BRONZED BETRAYALS

by Ritter Ames

  Both Moran and Rollie held key spots on Jack’s and my personal top ten list of people we wanted incarcerated, so not giving anyone new ammunition was critical. I couldn’t risk being the cause of any inopportune deal-making.

  “Think of this as a character building exercise,” I told Jack, focusing on the matter at hand. Without asking directly, since it would just tick him off, I’d circuitously asked enough questions to know I was far more experienced in one of these cat burgling maneuvers than him. But saying this would just start an argument. I tried calming him instead. “You know I can do this, and I’ll be careful. So, smile and network, and I’ll be back in record time.”

  “Take no chances.” He cocked a dark eyebrow, but the grin remained fixed in place. Kind of like a grimace, but he was trying. When I thought about all the times I’d followed his lead or adjusted to one of his last-minute changes of plan, or got blindsided because he… No, I needed to get off this train of thought.

  “I promise to stick with the plan. It’s solid and workable. We’ve covered every minute detail.” I smiled up at him and rubbed his cheek.

  He caught my hand with his and nodded, then straightened and reached into the pocket of his handsome charcoal-colored jacket and withdrew his phone. Given the way the sound system pounded through my veins, I was surprised he could even feel the cell vibrate. He turned the screen my way, so I could read the text, then leaned down and pretended to nibble my ear as he said, “Cassie is in place. Take care.”

  I pretended to giggle and kissed his cheek, close enough to whisper, “Right. She’ll text you when she needs to be let in the club’s side door, and I’ll text when I’m ready to return so you can let me back inside. She’s carrying a burner for me to use.”

  Because too many unscrupulous people were suddenly interested in my whereabouts, Nico had used his techno-wizardry skills to the max on my personal phone, somehow working his magic to make any transmission from my smartphone appear to come from someplace halfway around the world. Despite that cloaking ability in regard to GPS, however, we didn’t want my cell number appearing on Jack’s mobile that evening, since I was supposed to be with him the whole time. Hence the need for the burner.

  A sudden cloud of Obsession perfume overpowered the other scents around us, reminding me of a recent bad experience. I backed up a half-step to pivot and head for the hallway to meet Cassie—and slammed into a blonde who suddenly zagged into my path.

  As I began apologizing, the blonde in the scarlet Vera Wang sheath laughed. Then she stopped and fought to get her long hair out of her face. Even under the club lighting, I could see the manufactured tan I knew stayed in place three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I stifled an oath as she sobered enough to recognize me. Melanie Weems, former museum director of The Browning, a small museum in Miami. Precisely the person bad memories of Obsession had already conjured. We’d been trying to find her since she hit Germany in January because she was tied to an art crime hood who’d been killed in Rome in one of our previous adventures. She also appeared entangled with another, bigger art criminal, Ermo Colle, who’d disappeared as solidly as she had. Now she’d snuck into the U.K. despite all of Jack’s safeguards. Another hole in the system to plug. Again.

  I reached to grab Jack’s arm and assumed as light a tone as I could manage when I shouted, “Look. It’s Melanie. What a surprise.”

  His eyes widened, and he leaned closer. “Unexpected…surprise.”

  “Oh, Jackie!” Melanie walked fingers up his wool covered bicep. Yes, they had history before Jack knew better. “Are you still slumming with Beacham?”

  “What—?” I choked.

  Jack cut me off with a small shove toward the hallway. Smart man. But Melanie grabbed my arm and pulled. I would have fallen off my high heels if Jack hadn’t caught hold of me at the waist.

  “Dammit, Melanie. Let go,” I cried.

  “I was stopping you from hitting me,” she shouted. The smell of alcohol competed with her perfume.

  “I was moving out of the way, not trying to hit you.” Why was I arguing with a drunk? I needed to get away.

  Then the bitch slapped me!

  “What the hell?” My right hand automatically moved back to strike, but Jack caught my wrist and held tight.

