Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “I don’t think so. In a way, I’m disappointed that you’re on the side of the law. I was hoping to corner a louse who could point me toward my father’s murderer.”

  “Look in the mirror.” Her watcher sneered. “Someone’s bound to get hurt when greed puts you in bed with terror networks. Crane was right. You are a piece of work.”

  Desi recoiled against the door. “Terror networks? But how—”

  “Like you didn’t know where a good chunk of that black market money goes.”

  “No, I didn’t. I—”

  “Get out. The filth on you is messing up my car.”

  Desi staggered out onto the pavement, slammed the door, and backed against the vehicle in the next spot. Max jumped into the van and moved out of the way. The retired federal agent drove off like he was being swarmed by bees.

  Desi walked to the van and climbed in beside Max. “This whole thing is way worse than I ever imagined.”

  “You don’t look too good. Maybe we should cancel tonight’s project.”

  Desi wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. What she wouldn’t give to walk away … go back home … hide there forever. But she shook her head, squeezing her hands into fists. “Not a chance.” She met Max’s gaze, new determination filling her.

  None of the masterpieces would ever be used to fund bombs and guns. She would see to that. And she wouldn’t rest until they were all back where they belonged. Just as her father had wanted. “We’re doing this. Just like we planned.”

  Max’s frown deepened. “I hope you know what you’re doing, girl.”

  “Sometimes you just do what you can. And we’re trained for this.”

  If only Desi were as confident as she sounded.

  Tony hustled off the plane at London’s Heathrow airport and pulled out his cell phone. Blast! He knew he should have traded it in before he left. This one had been losing its charge too quickly.

  All right, find a telephone.

  People congregated three deep around the first set he ran across. Tony continued down the concourse. There! He spotted a lone unit on a support post. A stout elderly lady jabbered and nodded with the handset to her ear. Tony set his bag down and planted himself next in line.

  The woman’s pale blue eyes widened. “I need to go, dearie. There’s someone waiting.”

  Tony forced a smile at her stage whisper. “Please don’t hurry on my account.”

  She brightened and bobbed a nod. Turning her back, she chatted on.

  Tony sighed and began a visual dissection of the area. He’d had a bug-under-glass feeling while he stood in line to board the plane in Rome, and the funny feeling hadn’t let up since. Paranoia wasn’t normal for him. If it was paranoia.

  How did the saying go? Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me …

  This section of Heathrow wasn’t quite as crowded as the customs area and passenger gates. But a fair number passed by or patronized the refreshment vendor fifty feet up the concourse. A group of laughing college kids meandered down the hall. “On holiday,” as they said in England. Near a book kiosk, a woman sat engrossed in a newspaper. The pages blocked her head and upper body from view. Tony’s gaze halted on her.

  He recognized the dark green knee-length skirt from his flight out of Rome. He hadn’t seen her face then and couldn’t now. Her legs were crossed, feet encased in low-heeled pumps that matched the suit. She had a small tattoo of a red rose on her ankle. Slender, toned calves indicated someone who kept herself in good physical condition. A business professional of some type judging by the expensive clothes. Dark spots on the backs of her hands betrayed mature age. Not a young woman.

  Someone tapped Tony’s arm. He looked around.

  The elderly lady from the phone blinked up at him. “Your turn, love. I’m through.” Then she waddled off, trailing a small wheeled carry-on.

  Tony snatched up the phone receiver as a man in a sport jacket darted for it. The man gave a tight-lipped nod and turned away. Tony recognized him from the Rome flight as well. Any number of people from his earlier flight could be killing time waiting for a connection.

  You’re losing it, Lucano. Dreaming up surveillance out of an itch between your shoulder blades.

  As he punched in the numbers for the office, Tony glanced toward the seats near the bookseller. The woman was gone.

  Crane grunted hello.

  “You’re still in Boston?”

