by Kim Foster
“Cat?” said a woman’s voice.
“Yes,” I said, slightly out of breath.
“Hi, Cat. This is Nicole. Do you remember me, from the figure drawing class?”
I was stunned for a moment, then found my voice. “Oh, um, yes, of course.”
“You asked me to let you know if any good art classes were coming up, and I just heard about a lithograph workshop that sounds great. So this is me, letting you know. . . .”
There was no way I asked her to do any such thing.
Oh, wait—maybe I did. In my haste to get out of that awkward little scene with Jack I might have said something along those lines. What the hell was I thinking? Of all the people in the world to befriend, the least appropriate was the FBI agent sleeping with my ex-boyfriend. No matter how pleasant she may or may not have been.
“Oh. Well, that sounds nice.” I frowned and pinched the area between my eyebrows. I had to end this conversation.
“It’s this Sunday. Are you interested?”
“I’m not sure. I’m going to have to check. . . .” I rustled some random papers on the counter, pretending to fumble through a calendar.
“Ooh, no, wait,” I said, giving my voice a disappointed tenor. “I’ve got”—brief pause for frantic scanning through mind for suitable excuse—“an appointment that day with my ob-gyn.”
A brief silence followed. “On a Sunday?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. I started fanning my face with one of those pieces of paper, suddenly feeling hot. “He’s, um, very accommodating.”
“Oh. Okay, well, maybe some other time.” I could tell from her tone that she wasn’t buying the ob-gyn story. She thought I was brushing her off.
Inexplicably, I started feeling badly about my pathetic lie. So I began overcompensating. “Yes. Absolutely,” I said emphatically. “Let’s do it.”
She paused and then said, “I hope—was it okay that I called you?”
“Yes!” I said, with an excess of cheer. “Absolutely! Honestly, I just can’t make it that day. He’s a very popular gynecologist. Impossible to get an appointment with him. He’s very good. A genius at Pap smears . . .” Okay stop, Cat, for God’s sake.
“Okay, well, I’ll call you again sometime then. If I hear of anything interesting.”
“Yes, please do.”
Pathetic. Seriously pathetic. After I hung up, I rolled my eyes and flopped down in an armchair. Memo to self: Must develop a decent strategy for dealing with unwanted acts of kindness from people with the ability to ruin my life. Or, just let voice mail take the call.
Then, as I was sitting there, a nasty little doubt slithered into my consciousness, curled up, and made itself at home. Was that all that was? An act of kindness? Or—perhaps there was something more behind it. Why would Nicole make the effort to call me? Was there another reason? My throat constricted. Did she know something about me? Did she suspect me? Did Jack tell her who I was? Shit. Now, what was I going to do about that?
Chapter 10
Jack shifted and did his best to ignore the burning, cramping muscles in his shoulders and back. Stakeouts were rarely what you could call comfortable and this one was no exception. He and Wesley were crouched in a small copse of dogwood bushes with their binoculars trained on a suburban house several yards away. Wesley’s Ducati motorcycle was concealed behind a nearby stone wall.
Thunder rumbled softly in the distance and heavy clouds brewed overhead. Rain was common on the West Coast, of course, but thunderstorms were peculiar. It left Jack feeling ill at ease. He hoped they didn’t have much longer to wait; he was not interested in being struck by lightning.
The house they were staking out was ordinary, one you would barely notice driving by: plain white siding, double-car garage, a tidy flower bed in the front yard. But Jack knew who lived here, and they were anything but ordinary. The Gorlovich family—or so they called themselves now—had chosen a house that was the opposite of the high-profile restaurants, hotels, and casinos they owned.
Jack stretched his neck, inclining to either side, then refocused his binoculars. From their vantage point they could see both the front and rear entrances of the Gorlovich house.
“You sure this is going to work?” he asked Wesley, his voice on edge. Although he wanted the stakeout to end, he wasn’t particularly eager to do what they were about to. Breaking and entering was uncomfortable territory that chafed with his nature. On the other hand, he knew that the information they needed, about the location of the Fabergé, was in there somewhere.