  “Dammit, Melanie, what was that for?” Jack asked. “Are you pissed or crazy?”

  Okay, I knew Jack meant drunk when he said pissed, but the American version of the phrase was rapidly applying to my current mood too.

  “Just letting you know you can’t get anything by me this time, Laurel Beacham,” she yelled, her nose millimeters from mine. “You’re such a liar, and I’m not putting up with it.”

  I hadn’t been Melanie’s favorite person since we were all in college, and the summer I successfully scored on a revenge plot to counter one of her nastier schemes, which cost a good professor his job. She claimed it was nothing more than a summer school prank, but it foretold the full range of her mean girl persona. Her comeuppance put me firmly in her crosshairs from that moment forward, and she never missed an opportunity to diminish me in public. The fact I was presently with Jack upped the ante, and she presented a definite risk to our plans that evening.

  I was feeling secondhand drunk from the alcohol fumes coming with her words. “Melanie, I think you’ve had enough booze for the evening. Maybe you should—”

  And she slapped me again!

  “You bitch! I’ll—” I couldn’t say anything more because Jack clamped a hand over my mouth and used his other arm to cinch me tighter around the waist, pulling me close against his body. “Laurel needs a little air. Right, love?” he said as he pushed us through the crowd and away from Melanie.

  That’s when I realized it looked like half the packed house was apparently following Melanie’s and my exchange. Wonderful. I wanted to stay lowkey tonight, so Cassie could double for me, and now I was center of attention. Not to mention my face hurt from the damned slaps.

  I pushed his hand away from my mouth, but he tightened his hold around my waist. Couldn’t really blame him. I wouldn’t have trusted me either. When we finally got into the hallway and away from the crowd he let go.

  “Keep her away from Cassie,” I warned. “Melanie could blow everything.”

  “I know, don’t worry. I’ll keep her occupied.”

  “How did she even get into the country without someone notifying us?” I fumed. “What’s the point of having a means of flagging miscreants if they can just waltz through border security like they have an engraved invitation?”

  “I’ll check,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders and holding my gaze. “But now, you need to center. Forget all of this and go meet Cassie for the quick change.”

  I nodded. “Got it. I’ll—” His lips met mine and my stomach gave a little flip-flop that tamped down the adrenaline I’d had surging just a few seconds before. I reached up and ran my fingers through the curls on the back of his head, and he pulled me closer and deepened the kiss.

  As our lips parted, he said, “You’re sure you don’t want to abort the plan? Things are kind of—”

  “Going sideways already. I know.” I smiled, leaned against his chest, and looked up as if whispering sweet nothings his way. “Tonight is our best bet, skeleton crew in the house with most of the servants off, and our only chance since they’re heading back to Russia next week. We’re heading for New York tomorrow, remember.”

  “If anything looks risky, get out of there.”

  “I will.” I patted his chest over his heart. “I promise to be careful. Besides, it’s going to be fine. Within a few minutes, I’ll be in my element.”

  “Your element…” He shook his head.

  I pulled his tie and leaned close again. “My assignment for the rest of the evening is much safer than yours. I’m not the one who has to keep Melanie occupied.” Smiling, I backed to the exte
rior door and blew him a kiss before I slipped into the brisk London night.

  Two

  By the time I made it into the coffeehouse two blocks away, Cassie was wearing a path in the tiles from pacing. We’d chosen the site because it offered a single occupant bathroom. My assistant slid out of the dark jacket and Lycra cat suit she wore and held out a hand for my dress. As I donned the all-black suit and soft soled ebony boots, she slipped on my Givenchy LBD and Louboutin red soled heels. She’d kept the loose hood of the jacket up when she’d arrived, covering the blonde wig that approximated my curly tousled ’do and hid her own blonde and pink spiked style. While I had a mirror I first pulled up the tight hood that doubled as a collar for the inky suit and tucked every curly blonde strand into total confinement. I couldn’t risk leaving DNA evidence. Once the looser jacket hood was pulled up too, it would lessen the cat burglar impression.

