A Beautiful Heist

by Kim Foster

  But I wasn’t here to flirt. I was here to learn, to improve my skills. And then fly home to get on with more important things. Also, I needed to stay on top of my iPhone in hopes that Gladys would send me some good news about the York Security file on the casino.

  “Is this chair available?” Templeton asked.

  Ethan nodded. “Join me?”

  “She’d love to,” Templeton said, and pushed me down into the chair. I glanced at Templeton and he gave me a none-too-subtle wink.

  “Right,” Templeton said cheerfully, clapping his hands together. “Well, I’m going to leave you two kids to enjoy your champagne breakfast. Pip pip!”

  Which left me feeling like I was in junior high. An awkward silence ensued. I stole a glance at Ethan, who looked perfectly at ease as he poured me a glass of ice water. As I struggled for something clever to say next, a waiter came by with breakfast and mimosas, saving me from my exertions. Cutting into eggs Benedict suddenly became the most absorbing task I’d ever encountered.

  “Templeton’s quite a character, isn’t he?” Ethan said, just at the exact moment I inserted a large forkful of food into my mouth. All I could do was smile and nod. I glanced around, assessing the proximity of the other people in the room. The fact was, we were alone at our table and the room was vibrating with loud chatter. Nobody was paying us any attention. We were secure in our conversation.

  “He’s an excellent handler,” Ethan continued. “You’re lucky to have him.”

  I swallowed my food in a hard lump. It stuck in my chest. “Yes, definitely, I am,” I said. There was a pause. I sipped my mimosa. I hazarded a sidelong glance at him—Ethan Jones. . . . I swear, the name was familiar from somewhere.

  “So, Montgomery,” Ethan said with a devilish smile. He leaned toward me and I could smell his aftershave, a citrus-musk scent. He pitched his voice low. “I’ve got to tell you—lately I’ve been hearing a lot of fantastic things about someone in the jewel department at AB&T. Very talented, apparently. Great intuition. However, if I’d known she was going to be this cute, I think I would have found a way to meet her sooner.”

  My face got hot.

  Okay, pull it together here, Cat. I had to make some sort of conversation. “So, you’re in the art department, huh?” I said. “In Seattle?”

  “You got it.” He sprinkled salt on his eggs and began eating.

  “Done any work I’d know about?”

  “Did you hear about the Cézanne at the Seattle Art Museum?”

  I put down my fork. “That was you?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “That was a tough job.” I wondered if that was how I knew his name. Agency gossip perhaps?

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Tougher than the Camelot Diamond?”

  I blushed again. “Ah. You know about that one.”

  At that moment, someone stood at the podium and started introducing the opening speaker. The room bloomed with applause. Conversation ceased as we listened to the speaker’s heartwarming and inspirational speech about overcoming adversity—adversity in this situation being a highly skilled team of burglars. I paid rapt attention, making mental notes on where the team had gone wrong. After the applause ended people gathered their papers and folders and iPads and moved off to the first workshop.

  “So where are you headed?” Ethan asked me.

  I glanced at the agenda. “I was thinking about The Art and Science of Security Electronics.”

  “Hmm. Sounds interesting. Mind if I join you?”

  My insides kicked about like an epileptic who forgot to take her meds and I worked hard to suppress a smile. “Not at all.”

  In spite of being distracted by a pressing need to check for messages from Gladys, and the presence of the very fine man sitting to my left, I found the seminar to be brilliant. I gleaned some extremely useful pointers on the latest intruder-detecting sensors—weighing advantages of the various types and troubleshooting the potential glitches. Very interesting. Particularly the glitches part.

  At lunch I distracted myself by diving into the mouthwatering gorgonzola risotto. The strategy proved effective. As Mozart floated up from the string quartet in the corner of the ballroom I felt the tension in my shoulders turning warm and soupy. I turned to Ethan. “This conference is fabulous,” I said, breaking into a crusty French roll. “Why haven’t I gone to one of these before?”

  “Guess you’ve been invited up with the big boys now, Montgomery. You must be doing something right.”

