Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Now act like you don’t suspect a thing, or justice might never be done.

  But I want to spit in her face!

  One traitor’s office coming up on the right. Smile. Hold it together …

  Blast! I can’t.

  Desi kept walking, but she looked down and pretended to fiddle with the latch on her briefcase. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the electronics expert look up as she walked by. The furrowed brow spelled concern—or worry that Desiree was on to something.

  Damage control, girl. She’d been cold and distant to Max on the commercial flight home from Washington DC yesterday. Today she had to do a better acting job. She had to!

  Okay, just think about that kooky adventure from last spring—a kite, a tree, a determined Texan, and an angry blue jay protecting its nest. Desi turned on her heel and poked her head into her former friend’s office. She grinned at the redhead. Good job. I think I made it genuine.

  “We still on for tonight?”

  Max grinned back, tension slipping from her posture. “Oh, yeah—7:00 p.m. sharp. I’ll make that crab dip you love. Dean wasn’t sure you’d want to go ahead tonight. Maybe you’d be too bummed about everything that happened in Washington. But I told him he didn’t know Desiree Jacobs if he thought that. I’m going to pick up a comedy on the way home from work. We can sure use a few laughs.”

  “No argument there.” Desi waggled her fingers and left.

  Her mouth tightened. Max was babbling in her relief that all seemed well. Laugh while you can, lady. This might be your last chance for a good long while.

  Desi entered her office and shut the door. She let out a pent-up breath. Seated at her desk, she booted up her PC and then turned to the phone’s glaring red message light. Several hours slipped past while she returned calls, dealt with her mail, delegated tasks, and even picked up one new client.

  But her mind was focused on one thing: When, where, and how was the Chief going to contact her? He’d been pretty creative so far—she’d give him that. What would it be this time? A box of chocolates and an innocent invitation to meet with an admirer? Yeah, right! She wanted to stuff the creep into a rocket and shoot him to Pluto without a tank of oxygen. He’d be wise not to choose a face-to-face confrontation.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. Yeah, girl, you fantasize great, but if it came to a contest, you probably wouldn’t fare any better than you did in your pillow fight with Leone Bocca. Thank God for the SWAT team that day. Thank God for Tony now.

  Desi brought up her e-mail and scanned the incoming addresses. Routine, routine, junk, more routine. Not routine! Desi gasped and shoved away from her desk. The wheels slid off the plastic mat, hit carpet, and jerked to a stop. She gripped the arms of her chair.

  All right. This is what you’ve been waiting for. What Tony’s waiting for. You can do this.

  She crept forward. There in her inbox, like a viper lurking among an innocuous stack of entries, sat one from the Chief, subject line “Unfinished Business.”

  Desi held her breath and clicked the message open. Against a mauve background, black letters crawled like ants across the screen. She closed her eyes, then opened them as she filled her lungs. Her vision cleared, and the letters stopped jiggling and settled into words.

  Good morning, Desi.

  Her teeth ground together. No one gave you permission to address me like a long lost friend, pal! This guy talked elegant, but had no manners.

  In order to begin our business relationship on the right foot, let’s make matters as simple as possible. Please crate the items and deliver them promptly by 7:00 p.m. to an address that will be communicated one hour in advance using a method you are sure to appreciate. At the drop point, you will receive instructions regarding your role in our next operation. I believe the plan will appeal to your sense of adventure and provide an enjoyable challenge for your capabilities.

  Cordially,

  The Chief

  Desi leaped to her feet. What gave this jerk the tiniest inkling that she was now part of the team? She hadn’t agreed to anything of the sort. Did he think that by giving over the pictures, she was part of the package?

  Let’s just give Chiefie-boy a major earful! She whipped the mouse pointer onto the reply icon, then stilled. She bit her lip. There was an attachment to his message. She didn’t want to open it, but she had to. She clicked on the attachment button. The computer’s internal security checked the message and gave its verdict. No virus threat detected? Wrongo! You are the virus, buddy. She clicked to download the attachment.

  Her computer exploded.

