Diamond White

by Stephanie Andrews

  The footsteps drew closer as Tall and Skinny made his way back toward my position. I straightened my back against the wall, still in a crouch. I shifted all my weight onto my left foot, and leaned so far to the left that I put my left palm down on the floor for extra leverage.

  And three, two, one...

  He stepped into the room, first his left foot and then his right. While his right foot was still in the air, I lashed out sideways and hard with my right foot, stomping sideways into and through his left foot. His foot shot out from under him, and he went down hard on his left side. I reached out and caught his head before it hit the marble floor, my left hand cradled underneath and my right hand clamping the mask over his nose and mouth. As I had done with bachelor number one downstairs, I turned my body and sat down heavily on his chest, trapping his arms between my knees.

  His howl of pain was mostly muffled by the mask, and now he grunted mightily as he tried to buck me off in a panic. The poor guy was terrified, with no idea what was happening to him. Plus, I’d probably broken his left ankle. “Sorry buddy,” I thought with one part of my brain while the other part counted seven, eight, nine... and his eyes glazed over.

  I jumped up, grabbing the mask from his face and hurrying back to the staircase for the backpack. Carefully, I took the Degas sculpture, the one from Dexter’s office, out of the bag and hurried into the next room.

  A huge painting of a man and a woman, walking down a rainy Parisian street, hung on the wall. There’s the Caillebotte, Mom, I thought to myself. Can’t stay and stare at it right now. The full-size Degas sculpture stood in the middle of the floor. It was heartbreakingly beautiful: a young dancer posed to begin, her body made of bronze, but her clothes real clothes of cotton, slightly shabby all these decades later.

  As part of a special exhibit, seven low pedestals had been set around the room, each bearing one of Degas’ foot-tall studies. I moved quickly to the one that most resembled the one in my hands, then stopped short. I looked at the Caillebotte on the wall. Surely it had some sort of trigger alarm that would go off if anyone tried to remove the painting. Definitely. It was the number one reason I wasn’t considering taking it home with me. Would the little sculptures be alarmed as well? Only one way to find out.

  I stood in front of the pedestal, holding Dexter’s statue heavily in one hand, weighing it against the statue in front of me. I took a few deep breaths to psyche myself up and then, before I could think better of it, I switched them in one quick movement.

  I waited, the statue heavy in my hand, but no alarms went off.

  Quickly, I made my way back to the stairs and grabbed the backpack, carefully putting the genuine statue in and throwing it over my shoulder as I made my way back through Impressionism, past the sleeping guard, and down to the end of the hall to the women’s room. Looking into the Modern Wing, I could see another security guard strolling the floor, but he was heading away from me into the galleries. No point picking a fight.

  I pushed into the women’s room and entered the first stall. I peeled down the athletic tights I was wearing, and sat down and peed. I really should have gone beforehand.

  I reached back and carefully unstuck the iPhone from my back, texting Marty: all clear. He sent back a smiley face emoji, one eye winking open and closed. I assumed that meant good news.

  I wiped myself and worked the stretchy pants back up over my hips, thought better of flushing. At the sink, I took a moment to look at myself in the mirror, and then broke out laughing. It was 3 a.m. in Chicago, and I was prowling around the Art Institute.

  My life had never been so strange, or so exciting.

  I ran off to meet up with Ellery and Marty, who were probably making out in front of the Chagall window.

  Thirty

  “I am never getting on that thing with you again,” moaned Nick, standing hunched over with his hands on his knees.

  “Breathe deep, my friend. You’ll be just fine.” I patted him on the back. “I’ll go in and get our food, you just take it easy.”

  When I said the word “food,” I think he started to heave, but then held it down. By the time I came out of the Lucky Platter with the bag of takeout, he was standing up straight and looking much less green.

  “Let’s leave Gromet here and walk to the lake,” I said, patting the motorcycle on the gas tank as I passed by it.

  “Yes, let’s,” Nick agreed.

  We had cruised over to Evanston to have a nice little pre-evil-mastermind-showdown dinner without the likelihood of being recognized. I had insisted on taking the motorcycle, even though Nick hadn’t been very enthusiastic about it. The weather was absolutely beautiful. Nick took the rolled-up blanket off the back of the seat and gamely followed me down the sidewalk, stopping to look in the window of a used book shop.

  In a few minutes, we came to a good-sized park on the lake, the cool wind whipping through our short hair—mine was only slightly longer than his—as we strode across the grass to a spot by the water.

  “Here?” he asked, indicating the grassy ground.

  “Sure.”

  With a shrug of his long arms he unfurled the dark green blanket, straightening the edges once it was stretched on the ground. I put down the bag and drew out the tandoori chicken salad and the crab cakes.

  “So,” said Nick after we were settled and digging into the food, “not to talk shop, but are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “I think so,” I said, and I actually meant it.

  “Well you made the morning news, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes, and without my underwear showing for a change,” I said, referring to an embarrassing incident from last spring.

  He laughed. “That’s right. I almost forgot.”

