sweat. Multi-colored bruises dot his unshaven face. But it’s his other eye that scares the shit out of me, stops my heart, makes it so I can’t remember to breathe.
The white of the eye itself is clear. The dark blue iris is luminous, reflecting a flash of the camera. The pupil is dilated, a wide black hole that sucks the life out of me. There are cuts around the eye, bruises like the rest of his face. But it’s the eye itself that causes the bile to rise. That clear, healthy, normal-looking eye. It’s scared.
My father is never scared—or at least smart enough to never, ever, show it. He’s the Boss. If ever there was a position built on strength, being the Boss is it.
Did they break him? So soon? What could they’ve learned?
I can’t stop staring at that eye. It looks so ... so normal, so frightened. Like a family man that got in over his head and now realizes just how much he has to lose.
“Isa,” Puo says, breaking my trance.
“What?” I ask, slowly turning toward him, as if just remembering he was there.
“What do we do?” Puo asks.
What do we do? That’s a damn fine question. I turn back to the article. The bloodied headshot of my father had shown up on all of Atlanta’s digital billboards. No text, no taunting question, no cryptic message, nothing. Just the picture of a broken and bloodied face. The article identifies my father as a missing businessman and speculates on some kind of ransom scheme. The authorities are looking into it.
That’ll be useful.
I’ve swiveled back to looking at that eye. To Puo I say, “We proceed as planned—”
“Proceed as planned?” Puo asks.
“Yes,” I say, unable to look away from my father’s bloodied eye. “There’s no information here. Nothing to act on. We need to find Ham. We need to know what’s on that squeegee and why the Cleaners want us dead so badly.” The words help break the power of that eye staring back at me, give me something to do.
I straighten up, breaking eye contact with the laptop screen. To Puo I say, “Analyze the photo—see if there is anything we can glean.”
“Will do,” Puo answers.
Then, because there really is nothing else to do, I grab my things, including two tracker chips for the next part of the plan, and head out to the application test.
***
By the time I reach the Brummie Artists Co-op building in the early evening, I’ve compartmentalized the clawing pot of jackknives in my stomach. Swallowed it down and accepted it. Focus on the job at hand—initiating the next phase of the con, namely planting two tracker chips—the real bug and a decoy bug we mean to be found.
The lobby is empty this time, devoid of both the tables and the crowd. There’s not another soul in the brightly lit large space, no bubble of a coffee maker in the background.
An informational float screen in the center of the lobby near the front doors informs me the Amateur Sleuths Birmingham Chapter admission test is being held in an art studio on the third floor. It shows the location as a blinking red dot on a rendering of a three-dimensional map. I trudge over to the stairs, my good mood from before destroyed.
I avoid the elevator for no particular reason other than I have nervous energy I want to bleed off, even though I spent the day alone walking around the city again.
I was half hoping to hit on a clue leading to Ham, but I was mostly searching in vain for a freaking gift for Winn. Puo was easy, I was done in ten minutes: a bag of charcoal and a small carrier drone (depending on how much he complains about the charcoal). I’m sure he’ll have the drone jailbroke, stripped, and connected to his other toys and flying around the flat before lunch.
But Winn ... nothing felt right. I still have his caduceus digi-scrambler necklace, but I’m just not ready to give him that back. Any type of jewelry feels too serious, a kitchen gadget too impersonal, a soft sweater too generic, playful socks—what are you, my uncle? Nothing struck that balance of: I’m interested, but not right now, and don’t date anyone else. So I got zip, nada, zilch, and nothing else to go on.
I walk out of the concrete stairwell into the third-floor hallway. The hallway is narrow with high white walls and ceilings. The floor is wood. The only color in the sterile space is the bright fire-red of the doors regularly spaced on both sides. It makes me feel like a rat in a maze. It’s too warm up here, the heat squeezes around my neck, makes my emerald-colored sweater feel too tight. I already can’t wait to get out of here, get this over with and back to Puo to see if he figured anything out from the photo.
That eye. That damn, normal-looking, scared eye.
It pops into my mind, nearly arrests my motion. I take a deep breath and bury it again. Focus on the job at hand. I shift the tracker chips from my violet winter jacket into my jeans front pocket.
The red door to the studio where the test is being held is open, spilling forth some back-and-forth chatter. How many are taking the test? I wonder.
