by Ravenna Tate
Sure, the others who had pulled the job eighteen years ago were still alive. Well, except for Tony. But Jagger was the only one who lived in Chicago. They’d pick him up first.
This heist had occurred two nights ago and had only now made the news. In his experience, that meant two things. The FBI already had their claws in it, and they were feeding info to the media. Plus, they were likely already watching his apartment.
They’d probably read his book, too. Jagger turned off the TV and walked out onto the terrace. He needed fresh air. Two years ago, he’d written a non-fiction book detailing several well-known robberies, including the one that had sent him to prison in 2000. The book was less about how to do it, and more about the emotions and psychological games that went into planning and executing such crimes.
It hadn’t been about the money. He’d written it as a way to say farewell to the only life he’d never known. But because people loved reading about shit like that from those who had been there and done that, the book was still a bestseller.
The royalties were great, but Jagger didn’t need them to live. Having them was almost as much of a rush as pulling off a heist like the one at the Art Institute. Almost. But not quite. There was nothing exactly like lifting rare jewels from a museum or a safe, and getting away with it. Turning the pages of a book and knowing you’d written it couldn’t really compare to a perfectly-planned robbery.
The drone of a small plane engine caught his attention, and he glanced up at the sky, smiling. His thoughts drifted to the Malibu Mirage he was buying. Of course, he’d never be able to fly it because he also needed flying lessons and a pilot’s license. He wasn’t going to get the latter with his felony convictions. He couldn’t even get a driver’s license anymore. But he wanted the plane, just the same.
After the plane passed, his mind wandered back to the reason for his felony conviction—taking the jewels eighteen years ago. That had been one of those perfect jobs. They had taken their time and prepared for every possible scenario. The team had been assembled by himself and Tony. Each of them had years of experience, no moral conscience, and nerves of steel. Nothing should have gone wrong. They only took part of the collection, but that was due to time constraints, not poor planning.
Nothing would have gone wrong if they hadn’t all done something as stupid as get the same tattoo a few weeks before. Granted, there had been no video footage or images from the museum showing the ink. There had been no hidden cameras or a backup system that they’d overlooked. At least not in the museum from which they’d lifted the jewels. No. The security camera that had eventually led the FBI to their doorsteps was in the tattoo shop they’d all visited that night.
And even that footage wouldn’t have meant shit if Joey Amato hadn’t acted like a damn tourist two days before the job. Joey had walked around the museum for six fucking hours, his fresh tat visible for the security cameras to record. The FBI had found it odd that someone kept returning to stand in front of the jewels, and that the person was in the building for so long. The FBI had been right.
The cell phone rang, startling him. He didn’t like being this jumpy. It wasn’t in his nature. He lived a quiet life now, and he wanted it to stay that way. The caller ID said it was a number from out of the country, but not which country. Curious, he answered it.
“Jagger? It’s Nate. Nate Hoffmayer.”
A snort escaped his throat before Jagger could stop it. He hadn’t heard from any of the men with whom he’d been sent to prison since his release, and he fucking wanted to keep it that way. How the hell had Nate gotten his cell phone number? Would they all come out of the woodwork now because of this robbery? Fuck.
“Hey, long time no hear from.” Jagger hoped Nate caught the sarcasm.
“Did I wake you?”
Last Jagger had heard, Nate was still in Madrid, which might explain his odd question. “It’s ten in the morning here. What do you want? How did you get this number?”
“Do you know how easy it is to find phone numbers?”
“Apparently not. What do you want?”
“You’ve seen the news?”
“I’ve seen it.” Jagger walked over to the railing and glanced up and down the street. He shouldn’t be on the phone, and especially not with Nate or any of the others. Surely the FBI could listen in on this call.
“Well?”
Nate sounded nervous. Not good. “Well, what?” He’d spied that same white van down the street yesterday as well. That’s where they were hiding. They were probably watching him stare down the vehicle right now. If they hadn’t already intercepted this call, they would any second now.
“What the fuck do you want, Nate? Why are you calling me?” Jagger wanted the Feds to know he had not initiated this contact, and did not welcome it.
“Did you see that ink? They’ll come after us for this job.”
“I saw it, and I’m sure they have, too. What the fuck do you want me to do?”
“Jagger, you’re the only one who lives there. Who did this?”
“Jesus Christ, Nate. I don’t fucking know who did it, but I sure as fuck didn’t. I’m ending this call. I’ve got a white van sitting across the street from my building the past two days. You want to guess who’s in it? Don’t fucking call me again. And tell the others not to fucking call me, either.”
For fuck’s sake. He might as well put on shoes and walk over there to have a chat with the FBI. Jagger was so pissed off he nearly tossed the damn phone over the railing. He watched the van for a moment, truly surprised there weren’t agents coming out of it by now.
After going back inside, he paced his apartment for several minutes, livid that one of them had called. Nate had been a problem from day one. Jagger had told them all he wasn’t right for the job, but no one had listened.
This was fucked up. Obviously at least one of them had been in on that job two nights ago. It was too much of a coincidence that some random man would have the exact same tattoo, in the exact same place on his neck.
