by Kim Foster
Outside, water was also streaming down the windows. It was a vintage Seattle autumn morning, gray and drizzly. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet. Jack gazed at his million-dollar view of the harbor. The streetlights still glowed with hazy halos, pushing valiantly against the gloom. The view from the penthouse was always spectacular, just a little less so on a day like today.
It was odd; this was a fact that almost made him feel better. A little less guilty. He knew he should get rid of the penthouse. His conscience dictated it. Of course there was no real external pressure. Nobody knew where his father’s money had come from—nobody in his circle of friends and colleagues, anyway. Still, he was a hypocrite. And he knew it.
Jack glanced at the clock again. He jiggled his knee and snapped the page of the newspaper he wasn’t really reading. Nicole didn’t usually take such long showers, he thought, with irritation. On this particular morning, he needed to get her out of his apartment. Wesley was scheduled to contact him with information first thing. He did not want Nicole around while he was dealing with this.
He could have lied, of course, but Jack was loathe to do this. He didn’t want to start on that path, spinning a web of tales. He was already guilty enough by omission. Everything would be fine if she would just go to work—the sooner the better.
At last, Nicole entered the breakfast room. Jack’s shoulders relaxed a little. Good. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Morning, sweetheart,” she said, smiling and squeezing his arm. Jack didn’t look up from his newspaper. She sat at the table, wearing a bathrobe. Her hair smelled freshly washed. Her hand was warm from the shower.
Jack slid a mug of coffee over to her. He had considered pouring it into a stainless steel commuter cup and hustling her out the door but changed his mind. It was just coffee, it wouldn’t take long. She never had breakfast upon first awakening, anyway.
Jack’s housekeeper bustled into the breakfast room. Evelyn was in her sixties, her gray hair in a short, tidy bob. She was five feet tall, with thick forearms from years of rolling pastry and peeling potatoes and scouring bathtub tile. “What can I get you two for breakfast? French toast, perhaps?”
“No thank you, Evelyn,” he said. “Just coffee this morning, I think. We should get going.” Jack smiled warmly at his housekeeper. Evelyn had been working for Jack for a long time. She was like family. In fact, in many ways she was the only family he had left.
“Actually,” Nicole said brightly, “breakfast sounds wonderful.”
Jack turned to her sharply, but quickly regained composure. Nicole flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “I called work—told them I’d be in late. I thought we could spend a little extra time together this morning. You said you weren’t going in until later, right?”
“Yes, but—” He tightened a fist under the table. “Okay, Evelyn ... looks like French toast it is.”
It will be fine. Evelyn was a quick cook. They could eat right away and then Nicole would go, surely.
The sounds of butter sizzling on the griddle and the smells of bacon frying soon drifted in from the kitchen.
“Jack, I was wondering,” Nicole said casually, sitting back and sipping her coffee. “Have you heard anything around town about a Fabergé Egg?”
Jack’s throat seized. How the hell did she know about the Fabergé? “I’m sorry, a what?” With a great deal of effort Jack kept his voice smooth and unconcerned.
“There’s scuttlebutt on the street, something about a long-lost Fabergé Egg. A potential target, possibly involving a jewel theft ring. I’m keeping tabs on a couple of people we suspect are wrapped up in this. Just checking if you’d heard anything.” She shrugged. “Let me know if you do.”
“Sure.” Jack turned the page of his paper. “Sounds like an interesting case. Keep me posted.”
They sat in silence for another minute. Then, as Jack downed the last of his coffee he heard footfalls in the corridor just outside the breakfast room. But it was someone with an entirely different gait than Evelyn. Jack’s hand went instantly to his side—no firearm—and he was halfway out of his chair when Wesley Smith strolled into his breakfast room. “Morning, Jack,” Wesley said with an impish smile.
“What the hell—how did you get in?” Jack demanded. His gaze flicked to Nicole, whose eyes were wide with alarm. Her hand was also on her hip, where her gun would be if she were wearing something other than a bathrobe. “It’s okay, I know him,” Jack said.