  The break-in at the Art Institute the night before had caused quite a stir, especially with the scheduled visit tomorrow of the Vice President of Zambia, who would be visiting the African Art gallery and then discussing a trade deal with Senator Durbin over lunch in McKinlock Court. Six guards had been incapacitated by what were assumed to be multiple assailants, and even more troubling was the fact that the surveillance cameras had been deactivated by a very clever hacker. Strangest of all was the fact that nothing had been taken. Nothing at all.

  The news anchor was unaware, and well he should be, that on the other end of the museum, in the auditorium on the second floor of the Modern Wing, another meeting was planned for noon tomorrow as well. This one would be between Antonio Negron and Alden Earl, the subject of which would be the future sales and distribution of weapons throughout parts of Chicago. Earl, with the help of Uncle Elgort and family, would attempt to dissuade Negron from doing any further business in the city. As I mentioned before, the Art Institute presented itself as a level playing field, a place in which Negron would not feel threatened. Right up to the point when we began threatening him.

  It had been my job to unlevel the playing field, if there is such a phrase.

  “I’m happy to report,” I said, smiling mischievously at my dinner companion, “that the Chicago Police, in conjunction with the museum security staff, will be taking the unprecedented step of searching all bags of visitors when they enter tomorrow, and each visitor will also be subjected to a metal detection wand to ensure that no weapons of any kind are brought into the museum.”

  Nicky gave me an impressed whistle. I bowed my head.

  “Thank you, thank you! Also, computer experts are working around the clock to improve the computer firewalls so as to protect the security cameras from any further outside hacking.”

  “Outside hacking?”

  “Right.”

  “So that’s a little bit of closing the barn door, isn’t it?”

  “The what?”

  “The barn door,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s a saying. Closing the barn door after the horse is already out.”

  “I’ve never heard that, sorry.”


  He waved it away.

  “My fault. You spend too much time with Uncle Elgort and you start to feel like you live in a different century. I swear Don thinks it’s 1962.”

  I laughed. “Does he ever do anything for fun?”

  “He plays fantasy baseball.”

  I frowned, picturing Don in wool trousers and holding a fat mitt. “Like reenactments?”

  “No,” Nick laughed again. He should laugh more. “It’s a game where you have a team made up of real players, and you get points for their stats. You pick the best players, you win a lot of money.”

  “That’s basically the stock market,” I mused.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. His fun is pretty much the same as his work.”

  “We’ve got to get him a girlfriend,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Or boyfriend,” I added hastily. “Whatever is cool.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just that he sees a lot of women, but never seems interested in taking it further. I’m pretty sure my brother intends to stay a bachelor.”

  “What he should really do,” I said, wiping ketchup off my fingers, “is join an acting troupe. He Christopher Walkened the living daylights out of me in that warehouse. I bet Dexter crapped his pants.” I gathered up all the trash and consolidated it into one bag.

  “Don is good at everything he puts his hand to, always has been. He just seems to like numbers the best.”

  “Well,” I said, snuggling up to him, “you seem pretty good at everything, too.” The sun had dropped behind the buildings and it was getting chilly. Nick put his arm around me and squeezed me tightly.

  “Thanks,” he said, resting his chin on the top of my head. “I know a few tricks.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” I said, digging my fingers into his ribs and instigating a tickle fight.

  Moments later we were on our backs, side by side, breathless from laughing.

  “I’m going to lose my dinner,” said Nick gasping.

  “You haven’t even gotten on the bike yet,” I teased.

  “Oh God,” he groaned, and I started to tickle him again.

  “What do you mean we aren’t going to be there!” roared Ruby, slamming a pot down on the kitchen counter of my apartment.

  “That’s ridiculous,” chimed in Park. “It’s not fair, it’s—”

  “Bullshit!” yelled Ruby. “It is bullshit, and you know it.”

  “Keep your voice down, please. Mrs. Right will hear you.”

  She stomped over to the sofa and sat down hard. Park moved over to the side table to examine the small Degas dancer.

  “Oof. This couch, it has no cushion!”

  “It’s Modernist,” I answered.

  “The people who lived here before,” Ruby complained, looking around, “they had no taste. Nothing matches.”

  Standing in the middle of the room, I put my hands on my hips and looked around.

  “I bought all this furniture, Ruby. I picked it out. It’s mine.

  She pursed her lips, looking around. “Prominte. I didn’t realize.” Her voice was now at a normal volume. “But it’s all a hodgepodge! Your other apartment, everything matched. Why this?”

  “I don’t know Ruby. I wanted everything to be different. I wanted to see something I liked and grab for it, instead of following all the regulations. I don’t want to look at any part of my life anymore and think it’s a lie.”

  “Except your secret identity,” put in Park, sitting down next to Ruby.

  “What?”

  “You want to live an authentic life, but you’re dead and have two aliases, that I know of.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I...I don’t know,” admitted Park, “except that you should stop telling us what to do. You’re making crazy decisions for yourself every day, then don’t want us to make crazy decisions on our own.”