  Desi screamed, then slammed her hands over her mouth. No, the machine hadn’t blown up. Just the picture on the screen. Her heart performed acrobatics.

  A video appeared. Footage of smoking rubble. Dark smudges streaked the stone. Blood? The camera stopped on a mangled leg poking from the wreckage.

  Desi choked and lunged to her feet. She raced for the bathroom. Barely made it to a stall. A long time later, she rinsed out her mouth and washed her face at the sink. A white Kabuki mask stared back at her in the mirror.

  So this is what a war zone felt like. Since 9/11, Americans thought they were more aware of their vulnerability. They weren’t—not nearly enough.

  Could Tony guarantee to protect her building full of employees? No, he couldn’t. Not when someone in his own organization was sabotaging his efforts. She’d allowed a pair of strong arms to lend her the illusion of safety.

  What about My arms?

  In the mirror, Desi saw color return to her face.

  Of course! The real enemy wasn’t flesh and blood, not even this puffed up painting racketeer, but the fear that choked faith. The Almighty knew her situation, and He wanted these people stopped more than she did. She needed His guidance and protection. So did Tony, and he knew it. If they relied on the Lord together, they would be more than twice as strong. The Bible said they could put ten thousand to flight.

  Well, all righty then.

  Desi got down on her knees on the chill tile floor, just as she had been in front of the toilet a few minutes ago. But this time she humbled herself before the throne of grace.

  “I haven’t responded to the e-mail yet.” Desi stood by a pay phone in a mall several miles from the HJ Securities offices. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to another and scanned the busy area for watchers. For all the attention paid to the nondescript middle-aged woman on the telephone, she might as well be invisible.

  “Good girl,” Tony said. “Can’t hurt to keep the guy guessing for a while. So are you Myra today?”

  “Who?”

  “You know. Miss Frump in the tacky loafers.”

  Desi laughed a little longer than necessary “You think of her as Myra? Sounds right. I’m getting rather fond of the woman. No one gives her a second look.”

  “Not like the real deal under the disguise.”

  Desi’s skin flushed. I think I like your brand of compliments.

  “Back to business,” he said. “So this Chief wants you to deliver the merchandise in person? That’s a no-go. We agreed to keep you out of the handoff, and I’m holding you to that. You tell him you’ll hire the delivery to the location, but you have no intention of accompanying it or working for him.”

  “But what about that attachment? Max could have set a bomb in place already, just waiting for the signal to push the button. If I don’t cooperate—”

  “Take is easy, sweetheart. The FBI looks at these things seriously, but remember, it didn’t cost this guy much to put that little kaboom video in there, and the threat may be just as worthless—nothing more than a scare tactic. It’s pretty certain he won’t do anything until after seven o’clock, even if Max did plant an explosive device. I promise you I’ll have a bomb squad comb your building the moment we have suspects in custody tonight.”

  Desi scratched an itchy spot around the edge of her wig. “You sound pretty confident, Mr. Ag
ent Man.”

  “I’ve been praying.”

  “Me, too.”

  A mutual grin stretched across the telephone line.

  “Seven o’clock!” Her spine straightened. “I’m supposed to be at Max and Dean’s for movie night.”

  “Go. There’s the useful role you were looking for. You can keep an eye on Max. She can’t be detonating bombs or skipping the country while you’re looking at her.”

  “Good point. It’s a deal. How do you think Mr. Chief will react when I turn down his little invitation?”

  “I hope he gnashes his teeth and tears his hair out, but there’s not much else he can do. He doesn’t have anything on you like he did your dad. He can’t very well expose you for turning the paintings over without exposing himself and—”

  Desi interrupted. “He could still make Dad’s theft public and further damage HJ Securities’ reputation.”

  A beat of stillness. “Is that possibility enough to force your cooperation with this man?”

  “If a bomb threat doesn’t do the job? Not hardly In fact—” Desi took a deep breath—“the thought of losing the business doesn’t even raise a goose bump on my arm anymore. Life would go on. I would go on.”