  “Don’t let that little fact make your day.” He growled like a bear with a toothache. “Word trickled down from Cooke’s office that a file audit was in the offing, and all case paperwork needs to be completed with every i dotted and t crossed. Oh, and he wants expense accounts and requisitions no later than yesterday I’ve been chained to a desk all afternoon. Forget investigating actual cases. You owe me big-time, pard.”

  Tony chuckled. No mention of a trip to Washington. Atta girl, Desi. Just keep on behaving yourself. And a bonus, too! A dreaded housekeeping chore would be done by the time he got back to the office. What more could a guy want? “My flight lands around 9:50 this evening. Then I’m heading home to take a long, hot shower and get as much sleep as jet lag allows. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You’ll see me tonight. I’ll pick you up at Logan International, and we’ll drive to Washington. Should be there by early morning. We can roust our pretty little suspect out of her beauty sleep. What do you want to bet we find some real nice evidence in her belongings?”

  Tony’s gut nose-dived.

  “You will not believe what Thelma and Louise have been up to,” Crane continued. “And they’re still at it. They just left their hotel room for some unknown destination.”

  Thelma and Louise? The movie about a pair of housewives who go joyriding and end up on a crime spree? Tony listened as Crane filled him in on Desiree’s stop at the Dujardin mansion, an encounter between Max and a local police officer, and the entrapment of one of their surveillance men.

  “We lucked out that the Washington guys have been working in pairs just in case the ladies split up. The other one is still with them.”

  “Good work.” The commendation tasted sour on his tongue. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Gotcha.” The receiver slammed down.

  Tony rested his forehead against the cool metal of the phone box. Desiree had never promised him anything. Not like the other woman who tore his heart out and threw it in the trash. Why did he feel twice as betrayed?

  He headed for the boarding lounge of his flight. People gave him wide berth.

  Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

  Well, sometimes God left vengeance in the hands of the law. Right now that assignment suited him like a holy calling.

  Desi rang the doorbell and waited with Max in front of Victor Gambel’s mansion overlooking the Potomac. She recognized the stocky man who opened the door. Their client’s private security agent, Abel VonHolten. Stone-faced, VonHolten admitted them into the majestic foyer. A vaulted ceiling soared over their heads. Antiques and priceless sculptures lined the walls. An original Matisse hung over the refectory table.

  Max lugged a metal box that looked something like a mechanic’s tool chest, only bigger. Desi carried her usual briefcase, from which she removed the standard permission form for the procedure, while Max set her burden on the marble floor and started to dig out her equipment.

  Desi left Max to her business and followed the security agent to Mr. Gambel’s study. The multimillionaire sat in front of a wide screen showing a news station.

  “Well, at least you’re on time.” Gambel poked a button on a remote control, and the sound muted. “I suppose you have some form or another for me to sign. The computer age was supposed to reduce paperwork. Hah! Just made it easier to produce more.”

  “Right on both counts, Mr. Gambel. I have a form for you to sign, and the wisest man on earth has yet to explain how electronic records transform themselves into mountains of paper.”

  Gambel poked the
remote in her direction. “I’ll tell you where a good bit of it comes from. All those infernal government regulations, that’s what. A man can’t even run his own business without being told which hoops to jump through and how high.”

  “Or a woman either.” Desi laughed. She set the permission form on the side table, along with an HJ Securities pen. “This is one of my hoops, but I’ll let you keep the pen.”

  He gave a rusty chuckle. “I suppose if a person has lots of papers to sign, he should have lots of pens.”

  Desi took the signed form. “Thank you for your time, and have a good evening, Mr. Gambel.”

  “Be better if those stock prices would rise.” He pointed the remote at the TV, and the sound came to life. Desi headed out of the room. VonHolten opened the door.

  The TV went silent. “You’re as personable as your father, young lady, but you’ve got your own style. My prediction? You won’t need to fill his shoes. You’ll be a success in your own right.”

  Desi’s breath hitched. She stopped and looked back.

  “And we have more violence in the Middle East,” the news anchor blared. The multimillionaire sat with his back to her staring at the screen.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gambel.” He didn’t move, so she left him with his gruff pride intact.