“Trust me,” Wesley said. “They’ll be leaving the house any time now for a business meeting in town. After that the house will be virtually empty except for the housekeeper. It’s our best bet.”
Jack scowled. “Remind me why this has to be covert? Couldn’t we just approach Gorlovich directly? Surely he’s unaware of the full truth about what he’s got in his possession. If we explained it, let him in on the full story, maybe we could strike a deal with him.”
Wesley shook his head. “Tried that twelve years ago. It didn’t fly. That was the last time the Egg disappeared and it’s taken us this long to locate it again. We’re not taking that risk again.”
Jack clenched his jaw. Fine. They would wait.
At that moment a yellow taxi pulled up to the front drive. Jack stiffened, sharpening the focus on his binoculars. Two men climbed from the rear seats of the cab. Jack’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of them.
“Well, what do we have here?” Wesley said, staring through his binoculars.
Jack’s thoughts exactly. These two did not appear to be men so much as small brown sparrows—their monks’ habits grazed the ground as they stepped from the car and walked up to the front door. Jack squinted to make out their faces.
He flicked a glance at Wesley. “Any idea what this is all about?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Jack continued frowning through his binoculars. He didn’t recognize them. One was tall, with shoulders that sloped away from his neck like playground slides. The other, much shorter man, had dark, Latin coloring. Whoever they were, they didn’t look comfortable. It was a cool day, yet they were both sweating profusely. The tall one peered behind him, twice, as they shuffled toward the front door.
“Think they’re actually monks?” Wesley whispered. “Or is it a disguise?”
Jack squinted. “No idea.”
The monks arrived at the front door and stood beside the geranium planters. Jack watched keenly, leaning forward. The arrival of these two men was important, he could feel it. But what did it mean? The taller monk reached out and rang the doorbell. Jack’s breathing was loud in his ears. Several seconds passed. Then, the door opened and the monks disappeared inside.
“Looks like they were expected,” Wesley observed.
Jack nodded, thinking furiously.
“Well,” Wesley said, rubbing his face, “if they really are monks, I suppose it wouldn’t be a huge surprise if the church was involved.”
Jack scowled. “But why now?” After all this time, after denying the existence of the Gifts again and again, why would the church only now be concerning themselves with it?
“Okay,” Wesley said, “if they’re in disguise, who are they? You think maybe they’re Caliga?”
“How should I know that?” Jack snapped. “I thought you guys were all over this—I thought your team had done all the intel.”
“Hey, you’re the cop,” Wesley said venomously, his eyes flashing. “Aren’t you supposed to be familiar with the members of organized crime rings?”
Jack pushed his jaw forward but said nothing. Squabbles were not going to help them now.
“I’ll see if I can find anything out,” Wesley said. He pulled out his iPhone and began sending messages, while Jack kept an eye on the house. An hour passed, which felt like several to Jack. Background checks and cross-references on two monks came up blank.
And then, the monks emerged. As they did, another taxi drove up to t
he door, ready to receive them.
“Do we follow them?” Wesley whispered urgently.
“I don’t know—”
This was an important lead. They needed to know who these two were; if they let them go now they might never find out. Following them would be the best way to do that. The monks were folding up the hems of their habits, climbing into the cab. Jack clenched his fists, trying to decide.
Then he heard Wesley say, “Oh shit.”
Jack whipped his head around to stare at the house, where Wesley was looking. Gorlovich and entourage were exiting out the back door. Jack closed his eyes and looked down. Their hand was being forced.
Jack snapped his head up. “You follow the monks,” he said to Wesley. “I’ll do the house.”
“No way. You can’t break in alone.”
“Yeah, I can. And you’ll be able to follow that taxi on your Ducati. It’s the only way this can work.”
Wesley stared at him for a second, eyes narrowed. “You sure you can handle this?” he asked.