Wesley shrugged. “Have you looked outside? It’s brutal out there. Thought we could meet here instead of out there—much cozier.” He looked around and rubbed his hands together, warming them. “Nice place, Jack.”
Jack’s hand clamped around his coffee cup handle, but his face remained stony. Wesley flipped a kitchen chair backward and sat astride it. “Hey, sorry for the surprise,” he said comfortably. “I rang the bell. Nobody answered. And the door was ... unlocked.”
Jack ground his molars together. Unlocked, my ass.
“So you’re a friend of Jack’s?” Nicole asked, sipping her coffee, relaxed again.
This was exactly the sort of thing Jack had been hoping to avoid. How was he going to explain Wesley? Couldn’t be a work colleague. Nicole knew everyone Jack worked with, a problem with working in the same office.
“I’m Jack’s accountant,” Wesley said, smooth as butter. “We’ve got some income tax issues to review.”
Not bad, Jack thought. But dammit, now he was going to have to remember that. He didn’t like keeping secrets.
Unbidden, Cat flashed into Jack’s brain. This must have been how she felt when they were together, Jack thought. His stomach tightened in empathy. It must have been difficult, always keeping secrets. It’s not that Jack hadn’t known about her line of work, but he’d always made it clear that he didn’t want to know the details of her jobs. He’d never considered how Cat must have felt keeping things from him.
“Listen, we should go—” Jack began, moving toward the door.
Just then, Evelyn walked in with a tray laden with French toast, warmed syrup, bacon, and orange juice.
“Oh, why don’t you stay for breakfast, Wesley?” Nicole asked, smiling kindly. “Do you like French toast?”
“As a matter of fact I love French toast,” Wesley said, turning his chair around without hesitation and grinning at Jack over the coffee pot. Jack sat down again.
While they ate, Nicole and Wesley chatted about the traffic and the weather and the dismal performance of the Seahawks. Jack chewed his breakfast in silence. This was partly out of anger and irritation but mostly because he was afraid of saying something wrong, tripping himself up.
Then Wesley asked directions to the bathroom. As Jack watched him disappear down the hallway his skin crawled. The last thing he wanted was Wesley Smith wandering around unaccompanied throughout his apartment. But what could he possibly say to stop him? He glanced at Nicole, who was finishing her last few bites of French toast, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.
Just then, Nicole’s phone made bleating sounds. She looked up sharply and reached for it. “Jack—do you mind if I take this? It’s a video Skype call I’ve been expecting from an informant.” Her coloring was high; Jack could tell she was excited about the call.
“Of course,” Jack said, smiling. “Go ahead.” Maybe this meant she’d want to leave and get back to work right away, he thought, slurping his coffee happily.
She touched the screen of her iPhone and pulled up the video feed. Jack couldn’t help glancing at the image. Brooke Sinclair’s face came into focus.
Jack’s coffee suddenly tasted bitter. He knew all about Brooke. And he certainly knew about the long-standing rivalry between Brooke and Cat.
Brooke Sinclair was a piece of work. The fact that she was now an informant was laughable to Jack. Typically, he was a fan of criminals going over to the right side of the law and helping out the FBI. In Brooke’s case, he had the distinct impression she was doing it for all the wrong reasons.
&n
bsp; As Brooke began to speak on the video call, Jack stood up to retrieve more sugar from the cupboard. Of course he could hear her every word.
“Hello, Nicole. I thought you might be interested in a potential burglary I heard about. It’s planned for tonight on the Washington Dinner Train.”
Nicole frowned. “Who’s doing it?”
“You know that thief who did the Moonstruck job? Word on the street, same thief.”
Nicole sat up straighter and started talking very excitedly, pressing Brooke for more information.
An uncomfortable churning centered in Jack’s stomach. The Moonstruck had been Cat’s job. But only he knew that.
The call lasted only a few seconds more. Brooke had very few additional details. After Nicole hung up, Jack said, “Well, that sounds like a good lead. Who’s this thief she was talking about?” He tried hard to keep his tone casual.
“Someone we’ve been trying to track down for quite some time.” Nicole’s hands were moving with animation over her breakfast plate. “A jewel thief who’s very active in the city.”