  In the hallway, she turned to the security agent. “Can you walk me through the house and point out any acquisitions made in the past six months? We want to make sure that safeguards for those items are up to HJ Securities’ quality.”

  “Follow me then. The boss bought a few sculptures.”

  They moved from room to room. Desi took notes on each piece. “No paintings?”

  VonHolten shook his head. “Not since Mr. Jacobs was here last. There’s only been one new picture in the last year. Your father was especially impressed with it. Want to see?”

  “Of course.”

  He led her to the main dining room.

  My apartment would fit in here twice over. She spotted the fake Van Gogh hanging at the far end of the room.

  Desi stepped toward the piece. Video cameras mounted under the cornices watched her progress. She stopped in front of the picture, a careful foot distant. Any closer and the motion detector would sound off.

  “Beautiful.”

  “One of the boss’s favorites.” VonHolten spoke over her shoulder. “That’s why he had it hung where he could look at it over every meal.”

  If only she could ask Gambel who did the work, but he had no idea it wasn’t Van Gogh. The forgery was superb.

  She turned away from the painting and set her briefcase on the table. “If you want to find Max, I’m sure she’d like access to the control room. I’ll stay here and polish my notes.”

  “Very good. Ah, miss?”

  She looked up.

  The security agent shifted from one foot to another. “Just wanted to say that I was sorry to hear about your dad. He was a good man.”

  Desi’s heart twisted. She glanced away, then took a deep breath and met his gaze. “Yes, he was. I miss him a lot.”

  The security man nodded and left the room.

  Now, Max, just keep him busy, and do your thing. We’ll set matters to rights here.

  Desi sat down to her paperwork. Mr. Gambel would chuckle over this stack of forms. Funny how a few minutes of conversation could change a person’s perception of someone else.

  The red operation light on one of the cameras blinked off. Desi checked the others. They were all dark. She leaped up and went to the painting, then waited. The alarm shrilled. Desi unhooked the hidden sensor in the back of the frame, and snatched the Van Gogh. The clamor ceased and then started again in a different room.

  Now I’ve got two minutes to switch canvases before Maxie-girl finishes the alarm check. She had to have the real Van Gogh back on the wall before the last alarm sounded and Max switched all the security devices on again.

  Desi held the painting by the outer frame with one hand and pulled at the stretching frame with the other. Aaagh! Neither moved a millimeter. She laid the painting on the table and used her thumbs to try to press the outer frame away from the stretching frame.

  Wedged tight!

  She flipped open her briefcase and pawed through it. What happened to her screwdriver? It must have fallen out some … No! She left it in the storage vault when she pried the crate open to get the Van Gogh. An acrid taste rose in her throat. Now what?

  Her gaze darted about the room. Nothing … no thing … there!

  She ran to the sideboard, where a butter knife had apparently been left behind from the morning’s cleanup. She snatched it up. The blade bore traces of grease. She wiped it on her blouse in a spot under the blazer where the stain wouldn’t be noticed and hustled back to the picture.

  It didn’t matter two hoots whether she ruined the thing. She had to get it out of there and the real Van Gogh put back.

  Her breath whistled between clenched teeth as she fitted the blade between the outer frame and canvas and pried. That’s it! That’s it! There! Thank You, God! Desi wiped her brow, then lifted the fake from the frame and fitted the genuine Van Gogh into its proper place. Not quite so tight this time. The forger must have been off an eighth of an inch or so on his measurements.

  Alarms still wailed in steady sequence. Getting closer. Closer. Almost full circle. She thrust the fake into her case.

  Keep it going, Max. Just a little longer.

  She whirled and raced to the wall. The house went still. Desi froze. She glanced up at the nearest video camera. No light yet. I’ve maybe got five seconds before all systems are go. She hung the painting and reattached the hidden sensor. Rats! The painting’s crooked. She gripped the frame and tugged it straight.