Jack nodded. He glanced back at the taxi—one monk was in, the other just climbing in the other side. Wesley hadn’t moved, was still looking at Jack doubtfully. “Do I need to remind you who my father was again?” Jack asked.
“I thought you disowned him.”
“Not before he taught me some things,” Jack said grimly. This statement, this confession, felt like something he’d ripped from the roots, cleaved from his bones.
Wesley hesitated one more heartbeat, then said, “Okay. You’re going to need this.” He slapped a small kit of tools in Jack’s hand, then disappeared from the bushes, sliding backward to his motorbike. Jack watched as the taxi’s passenger door closed, the brake lights went off, and the car pulled away. A few seconds later, Wesley’s motorbike slid like a shadow, quietly purring, following the route of the cab. Jack returned his gaze to the house. His mark. He tucked the kit of tools inside his jacket, his mouth tight. It was time to do it.
Jack’s feelings about theft were complicated, to say the least. Growing up, he had thought he’d known what his father did for a living. He’d always been told that his father had his own security company. That was the reason why he was out of town on “business” so often. When Jack was about seven years old, his father started taking him places: grand houses, museums, jewelry shops. His father needed help with the business, he’d said.
Those were the times, Jack realized later, that John Robie was using Jack as part of his cover while he did recon. A man was less suspicious when he was with his young son.
Then there were the times Jack’s father asked him to sneak into the back rooms, the security offices—Jack was small, he could do it—and check out the systems, take photos and report back to him. Jack had been thrilled to help his father. He felt special, useful. His father’s pride and esteem was like an energy source for Jack, illuminating him like a lightbulb. He wanted to grow up to be exactly like his dad.
Jack’s first awareness of the concept of stealing wouldn’t happen until he was a few years older, when their house was the target of a break-in. Jack’s most precious possession—his mother’s locket—was one of the stolen items.
Jack’s memories of his mother had been slowly dissolving like soap bubbles in a kitchen sink. He’d been five when she’d died. The locket was the only real part of her he had left. When it was taken from him, he discovered rage for the first time. Stealing became an unspeakable crime to him.
But it wasn’t until Jack was twelve that he learned of his father’s true vocation. It happened because Jack got in a fight at school, after Billy Millar said that Jack’s father was a thief. The boy had brayed in front of everyone that John Robie had been arrested, just that weekend. As far as Jack knew, his father had been called away on a last-minute business trip, and that was the reason for his absence the past two nights. At least that’s what his stepmother had told him.
Jack fought Billy Millar, then, defending his father. Unfortunately Billy was further along the pubertal scale and Jack’s thin shoulders and fine fists, however impassioned, were no match for Billy’s androgen-spiked musculature.
When his dad came home later that day, Jack, through swollen eyelids and bloody lips, had confronted him. Jack’s father had sat down on his favorite orange armchair and rubbed his temples. Yes, it was true. He’d just been released on bail that afternoon.
“What are you saying—you’re actually a criminal, Dad?” Jack had demanded, his face contorted with disbelief and betrayal.
At this, Jack’s dad had laughed. “Hate to tell you this, son, but so are you.”
Jack had wanted to tear his own skin off when he put it all together, when he realized how he’d been used.
Jack would later discover the full extent of his father’s renown. In the thieving world, Jack’s father truly was a legend. It’s said that the old Hitchcock film To Catch a Thief, the one with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly, was based on John Robie’s life.
John Robie got off that time on a technicality and the family shortly left town, moving overseas. The distance, the fresh start, wouldn’t be enough for Jack to surmount his shame and anger. He spent the next several years wrestling with that burden of guilt and trying to atone for it. Which he did, mostly, in the end, by becoming an FBI agent.
There were a few things, of course, that Jack’s father had taught him at a young age, during the time when Jack was too young to know what he was doing. One of those things was how to pick a lock.
It was something Jack had never managed to scrub from his brain.