  I smiled, but something he said had me thinking. Big boys, big boys . . . aha. That was it. I remembered where I’d seen Ethan Jones’s name: inscribed on a plaque at Agency headquarters. He was Elite.

  After lunch, we went separate ways. Ethan was going to a workshop specifically about art theft (the tragedy of) and I’d signed up for a master class on jewel theft (the modern scourge of). Before we parted he turned to me and said, “Going to the Varma Kalai seminar after this? It’s in the Advanced Skills for Security Guards: Subduing Intruders stream.”

  I nodded. Varma Kalai is an ancient Indian martial art that targets vital pressure points throughout the human body. Ethan asked me to save him a seat and schoolgirl-vintage butterflies flickered through my insides.

  The Varma Kalai workshop was entirely hands on, which was fabulous. I learned a nifty little trick involving a strike just below the occipital ridge with the marvelous effect of instant confusion and disorientation in your opponent. I was looking forward to trying it at the next possible opportunity.

  The final seminar for the day was titled Safes and Vaults: What’s New? I scanned the room. No Ethan. Good. I was glad. Who needed the distraction?

  But just as I was taking a seat, in walked Ethan. My pulse quickened and I felt a warm flush all over. I was officially in trouble.

  After the seminar we walked down to the chandelier-lit dining room and took our seats for dinner. I was irritated because I still had no message from Gladys. Why was she leaving me hanging? Holding my iPhone beneath the tablecloth, I tapped out a quick message to her: Any word? Two more people squeezed into our table, forcing everyone to jostle a little closer together. I became acutely aware of Ethan’s leg touching mine.

  I focused fiercely on my peppercorn rib eye.

  “The workshop on Infra-Red Security was excellent, didn’t you think?” asked a middle-aged man with a bulbous, flushed red nose and gentle eyes sitting on the other side of me.

  “Yes. Superb. Very informative,” I said, nodding. There was applause then, as the keynote speaker was introduced.

  In the hotel lounge, after all the speeches and acknowledgments were finished, Ethan and I were tucked away having a drink in a quiet corner. He took a sip of wine. “Mmm. Is there anything better than a great red wine?”

  I nodded, lifting my wineglass from the table.

  His lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Well, I suppose I can think of one other thing, possibly,” he said quietly. And left it at that. My hand wobbled as I raised my glass to my mouth.

  “So, Montgomery,” said Ethan, taking a sip of his pinot noir and pulling my attention back to him. “How did a nice girl like you get into this business?”

  I shrugged. “I just always had the knack, from a young age. You know, stealthy.”

  “Parents never knew you were there, could sneak up on them from anywhere?” he asked, with a knowing smile.

  “Exactly!”

  I told him the whole story, my version of the making of a crook. When I was finished Ethan was watching me with a thoughtful expression. “God, it must be easy for you to keep your cover. Nobody would suspect a young, gorgeous woman of being a thief.”

  Fortunately I didn’t have to produce a response to this because at that moment a waiter passed by, too close to us. We said nothing as he cleared away a nearby table and then moved off.

  “So, Montgomery . . . you married?” Ethan asked innocently.

  “That’s pretty impressive,” I said,
swallowing my wine and laughing. “Just right out with it. Not the type to ask me what my husband is doing while I’m at the conference? Something like that?”

  “Nope. Too cheesy.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “So?” he asked, waiting with eyebrow raised.

  “No. Not married,” I said.

  His smile broadened.

  The wine was making my legs feel a little tingly. And other parts, too. Unfortunately.

  “You know what’s nice?” I said, sloshing my wineglass a little. “It’s nice to hang out with someone who’s not judging me. I don’t have to worry that I’m acting too criminal, talking too much about various felonies and other off-limits topics, you know?”

  He sipped his wine. “Sounds like you’ve been involved with somebody on the other side, Montgomery.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve tried that,” he said, uncharacteristically solemn for a moment. “Waste of time.”

  I had a hard time coming up with an argument to this. In fact, he was making a lot of sense. Gladys and the York Security dilemma were a distant memory.