  A gentle quiet fell, underscored by the conversation and laughter of passing shoppers. Scents from the food court got a rumble from Desi’s stomach. Miss Myra was going to have herself a nice lunch before sending Desiree Jacobs back to work.

  “I love you.”

  “Huh?” Desi jerked to attention. “I only half heard. I thought you said—”

  “Is that any way to respond to a declaration of undying devotion?”

  “Holy cow! You did say it?” How do I respond to that? I think I feel the same, but how do I know what I feel about anything with everything such a mess? When she told this guy she loved him, she wanted to know she wasn’t talking out of emotional overload.

  “I did say it, and I’ll keep on saying it as often as you need to hear it.”

  Oh, heavens! Desi’s legs went weak. “You’re going to make me cry, and I can’t do that right now.” She wrapped the phone cord around her finger. “If you’ll wait until this is over and my emotions aren’t such a jumble, I think you’ll hear me say the same thing back.”

  “I’ll count on it. For now, all you need to do is return to the office and reply to that e-mail, arrange for the crating and delivery of the goods, and then let me know the instant you have a firm destination. I’ll take care of the rest while you kick back with a bowl of popcorn.”

  “Crab dip.” Desi wrinkled her nose. “Max is making my favorite tonight. She’s a great friend, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, hon.”

  “I know, Me, too.” She shook herself. No pity parties now. “One last thing. Explain the terrorist connection to this group of art thieves.”

  A short tone sounded in Desi’s ear. “One minute remaining,” the phone company’s electronic voice warned. “Don’t you dare hang up, Tony Lucano, before I feed Ma Bell some more change.”

  A few ka-chings later. “Well?”

  “Who mentioned a terrorist connection?”

  “One of those retired agents your partner put on our trail.”

  Tony muttered something about somebody with a big mouth. “The Bureau has a conniption about letting this kind of thing out to the general public, but you’re in this so deep that I’m going to tell you anyway. The group your dad was involved in is something of an unusual animal. They operate much like a wholesaler might in a legitimate business, stockpiling goods and offering them in bulk to a bigger organization—the retailer, if you will—who sells the individual items at a substantial markup.”

  Desi’s heart squeezed. “And the bigger organization is al Qaeda?”

  “Woman, there are times when you’re too smart for your own good. You connect the dots way too fast.” Tony gave a dry chuckle. “The Bureau came to that conclusion when we discovered that the theft ring’s fence is a key operative for the terrorists. If we could get our hands on this guy, we could do some major damage to the flow of terrorist funds. The Chief Thief may be able to point us right to him.”

  Desi collapsed against the wall to keep from landing on the floor. “Al Qaeda killed Daddy?” Her voice came out a squeak.

  “No.” Slight pause. “Well, some in the JTTF think maybe so. I don’t agree.”

  “You don’t?” A little air trickled into Desi’s lungs.

  “Whoever hired the hit on your father wanted to shut him up fast, and they didn’t care whether the missing paintings were found or not. If terrorists had killed Hiram, his death wouldn’t have been so quick. They would have made him talk first.”

  “Which brings us back to Paul Dujardin.”

  “Yes, he seems the most likely candidate, but I’m struggling to get a clear picture of his function. As far as I can tell, his main purpose seems to have been to recruit Hiram for specialty jobs. The al Qaeda fence could have received orders for particular pieces, and Dujardin was a tool to gain your father’s expertise. The Frenchman’s connection to the theft ring doesn’t seem to be common knowledge among the members. It may be privy only to the Chief.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I have reason to believe that Dr. Sanderson Plate is the forger for the group, and he went out of his way to implicate Dujardin. A dumb move if he knew the Frenchman was involved, since the finger would double right back on him.”

  The hairs under Desiree’s wig prickled. Her mind blitzed through every experience she’d had at the Boston Public Museum of Arts and Antiquities. She was overlooking something vital, but for the life of her, she didn’t know what. And if she didn’t figure it out in time, would someone else die? Maybe even Tony?

  Her gut soured. She’d skip lunch today.