  “Yes!” crowed Ruby. “Yes, you do as you do and not as you say. I mean—”

  “I get it,” I sighed. I was feeling ganged up on, and started pacing the floor. “It’s really Uncle Elgort’s plan, I’m just one little part of it.”

  Ruby rose to her feet, Park following.

  “Fine. We will go and talk to Mr. Elgort Shelby about getting on his payroll.”

  “No, really. My part’s pretty much done, now. Nick isn’t even going to be there tomorrow.”

  “I will talk to him anyway,” Ruby persisted, heading for the door.

  “No, I prom—”

  She stopped with her hand on the door, Park nearly running into the back of her.

  “You what?”

  “Nothing!”

  “You promised what?”

  “Nothing, no—”

  “Who!”

  I stood there, not saying anything, chewing my lip and fidgeting from foot to foot.

  “Kay Colleen Riley,” Ruby spoke through gritted teeth.

  My shoulders collapsed.

  “Marty. I promised Marty I’d keep you out of things.”

  Instinctively I held my hands up to ward off an attack, but it didn’t come.

  “Me too?” Park demanded, but she could see the answer in my face.

  When I raised my head and lowered my hands, Ruby was just standing there looking at me. Finally, she spoke.

  “You’re my best friend, Kay, but you don’t get to tell me what to do, and neither does Martin.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She opened the door and pushed Park through it, then stepped through after her. “Come up to the lake when it’s all over,” she said, and closed the door.

  Crap.

  Thirty-one

  The next morning, I did an hour of stretches, followed by a five-mile run. I freaking hate jogging. I cooled off by performing a few taekwondo poomses, followed by some more stretching, then a long, hot shower. When the doorbell rang at 10:45 I was struggling to get my new motorcycle leathers on over my clothes; I usually just wore underwear underneath. I looked down at my feet: I was wearing a pair of nondescript black Merrill shoes that I hoped could function as both business casual and biker chic. I looked in the mirror at my hair, which last night I had dyed bright blond. I shrugged. This was going to be quite a day.

  I trotted down the stairs and opened the door for James and Sherry, who were also dressed in motorcycle leathers.

  “C’mon in,” I said. And then, “You’re going to have to remove those chains,” pointing at the numerous chains on James’s belt and boots. He frowned. “You’ll set off the detectors,” I explained. “Have you had breakfast?”

  They both just rolled their eyes.

  Ninety minutes later, we were on the second floor of the Modern Wing at the Institute. James looked uncomfortable, but couldn’t stop looking up at the amazing architecture. He seemed to not even register the art. As we rounded the corner, Sherry stopped short and caught her breath, staring at the Jackson Pollock.

  “Shit,” she said, then clamped her hand over her mouth, looking around furtively. Not like everyone wasn’t looking at us anyway. We were the only ones in the gallery, and likely the museum, dressed head to toe in black leather.

  “I thought you’d want to see it in real life,” I said, feeling like a proud teacher.

  “It’s pretty awesome,” she admitted, then stepped closer. “Hey, look,” she said, turning her head to look at the canvas from an angle. “It’s all three-dimensional, you can see the drips.”

  I smiled again. If we all died in the next hour, at least I would have introduced a young person to Modern Art. Mom would be proud.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Uncle Elgort moving slowly along the outer hallway, pausing now and then to lean on his cane and look up at the glass ceiling. Security had closed all entrances except for the main front doors, even for staff, so Elgort had to pass through the metal detector and then make his slow way to the far end of the building.

  “C’mon,” I motioned to my two henchmen, “we’ve got to get into posi
tion.”

  We walked briskly back through the building until we reached the Impressionist corridor once again. I counted three guards just in these few rooms: two security personnel, and a regular Chicago cop, called in to ensure the safety of the Senator and the Deputy Emir.

  The cop gave us a dirty look, and I instinctually slid my damaged hand into my pocket. Likely he just hated bikers, but I didn’t want to leave too good of a description behind, even with the blond hair. We wandered around looking at the paintings.

  We didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes later Jared Dexter and Jorge Alvarez came up the stairs. Alvarez was wearing chinos and a blue oxford shirt that didn’t quite cover the tattoos crawling up his neck and down his forearms. Dexter was wearing a grey suit and dark glasses. I’m guessing he still had the remains of the shiner Selena gave him. They were followed conspicuously by six large men in black suits. The men looked strong, and they looked unhappy.

  Crap. Six. I was hoping for three or four, max. Whelp! Here we go...

  I nodded toward James and Sherry, motioned toward the men with my eyes, though they must have figured out on their own that this was our target. I moved over near the staircase, and pressed my finger three times to the small pink disruptor that was hidden there, perfectly disguised as an air freshener. That would activate all the disruptors in the museum, shutting down the cameras for at least three minutes.

  Sherry took a step away from James, who yelled “Hey!” and grabbed her by the arm. She yanked her arm away, causing it to flail backwards, resulting in the back of her hand slapping across the face of the nearest man in black, raking her sharp ring across his cheek and drawing blood.