  “Well, Montgomery, you can be yourself with me. I’m not going to judge you. We’re the same, babe.”

  We sat in silence a few moments, drinking our wine.

  Then, a group of people from the security conference sat down at the table next to ours. One man nodded to us, recognizing us as fellow conference attendees. They continued chatting loudly about the day’s workshops, about the success of the conference.

  Which left us completely unable to continue our conversation. I became acutely reminded of where we were and who surrounded us. I shifted in my seat.

  I caught Ethan looking over at the table of security professionals, also. And I could see that his relaxed posture had changed to something much more guarded. Our nice little cocoon of criminal camaraderie was gone.

  “Listen, Montgomery,” said Ethan, leaning in close. I could smell his cologne—and a faint undertone of sweat and soap—that did very dangerous things to my insides. “Maybe we should relocate somewhere a little more . . . comfortable. I’ve got a bottle of wine in my room. Care to join me?”

  I took a long sip of my drink and swallowed. It seemed like a reasonable suggestion. But the last shred of rational thought in me said this would be a very bad idea. I knew exactly where it would lead. This guy was the kind who left a trail of shattered hearts. Which was the last thing I needed. Again.

  I knew myself. As much as I liked the idea of a one-night stand, I’d never been terribly good at it. I always got wrapped up and I always fell hard.

  “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” This is what the logical side of me—the winner of a major internal battle—managed to say.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, but that’s where we disagree.”

  I laughed lightly. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I—I had a bad breakup recently.”

  He smiled wickedly. “You know, I specialize in rebound. I can make you forget this guy.”

  Oh, God. Must . . . resist . . . temptation. . . .

  Think heartbreak, I told myself. Think crushing pain of rejection. Think insomnia, sitting at your kitchen table alone in the darkness with a pint of dulce de leche Häagen-Dazs and a spoon.

  “Sorry, Ethan, I don’t think so.”

  “I can’t change your mind?” he asked.

  I shook my head. We finished our drinks and, like a perfect gentleman, he walked me to my room. He made no further moves.

  Alone in bed, I stared at the ceiling. Ethan’s words echoed in my head. “We’re the same, babe.” And, truth be told, how could I deny that?

  Chapter 15

  Jack walked to his car, footsteps marking a lonely beat in the dim, deserted parking garage. His stomach rumbled and he readjusted his grip on the take-out bag from Maria’s Greek Taverna. The smells of roast lamb and tzatziki were getting to him.

  His pace was quick. He wanted to get home fast, eat, and do some serious thinking on this case. Things were not going well with the Aurora hunt. After breaking in to the Gorlovich mansion, Jack had not gleaned a lot of information.

  Apart from one small, but vital, fragment. He’d found a ledger entry that confirmed the receipt of an overseas delivery a few weeks ago. And the details of that delivery had curled a smile on Jack’s lips. A rank amateur must have been the one to make the entry, originally, because Jack could make out the words beneath harshly scribbled out pen marks: weight: 23 lbs 6 oz; make: Fabergé. For that matter, the supervisor who had scratched out the words must have been a rank amateur himself. Very sloppy, not destroying that record.

  But the trail was cold after that. He could find no further mention of this shipment in any ledger, file, or notebook. Where did they take it from there? There was no way to know. Could they possibly be keeping it in the house? No, Jack thought. They’d never leave it under such light security.

  But he didn’t get the chance to confirm this suspicion: before he could begin a search he was interrupted by the housekeeper. She’d screamed; he’d had to improvise an escape out the second-floor window. As he bolted from the scene Jack spat with anger at himself. Speaking of rank amateurs. How could he make such a mistake? Why hadn’t he heard her coming? Distracted by his find, he supposed. Not much of an excuse.

  Maybe he hadn’t learned quite so much from his father as he’d thought. Surprisingly, this idea bristled him.

  He’d stopped caring about those skills long ago. He did not want to be like his father. And yet—here he was, feeling shamefaced by his failure.