I stride down the center of the hallway right up to the studio. I am Kristy Peters, an American tourist. I am a librarian, and I am interested in something to fill my time. I am Kristy Peters.
There are four people milling about the entrance, all looking comfortable with each other and with their jackets off. Ty is easily the dominant person in the group.
He turns and sees me with a big welcoming smile. “Come in! Come in!” He walks over to meet me at the door.
I force a smile back, slipping into the acting mode of a job. The jackknives fade to a dull scraping.
So, is he just being friendly or what? I swear there’s more to that smile than just greeting a stranger. Weird.
“Glad you made it,” Ty says. He’s wearing silver dress pants and a black sweater that looks like the one I was briefly considering getting for Winn.
“Thanks,” I say. “Are all these people here for the test?” I don’t recognize any of them from the night before.
“Oh, no,” Ty says with small shakes of his head, his pearly whites never fully hiding behind his lips. “They’re the rest of the Chapter. They’re here to meet you and witness the test. We all have to sign off on new members.”
“Oh ... well,” I say. “That’s ... charming. So, I’m the only one taking the test?”
“Yeah.”
“Well that’s not awkward at all,” I say, continuing to bleed off some nervous energy. “Four people staring at me while I take a test.”
“Five,” Ty corrects, never losing his countenance. “Margaret’s in the back.”
At the sound of her name, Margaret, my escort from the night before with her red curls tied up in a loose bun, comes out through an open door into the front area. She looks at ease in comfortable jeans and a patterned tan sweater—this is definitely her studio. I can see it the way she moves about the space.
“Good to see you again,” she says without a smile, but it at least looks like she’s trying to be friendly. She walks up to me and holds her hand out. “As he said, I’m Margaret.”
“Kristy,” I say. Her hand is warm, like she’s been holding it against her body.
“Let me introduce you to everyone else,” Ty says. “This is Arleen.” He indicates a pear-shaped woman of about my age standing just behind him with bright pink hair.
Arleen is a people pleaser. The kind of girl that prides herself on getting along with everyone. You can see it in her eyes (despite her red contacts) the way they bounce around to everyone, continually coming back to me to see how I’m taking everything, ready to step in and assuage any perceived problems.
My intuition is confirmed when she opens her mouth and a bubbly stream of cheerful words tumble over me.
Fortunately Ty is in the act of making introductions and I have little time
to respond other than a quick acknowledgment.
“And this is Ranbir and Grady.” Ty indicates a quiet older Indian man and a tall lanky young man barely out of his teens, with long wavy brown hair in a ponytail.
Ranbir bobs his head with a short, “Hello,” and keeps his hands folded in front of him. Grady gives me a shy wave in greeting, his cheeks burning red.
“Hi.” I wave back. To Ty, I ask, “So this is the group?” This might be easier than I thought.
“This is it,” he says. “Each person hand-selected and vetted.”
I’m not sure what to say to that (or more like I know I shouldn’t say what pops into mind) so instead I ask, “Where am I taking the test?” I lift up on my toes to look at the door Margaret had come out of. There isn’t a place to sit down in the front area.
“The test is oral,” Ty says.
“What?” I ask annoyed.
“It’s an oral exam,” Ty explains, “administered by the group.”
“And you couldn’t have explained this yesterday?” I ask.
“You didn’t ask.”
Arleen in the background is itching to break in, but backs off at a subtle motion from Ty.
Is this part of the test?
“Are there any other questions I should have asked that I didn’t?” I ask, squaring off on Ty. “Is there a physical? Pee in a cup? Ink-blot tests. Ohh, do we all take Myers-Briggs personality tests to learn how we’re all special snowflakes and how to work with each other?”
Ty frowns. Arleen is really twitching now. Ranbir and Grady stir uncomfortably.
Oh, God—they probably did take personality tests.
“You have an edge to you, don’t you?” Ty says.
Yup. The best cons are the ones that play to your natural personality.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t like dishonesty—”
Ty starts to equivocate but I cut him off.
“—Or misleading or poor communication. Pet peeves of mine. So. Is there anything else I should know?”
“What is the government’s official leading theory about who is responsible for the British Museum heist?” Ty asks.
The Brummie Con Page 11