But who? Nate was in Madrid, or at least that’s where he was supposed to be. He was definitely out of the country, if the caller ID could be believed. Maybe he should simply give his phone to the people in the van and let them figure it out? They’d take it anyway if they arrested him.
Jagger didn’t know where the others were right now. He only knew where they had lived when the job was done. He and Tony had been two of four who lived in the USA. Nate had been born here, but he’d been living in Madrid when they’d planned the heist. One had lived in London, and one had lived in France.
Seven men had pulled off the biggest jewel robbery in recorded history, eighteen years ago. It had taken the FBI two years to find and convict them. And if they hadn’t had those tattoos, they would have gotten away with it.
Which one of them had been at the Art Institute two nights ago? Had there been more than one of them there? If that was true—if at least one of the original seven had been part of this—Jagger didn’t have to speculate as to why they hadn’t asked him to join them. They all believed he had ratted them out for a reduced sentence. Tony had told him that years ago.
It wasn’t true, but Jagger had never seen the point in trying to convince any of them. Men like that made up their minds about something, and that was that. What had convicted them was the video footage and the tats. And the reason Jagger got released early had nothing to do with any of the others.
He went back onto the terrace and watched the van. He could be wrong about who was inside, but he doubted it. If he went over there, he’d only end up spending days or perhaps even weeks in a holding center. The news said the local police were involved, too. He could go to them. Be proactive. Let the Feds scramble to keep up. The thought of that made Jagger grin.
They’d never expect him to do that. It would throw them off. He had nothing to lose, and he had an alibi for two nights ago, regardless. The security cameras in this place would show him leaving at 6:00 PM, then reentering at 6:30, carryin
g takeout from the Grand Lux Café, two blocks away. He still had the receipt to prove it. They all knew him there and would vouch for him.
There were cameras all over the building. Jagger couldn’t have left again without one of them recording it. If he went to the police and told them he hadn’t been at the museum, and also told them Nate had called, maybe the Feds would move on and leave him alone?
Would the others see it as ratting them out? They already thought he had done so once. Would it matter if they thought he’d done it again? Jagger had never voluntarily walked into a police station, but the more he thought about it, the more this seemed the most reasonable and prudent thing to do in this instance. He’d be picked up eventually, either by the police or the Feds. If given a choice, he’d rather have a conversation with one of Chicago’s finest.
It took him just over half an hour to walk the less than two miles to the 18th District station, which one of the news stations had identified as the precinct handling the robbery. The white van followed him most of the way before it turned around. Jagger got a kick out of that. Had they finally realized where he was heading? Surely the local cops knew the FBI was on this.
His palms were damp as he walked inside, and he was glad he’d worn khaki shorts and a polo shirt. The day was warm, but he shouldn’t be sweating this much after such a short walk. He was only forty-two and in great shape, thanks to regular workouts. This should have been a piece of cake for him.
After asking for the detective in charge of the robbery at the Art Institute, Jagger was told to wait. He played Solitaire on his phone to pass the time. Finally, a detective came out to greet him, introduced himself as Perry Talio, and asked what Jagger wanted.
“My name is Jagger Tyrell. I’m one of the seven men convicted for stealing part of that same collection from the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco eighteen years ago.”
The detective blinked a few times, his mouth hanging open slightly. “Um … are you here to confess?”
“To the robbery two nights ago? No. I’m here to offer you information that might lead you to the perps.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Jagger glanced around. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?”
As if he wasn’t quite sure this was real, Perry shook his head slightly. “Sure. Right this way.”
As Perry led Jagger toward an office in the squad room, Jagger narrowed his eyes at the sight of a pretty young woman with curly dark hair and green eyes, sitting next to a desk. Perry picked up a stack of papers from that same desk, ignored the woman sitting there, and kept walking toward the office.
A shiver ran down Jagger’s spine as the woman looked into his eyes. There was no spark of recognition on her part, but she looked so much like Tony’s sister, Marie, that he wondered if she was Carolyn, Tony’s niece. She still lived in Chicago, last he’d heard.
Around twenty years ago, Jagger had once seen a picture of her with her parents, Frankie and Marie. Carolyn had been nine or ten in the picture, which would make her twenty-nine or thirty now.
Even taking into account the age difference, the resemblance was too uncanny to deny. He slowed his walk in an effort to get a better look at her, only to be certain. Why in the name of all the saints in heaven was she here? Was it about the job two nights ago? Why would she know anything about it? Her uncle was dead. Did she keep in touch with the others? And even if she did, why the hell would she be here?
The way she eyed him didn’t suggest she knew who he was. Rather, she was checking him out. That almost made him smile. It had been a long time since that had happened. She was very pretty, but his interest in finding out whether she was Tony’s niece, and what the hell she was doing here, superseded his hormones for the moment.
Perry unlocked the door to the office and told Jagger to have a seat. As soon as he did, Jagger cocked a thumb toward the squad room, visible through the blinds on the window. “Who is that sitting at the desk? The woman with dark, curly hair?”
The detective sat across the table from Jagger and shuffled his papers, avoiding eye contact. “Funny you should ask.” The hair on the back of Jagger’s neck prickled.