  “How do I look?” Cassie asked, fluffing the curls in her wig to get the style back in shape.

  “Terrific.” I pulled my lipstick from the gold-chain purse I carried that night and held it out to her.

  “Thanks, I’d forgotten. I do need to wear the same shade.” She traded the lipstick tube and tiny purse for the black backpack she’d hung on a hook by the door. “Everything you need is inside. Escape rope, black gloves, mini flashlight, sensors, and that electronic gizmo your wizard in Zürich messengered to you today.”

  That electronic gizmo was a magic little device that would open the safe for me. My source had to move heaven and earth to get the gadget constructed and delivered in time, for which his bank account was greatly rewarded. The night wouldn’t have a chance of success without the lovely apparatus. The backpack would also carry away the bust. The art piece wasn’t large, only about a foot tall, but it was heavy, and the black canvas pack would improve transport and concealment.

  “Thanks, Cass.” Then I told her about the Melanie debacle.

  “How did she get into the country without our knowing?” she cried.

  “Exactly what I asked Jack. I swear the only information that comes to him on flagged passports is mine whenever I try slipping out of the U.K. without him.” I pulled on the black gloves, then shrugged into the straps of the backpack. “But don’t worry. He’ll handle all care and feeding of the Melanie-monster at the party until I get back. And the place is absolutely packed. Just circulate constantly and stay free of any interference.”

  “What about the security cameras?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Won’t be a problem. They’re all ceiling mounted and wide angle. They won’t get a full shot of you unless you look directly into one of the cameras. Keep your face tilted down and stay in the crowd dancing and they’ll mostly get your hair. Not enough for facial recognition software. People will absolutely assume you’re me. And if Jack is ever free of Melanie, go do some close talking with him. That will make it look like he and I are talking too.”

  “Got it. College all over again,” she said, grinning as she pulled open the door.

  “No kidding.” At Cornell, we really had looked alike, with the same hairstyle, body type, and aquamarine eyes. The fact we were roommates made switching places even easier when one of us—usually me—was too hung over to attend a class that couldn’t be missed. Officially, she was my assistant and the restoration expert for the European arm of the foundation we worked for. However, our history and similar physical characteristics meant her talents went far beyond what was written into her official job description.

  We parted on the sidewalk, with her texting Jack that she was on her way and needed to be let in, and me heading to the Knightsbridge area and my assignation with a certain Rodin-designed head.

  I took several long, centering breaths as I set a jogging pace. It was time to get my emotions in check and push all anxiety into the back closet of my brain. The jacket helped a bit with the early March temps, and the movement soon warmed me. I took the circuitous route we’d determined as having me on-camera the least, and I made sure the black hood hid my profile as much as possible from CCTV. Sure, my outfit looked suspicious to anyone who peered closely at me on the sidewalk, but I hoped with the jacket and luck that the hood would be attributed to the chilly evening air and the Lycra leggings were confused in the dark with skinny jeans.

  My objective obviously wasn’t as famous as Rodin’s The Thinker, or as big either, but much like the Victor Hugo bust the sculptor completed in 1883, it was dear to the family of the subject and needed to be returned. I loved the idea of family art, kept available to the ones who shared the art and the stories of the work with the public. However, in cases like this one I had to admit it made more sense to let such works reside in secure locations like the Musée Rodin in Paris, as did the Hugo bust and The Thinker. So many private collections and small museums—sometimes large ones too—didn’t have the security required to protect easily transportable masterpieces from thieves. No one had yet figured out when this bust was stolen. Jack and the Home Office were just focused on getting it back before the bust left England for good.