Jack slipped along the side lawn of the Gorlovich house. He reached the side door, tucking himself into the shadows of the porch nice and tight. He glanced at the lock, sizing it up. He unfolded Wesley’s kit and swiftly selected the tools he’d need. He began working at the lock, gritting his teeth the whole time.
Chapter 11
Under my umbrella, I climbed the rain-slick steps of an old stone building at the heart of University of Washington’s campus. The sky was black and thick and the heavy air was laden with the scent of moss and wet leaves. Students in woolly scarves were hurrying by, heads bent down inside their hoods. Once inside I shook the chilly drops from my umbrella and squelched down the dark stone hall to Professor Atworthy’s office. I was here to pick up my Les Misérables paper.
After hanging up the phone with Nicole yesterday, and agonizing over what to do, I’d called Templeton. His response to my concern was brief and dismissive. As far as he knew there was no warrant out for me in Nicole’s department and no intel suggesting she was on to me. However, he said he would put someone on it to confirm. He also told me to not worry but to stay out of it.
Which had made me feel better. Sort of.
I pushed open the heavy oak door to my professor’s office and pulled my brain around to the task at hand. Atworthy, as my academic advisor, had told me he was concerned about me. This probably had something to do with the fact that I’d turned in every assignment late and my attendance at tutorials had been patchy to say the least. So he’d been all over me, more than usual, and had stated that every major paper or assignment must be accompanied by a discussion.
I admit my academic performance had been lacking lately. Overall, I was a pretty average student. Nothing special. I wasn’t an embarrassment, but I didn’t particularly shine—not like I do in my other life, I thought reflexively.
“Hi, Barbara,” I said to Atworthy’s secretary as I entered the office.
“Oh hi, Cat,” Barbara said, looking up from her desk. She was in her midfifties, with a round, blond bob, red plastic-framed glasses, and extremely thin lips. She smelled like hairspray and had an amazing memory for names. “He’s not here at the moment,” Barbara said, “but I’m expecting him back soon. You don’t mind waiting, do you? Just go on in.”
“Any idea how long he’ll be?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t be long, maybe ten minutes.”
I opened the inner door with a creak a
nd entered his private office. Every bit of wall space, and a great deal of floor space, was crammed with books. A tiny little window allowed a thin shaft of light into the dusty space. I took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the old leather that bound the books. The tension in my shoulders released. There was something very comforting about this academic shrine.
Jack had once asked me why I persisted in pursuing an academic life when I didn’t need to. It wasn’t easy to juggle the two, so why did I do it?
The truth? It was my backup plan. One day I would leave my life as a thief. And when that day came, I planned to retire to a leafy college town, teach French literature and live a quiet, poetry-filled existence.
But that couldn’t happen just yet. Not until I’d made amends for my past.
As I took a seat in my professor’s office, I contemplated that far-off future. I imagined my nice, safe life. My sensible life. It was a good plan. But . . . I found myself feeling empty, somehow, at the idea of a life without thievery.
After waiting seven minutes, and playing several rounds of Sudoku on my iPhone, I grew excruciatingly impatient. I couldn’t stand the suspense. At the very least, I wanted to know my grade on this paper.
I sat, arms crossed, for another minute, jostling my foot, then abruptly slid out of my chair. No more waiting. I maneuvered around to the other side of the desk and slithered into Atworthy’s chair. My paper had to be around here somewhere, close at hand. I was sure I could find it quickly.
I foraged and rustled, peeking under stacks of files and books. I tried to think back to previous meetings. Did he keep them in the file cabinet? His out-box? No, that wasn’t right. My skin began to prickle—this was taking longer than it should. Messing about in my professor’s desk would be hard to explain.
And then I remembered. He always reached in this drawer to get marked papers that needed to be discussed. . . . I opened the left-hand desk drawer.
So here was the good news. My paper, indeed, was in here. And on the top page was a B plus scrawled in red ink. Okay, a pretty good grade, about what I usually got. Nothing spectacular. Now here was the bad. When I withdrew my paper, there was a Smith & Wesson Model 945 lying underneath. A .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol.