  Whaaaaah! Whaaaah!

  Desi staggered back and tottered on the heels of her pumps. Think! Think! She glanced up. No camera light. The shoes! All right!

  She swooped a pump from her foot and wrenched off the heel. Red light! Red light! Who do we see tonight? She showed the camera a sheepish smile and held up the broken shoe.

  God grant that the security agent believed her “accidental” bump against the frame.

  “What a rush!” Max settled into the driver’s seat of the van. “When that alarm sounded out of sequence, I figured our goose was burned to a crisp. Then when the monitor went on and I saw you hold up that broken shoe, I just about passed out. That look on your face! VonHolten laughed. I’ve never heard him make that sound before. The guy doesn’t even crack a smile.”

  Desi groaned and slumped in the passenger seat. “I think I’ve exceeded my excitement quotient for one day. That one was a little closer than I like. Plus I ruined a new shoe, and one of my favorite blouses has a grease stain on it. Not to mention my hose.” She lifted a shoeless foot to display runs in the stocking.

  “Cheer up. We got away with another caper.”

  Desi let out a shaky laugh. “We did, didn’t we? To think, we choose to do this sort of thing as part of our living. A good shrink would have a heyday psychoanalyzing us.”

  “Let’s have a little wind-down music.” Max turned the radio on.

  Desi closed her eyes. The sounds of worship washed over her. Tension leaked from her muscles and bones. She’d sleep well tonight.

  Desi lay awake, staring at the shadow play on the ceiling. The bed beneath her might as well have been a block of granite and her pillow a stone.

  What she and Max had done this evening was against the law, even if they were righting a wrong. The owner hadn’t given them permission to tamper with his possessions. She’d even told a lie of misdirection with the broken heel ruse.

  Foolish to keep doing this.

  Five more pieces of stolen art cried to her from the hidden vault. Her father paid for their preservation in his blood. A lump rose in her throat.

  Would she be a coward to turn the paintings over to the authorities? To Tony? What a relief to move this weight onto someone else’s broad shoulders.

  But wha
t of her father’s reputation? The business? The threat of reprisal from the thieves? They might carry out their threat if they discovered what she and Max had done with the Van Gogh. Should she turn the remainder of the cache over to them and hope for their mercy?

  Never!

  As if you didn’t know where a good chunk of that black market money goes.

  “But I didn’t!”

  She bit her lip and listened. Max’s breathing continued strong and even from the other bed. Yeah, Max, you always brag that you can sleep through a Gulf Coast hurricane. So let’s test the claim.

  Desi sat up and clicked on her bedside light. She opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the Gideon Bible. Wisdom, Lord. I’ll take a whole bunch, please. She propped herself up against her pillow and opened to her favorite book—Ephesians.

  She’d read it time and time again. Could there be something—anything—for now?

  This mess wasn’t getting any less tangled. She had to know which thread to pull in order to set matters straight.

  Flow into me, Lord, Your words eternal.

  She read through one chapter. A second. A third.

  What’s the matter? No connection. As if God’s speaking to anybody but me.

  Desi sighed and closed the book. When Scripture didn’t communicate, the problem was never with God. It was always with people. With her.

  She bowed her head. “Lord, I’m ready to do anything you show me. I don’t want to try and figure this out by myself any more.”

  She went to Ephesians again. Chapter 4. Verses passed beneath her finger. She sighed. Verse 14.

  We should no longer be babes, swung back and forth and carried here and there with every wind of teaching that springs from human craftiness and ingenuity for devising error; but telling the truth in love, we should grow up in every way toward Him who is the head—Christ …

  Desi sat up poker straight. Every hair on her scalp prickled. “Tell the truth in love.”

  Too simple. Totally right!

  Sure, the passage referred to false teachers of the gospel, but she was dealing with plenty of craftiness and error here. And God’s solution was to tell the truth. Every day she held back, she let the wicked swing her back and forth on a pendulum of indecision. In God’s eyes, she was behaving like a child.