Jack’s discomfort mushroomed larger as he sat down at the table again and forced himself to eat. “Oh? Got a name? A photo?”
Nicole’s eyebrows stitched together. “No, unfortunately. But we will—soon.”
Jack nodded. He replaced his fork carefully on his plate.
The Dinner Train theft had to be Cat’s job. He was certain Brooke knew it, too. She just wasn’t providing that key piece of information, for some reason.
But—and here was the sticking point—what was he going to do about this? The logical side of him insisted he stay far, far out of it. But the side that wasn’t so concerned with self-preservation, the emotional side ... well, it had other ideas. Jack stood again and strolled to the window. He kept his face turned from Nicole. Rain streamed down the plate glass. Jack stared through it and rubbed his face angrily. He did not enjoy this, this squeezing sensation, with the distinct flavor of a rock and a hard place.
Cat could be in real trouble here. And that fact fired up all his protective urges. But he was already risking so much, stepping over the line for this Fabergé Egg. How much further could he go, before he completely lost sight of who he really was?
Chapter 20
The elevator doors slid open and I walked through to the observation deck of the Space Needle. I looked around; I was supposed to be meeting my mother there. It was the day after the York Security job with Ethan, a blustery, windy day under a steel gray sky, and I could feel the Space Needle rocking slightly under my feet. The restaurant was in the throes of brunch. I could smell omelettes and frying potatoes and grilled seafood.
My mother had said she needed to talk to me about something important. She’d be here at a private charity function and had asked me to meet her. I reluctantly agreed, though I had a lot of planning to do for the Fabergé job. On top of that, the Dinner Train job was tonight. But she said it would only take a minute. And she sounded ... odd, on the phone.
I spotted my mother next to a coin-operated telescope, waving to me. My line of vision slid to her left and I froze. I shot her an accusing look. Standing beside her was my father. He hadn’t seen me yet. He was gazing out the window and he looked tired. I bit my lip. I hadn’t spoken to my dad since the evening at the yacht club—he’d refused to take my calls.
He turned then, and when he spotted me his eyes widened. He speared my mother with much the same look that I just did. Clearly, we’d been set up. When I walked over to them my mother blurted out quickly, “Listen, you two, I’m sorry I had to trick you like this. But it was the only way. You have to talk.”
She slid away and melted into the background. Which was a first for my mother I was pretty sure. I smiled at my dad, trying to stay hopeful. I hoped I could find the right words. I had to make him understand. After strained small talk, he looked down.
“Listen, Cat,” he said. “I’m really struggling, trying to understand all this.”
“I know,” I said softly. I noticed how much gray there was in his hair—when did that happen? It’s a strange thing to see your parents aging. For a long time they just look the same, nothing is changing. And then one day you look at them, standing with you at the bank or the grocery store, and you notice the lines in their faces, an age spot on their left cheek, a more pronounced curve of the spine and the shoulder.
He looked me in the eye. “I just can’t believe this is the only choice available to you. What about your studies? I thought you loved French literature.” His tone was not accusing; he sounded more bewildered than anything.
“I do. But I’ve got a lot more school ahead of me. Finishing my masters, then doing my PhD. Lots of students have part-time jobs, you know—”
“So this is about money?” he said abruptly, grasping at this. “This thing you do is because you’re short on cash?”
I shrugged. “Well, partly, I suppose.”
“Cat, honey, you’ve got to know that I can lend you money if you’re having trouble.”
My heart twinged at the term honey. Honey. He hadn’t written me off completely. “It’s not money I want, Dad,” I said. “I don’t do it just for the money. I’m actually good at this,” I added quietly.
And I do it for Penny, I wanted to say. She wanted me to do it. I wished I could explain this to him. But telling him would mean admitting that it was my fault she died. And I couldn’t do that.
He turned his face to the window. The skyline of Seattle was etched in dull gray. “Okay, then let me help you in another way.” He paused. There was a spark in his eyes, suddenly. “I could line up a job interview for you at my firm.”
I blinked. This was not what I was expecting. Before he retired my dad had been a certified public accountant at a large accounting firm. As much as I loved my father, I had always hated the idea of following in those particular footsteps. I twisted the end of my sleeve. “Oh, Dad, I don’t know....”