  Oh well. It keeps my talents sharp, I thought, grinning. As I race-walked toward my destination, I tugged on the front of the suit’s collar so it covered my mouth and most of my nose, then I stretched the top edge of the Lycra hood so it almost reached my brow line. I probably should have brought a scarf to hide behind instead, but the maneuver was necessary to keep hidden from cameras en route and in the house. However, I did make sure to duck my head anytime I encountered another evening stroller along the way.

  Night air and exercise calmed my nerves. Within ten minutes I’d reached the tall wrought iron fence surrounding the house and made my way to the rear gate. I was loose and ready but took a second to scan my surroundings for unexpected traps. Nothing.

  Jack made sure the prep work was done when he’d still had hopes of pulling this off alone. I stayed low and in the shadows as I picked the lock on the gate. The hinges were well-oiled and noiseless as I eased it open and crept onto the grounds, keeping to the shrubs and trees until it came time to cross the garden. I raced up to the terrace that ran the width of the house and fell into a dark corner near the door.

  Lights filtered from the kitchen. I sighed in relief. The alarm system was zoned and wasn’t activated so long as anyone was up and active in the house, which is what we’d counted on tonight. Yes, it was risky breaking in when someone was on-duty and awake, but even one servant was enough to keep the system silent as I entered. I needed that edge. Overnight or when the house was empty, lasers babysat the halls leading to the next floor. None of this would help in leaving, however, as all the doors and windows below the third floor were highly sensitive to metal passing by the sensors, programmed to reduce the risk of armed entry and active twenty-four seven. Meaning if I tried to escape carrying the bust with that much metal, the bronze would trigger alarms, and I’d have the London Metropolitan Police on my tail. Planned departure was via the top story, rather than the ground floor.

  The service door had an electronic keycode, and I used a second handheld device to flirt with the lock and let myself in. As I slipped into the back hallway, I returned the device to the backpack and grabbed the first of the many ultrasonic alarms I left like electronic breadcrumbs along my route. Not so I could find my way back safely, but rather to alert me should anyone decide to follow in my footsteps. I poked the earbud in my left ear that would ding if a sensor was passed.

  Keeping to walls and shadows, I crept down the servants’ hall and ducked in time to avoid being seen by the couple talking and watching television in a lounge area. He wore sturdy gardening chinos and she was a maid. I heard pans in the kitchen, so there were at least three people inside. A little trickier, but doable.

  I homed in on the area I knew held the servants’ staircase. It was a closed box style with railings along the wall, so once I’d made it successfully up several risers I was invisible to anyon
e who wasn’t standing at the top or bottom of the stairs.

  No lights on the next floor, but before I moved into the open I used a dental mirror to surreptitiously check around the corner and make sure the hallway was empty as well as darkened. The way was clear. I also had night vision goggles in my pack but preferred to work without them if possible. It was too easy to be temporarily blinded if a light came on unexpectedly. I moved to the southwest corner of the floor, staying near the wall to reduce the risk of the floorboards giving me away to the occupants below. I knew better than to move too quickly, but I wasn’t dillydallying either. Any sound I made needed to mirror normal house settling—not footfalls. I took another couple of centering breaths when I felt my nerves working against me. After I passed the danger zone above the servants and finally made it to the oligarch’s office, I picked the lock and eased open the oak door. A second later I had the door relocked for insurance. It wouldn’t keep anyone out who came to investigate, as I assumed there was a master key in the house, but at least it would slow down discovery.

  The room was freshly cleaned, or it hadn’t been used since the maid was in earlier. I breathed in a heady mix of scents that included lemon oil, beeswax, fresh flowers and lots of leather and expensive furniture. The intricately carved antique mahogany desk alone was nearly the size of a New York apartment. A thick, patterned Moroccan rug laid over the wall-to-wall carpeting and not only cushioned my step with expensive ease, but gave me more assurance of soundless movement. Box flats leaned against the window wall, in preparation for their departure later in the week. I didn’t envy the crew who packed up this place. Oversized and solid seemed to be the bywords in what few furnishings I’d seen in my short travels through the house.