  Jack wove his way through the rows of stationary cars in the parking garage, the garlicky aromas from his take-out dinner prodding him onward. The garage was completely empty of signs of life. Parked cars stared at him with empty, unlit eyes as he squeezed through a narrow space between two vehicles.

  Jack heard a faint scrape on the concrete floor—a shifting foot—just beyond the car he was passing. That slight sound gave him a microsecond of warning to prime for the attack. But it wasn’t enough.

  A man with a balaclava mask and bare hands slammed into him. The impact of the tackle, coming at him from his left, knocked Jack to the ground just in front of the hood of a car. The blow winded him and he struggled for breath as he fought to lift himself off the ground.

  The attacker loomed over Jack and punched him in the face. Searing pain ricocheted through Jack’s skull and brain. He had to do something, had to get out of this. He blocked out the pain of the blows and focused all his energy into powering a great swing of his leg, kicking his assailant’s feet out from under him. The man went down and landed hard and Jack was on top of him in a second. Jack rained blows on the man’s chin, jaw, kidneys. He picked the man up and pressed his face against a concrete pole.

  “Who are you?” he hissed into the man’s ear. “Did somebody send you?”

  The guy blinked, didn’t flinch, didn’t cower, and was barely breaking a sweat. “Guess,” he said, voice flat as pavement.

  Jack didn’t have to. That degree of coldness, that degree of detachment—the man was Caliga. Jack realized too late that his grip on the man’s arm was awkwardly placed. The Caliga twisted and smashed his elbow into Jack’s throat and Jack’s grip loosened as he gasped for breath. The man turned and ran.

  Jack heaved for air and gave chase. The other man was two car-lengths away and sprinting through the grid-work of vehicles. Jack hurled himself over a hood foot first, sliding over it and crashing to the ground beyond. He came out of it running. His eyes clamped on his target and his pulse hammered in his ears. His own ragged breathing was the only sound that existed. But Jack was gaining.

  He tore between two tightly spaced cars and then his hip slammed into a side-view mirror. The impact knocked him back; searing pain fired through to the ganglia in his spine and black rain exploded in his field of vision.

  With a grunt Jack rebounded forward in pursuit once more. At that moment a silver Volvo squealed up to the Caliga and
the door swung open. The man dove in. The car peeled away.

  Jack glared after it with nostrils flaring, fury and frustration boiling inside him. No license plate. He spat blood-streaked saliva to the ground and roughly wiped his mouth with a rapidly swelling fist.

  He leaned against the hood of a black BMW and felt his heart rate decelerate. He became aware of aches and pains germinating in various joints and muscle groups. And then Jack smiled, just a little. That attack, seemingly pointless, was clearly meant to issue a warning.

  It was a good sign. It meant he was getting close.

  Chapter 16

  Notice and Demand for Payment

  Dear Miss Montgomery:

  This is a second notice. Please be reminded that you have 20 days to fully repay your debt. If you fail to do so, we will be filing a Notice of Federal Tax Lien. This is a notification of the claim we have on your personal assets and property. The Levy will take place following this, when we will seize your personal assets to satisfy payment.

  I crumpled the paper in my fist. This was the letter waiting for me when I returned home after the conference.

  Enough messing around. I had to get the Fabergé. On the flight, on the way home from the conference, I had finally received Gladys’s message. York Security was a no-go. She’d tried her best, beyond her best, and the information was simply not available online.

  At home I opened my cupboard to search for something to eat. A virtually empty jar of peanut butter and a can of chickpeas stared back at me.

  There was only one thing to do now about York Security. I’d have to physically break into their headquarters and retrieve the information the old-fashioned way. I chewed my thumbnail. I’d hoped to avoid that.

  I was going to need a plan and I couldn’t do it on an empty stomach. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my wallet and stalked to the 7-Eleven on Maple Street, a few blocks down.

  As I turned a corner I saw a black Audi parked across the street, next to a mailbox, and I recognized it right away. Jack’s car. My shoulders dropped. Not now. But it wasn’t Jack seated behind the wheel. It was Nicole. I immediately stepped back behind the edge of a garage.