“Why is that?”
Perry looked up. “Because she came in here to give us information about the robbery two nights ago.”
“Oh yeah? Who is she?” Jagger forced his expression to remain neutral as his mind raced.
“Carolyn Lucchesi. She has quite a record herself. Do you know her?”
The urge to bolt was strong. Jagger shook his head. He didn’t like the tone in Perry’s voice at all. This had been a huge mistake. “Can’t say I do. She’s cute, though.”
“Yeah. Adorable.” Perry’s sarcastic voice didn’t match his words. “By the way, her uncle is—correction—was Tony Vaccaro.”
A smug grin graced Perry’s face as he leaned back in his chair. Jagger was caught unless he thought fast. “Now him I know. Or rather I knew him, past tense. He’s dead.”
“And you never met the niece?”
Why the fuck had he come here? Jagger shook his head again, feeling incredibly foolish. “Nope. Saw a picture once but that was a long time ago. She was only a child.”
“Okay.” Perry leaned forward. “Funny thing, though. You see, we have an image from that night.” Perry pulled a black and white photo out of the stack of papers on the desk and slapped it in front of Jagger.
“See that ink?”
Jagger pushed aside his pony tail and turned so Perry could see his neck. “Yeah. I know. We all got them. Including her dead uncle.”
“Uh-huh. We know. But Carolyn says she recognizes the man in this image.”
A horrible sliver of fear shot through Jagger. “From a shot of the back of his head?”
“Yeah, it’s slim, but she swears this is you.”
If only his fingers would stop trembling. Jagger picked up the photo. He’d never met that stupid bitch. Why the fuck would she tell the cops this was him? “You can’t see the face for shit. No identifying marks, and this guy’s hair is darker than mine. She’s lying to you.”
Perry took the photo and squinted at it, glanced up at Jagger, and squinted again. “Maybe. Just the same, I’d like you to sit tight for a while. I’ll be back with more questions.”
“Let me talk to her.”
As expected, Perry chuckled as he rose and walked toward the door. “Ah, no. Not going to happen.”
The lock clicked, and Jagger watched Perry palm a key. Son of a bitch. He’d done some shitty, stupid things in his life, but this one beat them all. Jagger rose and watched through the slats in the blinds as Perry returned to the desk and sat down. The woman glanced toward him, her eyes wide. Next she began talking to Perry, gesturing as she did so.
Why had she lied? More importantly, who had told her to do so?
“Carolyn Lucchesi. She has quite a record herself. Do you know her?”
He had an alibi and a very good attorney. Jagger tried to stay calm. He’d be out of here soon. And then he’d do some digging around on Tony’s niece.
Chapter Three
Carolyn was barely holding on. She was certain she’d start crying any second. Once she did, this would be over. She recognized Jagger from the pictures her uncle had. As soon as Detective Talio took his seat at the desk, Carolyn leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing him in here!”
“We didn’t. He walked in and said he had information.”
“What information?” Her heart raced.
“Don’t know. We didn’t get around to that.” Detective Talio shoved the black and white photo at her. “Take another look. The man in that office says this isn’t him.”
A rushing wind sound invaded her head as she stared at the photo. Why the hell had Uncle Tony told her to do this? More importantly, why had she listened to him? The man in this photo didn’t look that much like the man who had walked past her moments ago. Not really. In truth, this could be anyone with th
e same tattoo.
Jagger Tyrell’s looks hadn’t changed that much from the pictures her uncle had shown her. He’d aged a bit, but he still had the same dark brown hair, tied back into a ponytail. A bit more gray around the temples, but that only accentuated his distinctive ice blue eyes. He also was still very fit. Carolyn hadn’t been able to help gawking at his muscles.
But was this him in the photo like Uncle Tony had convinced her it was? And if it wasn’t, who was it, and why had her uncle lied to her? Why had he sent her here, knowing how much trouble she’d be in if they decided she was giving them false information? Why? He’d never do that to her on purpose, would he?
“Jagger Tyrell is lying to you.” She handed the photo back to the detective.
The detective smiled, but it wasn’t a humorous one. “He says you’re lying. Looks like we have a stalemate.”
“I can only tell you what my source told me. Jagger Tyrell was there two nights ago, and this is him in the photo.”
A loud sigh preceded the detective leaning back in his chair. “Carolyn, I need more than that to hold him.”
“I don’t have more.”
“Who is the source?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“This isn’t a news story, and you’re not a reporter.” He eyed her carefully. “You don’t get to protect your source. I don’t have to tell you that if you come in here and give us false information, I can arrest you.”
Shit. Hellfire. She dug her nails into her palms to keep a rein on her emotions. “Like you said this morning, I have a famous family. One of them saw the photo on the news and called me. They told me it was Jagger Tyrell, without a shadow of a doubt.”
While Detective Talio shuffled papers on his desk, he sighed again, nodding slowly. “All right. You should go home. You look really tired. If any more of your family members call with information, please tell them to call me directly.” He opened a drawer and took out a business card, handing it to her. “Okay?”