“Just hear me out.” He held up a hand. He was speaking quickly now. “You could try it out, entry-level of course. But then, if you liked it, you could take the courses, the exam, get your CPA license.” There was a glimmer of hope in his face as he made this pitch.
I said nothing for a moment, chewing the inside of my cheek. I was trying to keep the revulsion from showing on my face. “Dad, I really don’t think I’m the accountant type—”
“How do you know if you don’t give it a chance?” He shrugged and smiled. “Please, Cat. I want to help you find a ... legitimate lifestyle. Okay?”
A legitimate lifestyle. As an accountant. I was swept up in visions of sensible shoes and bad perms. And a life that added up to utter insignificance. I shuddered. “Dad, I really don’t—”
“Just do it for me, please? Just try?”
I just couldn’t turn him down. How could I crush his hope without even trying? I sighed. “Okay. I’ll give it a try. I’ll go to the interview.”
I can’t fully explain why I agreed to this. But seeing his relieved, hopeful look confirmed that I’d done the right thing. For the time being. He leaned over and wrapped me in a hug—big and strong and warm. He smelled of soap and Old Spice, as he always had. We didn’t hug often anymore. I noticed his shoulders felt slightly bonier than I remembered them.
I descended the elevator, leaving him happily imagining a nice, safe future for his daughter, I was sure. Which left me with a large fist of guilt in my stomach.
But it was a first step. I’d have to figure the rest out later.
Several hours later I was skulking about on a train platform, slipping in and out of shadows and clouds of steam, dressed entirely in black. The air echoed with announcements of train departures and sharp whistles from conductors. Metal clanged as trains rolled into the station. Every inch of my skin tingled. I felt exhilarated. Alive.
I was sneaking onto the train because I didn’t want to be a registered guest—I didn’t plan to stick around once I stole the necklace. The last thing I wanted
to be was the girl who ordered the crème brûlée for dessert but never returned from the restroom to eat it. I didn’t need anyone worrying about where the missing guest had gone and raising an alarm prematurely.
I was pleased with myself and the new skill I’d tried out—the Varma Kalai trigger point from the security conference worked like a charm to take out an overzealous security guard and render him unconscious. He was sleeping soundly in a storage cupboard.
But even as I worked, creeping along the platform, I couldn’t help a small tug of guilt. If my father could see me now—well, it would devastate him. But I had to put that out of my mind. Lapses of concentration could be very dangerous for a thief. Besides—why should I have felt badly? This was what I did best. It was who I was.
I was tucked in close to the body of the train, to attract a minimum of attention. I could feel the heat from the engine. With ninja stealth, I dissolved into the shadows of the train and the steam. I slipped between cars and slithered onboard through the emergency door.
I stole into the restroom and changed into the cocktail outfit I had tucked in my pack: sheer black blouse, bias-cut silk skirt, pashmina, black patent sling back shoes. As I was changing in the tiny restroom, I felt the train jostle and pull away from the station with a faint squeal of wheels. I glanced out the window. The shadows and flickering lights of the city slid by. I made my way to the club car and ordered a dirty martini. Next phase: some light mingling, being careful to not have any memorable conversations. Mostly I was assessing the staff, appraising their degrees of alertness. I was also determining how often they entered the baggage car—because that was my target.
Being an old-fashioned steam engine, it had been built with a train’s safe in the mail car for packages and valuables. When the train was revamped, the mail car became a baggage area and cloakroom. They kept the safe. After a little updating of the locking mechanism, they were all set to provide a tidy little service to their customers. Or so they’d thought.
In the club car, sipping my martini, I was waiting for just the right chance. It would be when the staff was fully into their routine, lulled into complacency, when we were well away from the departure platform. Timing was everything here. This was a finesse job. As there was no high-tech security, per se, it was all about the art of burglary. Which meant that failure would be a major career error. I knew the AB&T board was expecting a stellar performance from me. I knew that Templeton was counting on me. But, more than that, I felt a bone-deep aching to prove to myself that I could do this.