  Tony hung up the phone.

  Crane stood over him, shaking his head. “You let a whole herd of cats out of the bag, pard.” He scanned the room, narrow-eyed. “Good thing I’m the only one within earshot to hear you blab.”

  “I don’t regret a single word. Desi deserves to know the big picture. She’s earned at least that much.”

  Crane plopped into his desk chair. “So you’re going to do business with both her and me? You like to live dangerously, considering that she and I don’t even agree to disagree.”

  “I’m not asking you to work with each other, just with me. What do you have against her anyway? Now that you’ve read her father’s journal, you know she’s not in the theft ring. Is it just the fact that she’s female?”

  Crane’s lips thinned. Tony met his partner’s glare.

  The man looked away and flung a pen in the general direction of the holder on the desk. “Journal or not, she’s got to be in cahoots with someone. How could a complete innocent hold up under that threat level so long all by her little lonesome, huh?”

  Tony picked up the pen and put it where it belonged. “I’m not going to tell you what you already know about the way bitterness is eating you up on the inside. You heard my story about what a twisted woman did to me. But a good woman raised me. She’s been living proof that in certain ways God made the female tougher than the male any day of the week.”

  “And Desiree Jacobs twice on Sunday.” Crane’s lips twisted.

  “I’m going to ignore that cute remark, Stevo, and tell you something. For the sake of her father’s reputation and the lives of others depending on her, Desi stood firm against pressure that would have buckled most grown men. You want to argue that?”

  Crane frowned and held his peace.

  Tony nodded. “That said, if she ever acts so crazy again, I’ll personally hog-tie her and ship her to Timbuktu.”

  “Hah! I’d pay to see that. So where do we go from here, 007?”

  “What’s with the spook talk?”

  The man grinned. “You, me, and Miss Nerves of Steel will be hung out to dry—flapping in the wind, no less—minus backup if we can’t let another soul in the building know what we
’re up to. We have to grab the gang members who come for the paintings without alerting the rest of them.” He held up one finger. “Then we get to persuade the pickup guys to tell us who they work with.” Next finger. “After that, we round those dudes up, including El Jefe.” Third finger. “And—presto!—they are so intimidated by our awesome prowess that they betray the whereabouts of a top al Qaeda operative.” Fourth finger. “Then bingo! We go grab him and turn him over to who? MI6?”

  Tony clucked his tongue and shook his head. “As much fun as all that sounds, it’s better if we just figure out who’s shafting the Bureau. Then we can have all the backup we want—including MI6. In the meantime, keep your retired buddies in the field. I want one on Maxine Webb’s house tonight to watch over Desi.”

  “And make sure the Webb dame doesn’t do anything funky like try to slip away,” Crane said. “We’ve got enough trouble without another loose canon.”

  Here ya go, girl.”

  Desi looked up toward the cheerful voice and the scent of fresh coffee.

  Max stepped into her office, coffee in hand.

  Desi laid her pen down on the ledger the bookkeeper had brought her a half hour ago. The numbers made no sense. No doubt they were accurate, but she couldn’t string two thoughts together to say so. She pushed the printout aside and accepted the steaming mug.

  “Thank you.” She managed a grimace that masqueraded as a smile.

  Max canted her head. “One of those days, eh? I’d tell you to take a vacation, but I know you won’t. Dean and I will have to cheer you up tonight.” She winked and walked out.

  The unsolicited service was so Max. A smile started on Desi’s face, but she squashed it and returned to the Sanskrit on the spreadsheet.

  Her hand groped for and found the cup handle. She brought the mug to her lips, spluttered, and set it down. Coffee splashed onto the printout. Oh, happy day! She grabbed a few tissues from the box on the corner of her desk and dabbed at the mess.

  What was I thinking? I can’t drink this stuff! Ms. Traitor delivered it.

  She tossed the wet tissues into the garbage, picked up the mug with two fingers, and set it behind her on a filing cabinet. Never mind that her mouth watered for a few swallows and her brain could use the pick-me-up.