The lumbering mastiff turned back once more, its attention on the smaller dogs squabbling over the remaining peanut butter and ever-more-shredded bag.
“You’re good to go, Andrew,” Happy’s voice said through the headset.
About time. Andrew wiped the residual peanut butter from his gloves onto his pants, punched in the code from the guard’s hand, and heard a click from the electronic dead bolt. The three embattled dogs looked up at Andrew. He gave them a little salute, backed into the house, and shut the door firmly but quietly.
“Sleeping pills better work,” he whispered to Happy. “I’m fresh out of peanut butter.”
“Will Mr. Belltower be joining us?” Fletcher asked, a bit concerned by the unknown whereabouts of the old man. Worst-case scenario, Belltower was wandering into the library now, catching Andrew in the act of cracking his safe. He didn’t want to think about what Andrew might do in that situation.
“He’s resting,” Faust said. “I will call for him when you’re ready to begin. Are we still waiting on your associate?”
Fletcher looked at his watch. “I’ll give him two more minutes and then I’ll have to begin without him.” The two men looked at each other in awkward silence for a moment.
“So,” Fletcher said, “what do you do for fun?”
CHAPTER 29
It took a moment for Andrew’s eyes to adjust to the dim light of the library. A few lamps shone on end tables around the room, revealing the swirling dust that Andrew’s every move kicked up. The smell of cedar filled the air, although Andrew could see nothing made of the stuff.
He had been hoping for darkness and had come equipped for it, but this would be fine, assuming Fletcher did his job and kept the home’s occupants well away from the library. He took three steps into the middle of the open room and came to a sudden stop.
Sitting on a leather couch, leafing through an old issue of The Wine Interlocutor, was William Belltower. He smiled up at Andrew.
“Are you new?” he asked.
Andrew looked down at his outfit—black long-sleeve T, black vest, black Dockers, purple faux snakeskin fanny pack—and said, “Yes. Just started today,” in a quiet voice.
“Are you a doctor?” the old man asked, pointing at the stethoscope wrapped around the waistband of the fanny pack.
“I dabble,” he said.
Belltower nodded. “My sons are both doctors.”
“Who are you talking to in there?” It was Happy’s voice in the headset.
“Mr. Belltower,” Andrew said, “it’s my first day, and I’m not supposed to be in here. Could you maybe not tell on me?”
Belltower raised his eyebrows and pushed a finger to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said.
Andrew forced a smile of gratitude. He hated that this confused old man was involved. Real grifters didn’t target the old and senile.
“William!” The voice came from the front of the house. “We need you up here. Time to look at the paintings.”
“I have to go,” Belltower said to Andrew. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise.” When he was alone, Andrew let his eyes drift around the spacious room from wall to wall, analyzing each piece of art and furniture, looking for a hint of where the safe might be. He mentally chastised himself for not asking the old man outright. But then it didn’t matter because he spotted the old gramophone.
The Victrola was easily the least expensive piece in the library, and not by a small margin. That made it stand out to Andrew’s keen eye. And then he noticed the steel reinforcements on the legs; there was extra weight involved here. He scrambled over to the piece and plopped down in front of it, remembering halfway there that he was supposed to be quiet during all of this. But then, he wasn’t sure if that still applied, considering the fact that Belltower had just been back here.
“Another new friend,” Belltower announced, wrapping both of his hands around Fletcher’s and giving it a squeeze. “How nice.”
“What do you mean, ‘another one’?” Faust asked.
“Oh, nothing.” The old man winked at Fletcher and asked him, “Do I know you? You look familiar.” His eyes brightened. “Have you been to the lodge?”
“Let’s get this over with,” Faust said. “The paintings are down the hall to the left. Give me just a moment.” He returned to the keypad on the wall and pushed a few buttons. “Why is this—?” He punched a few more keys with more force than he needed, muttering a few bloodies and other assorted curse words and then the word reset.
Fletcher scratched his scalp, pulling his lapel as close to his mouth as possible and whispering into his microphone, “He just reset the alarm system. I think Andrew is stuck in there.”
Andrew froze, gripping the sides of the Victrola. “Stuck?” he asked, trying to speak without moving his lips. “Happy, can you override it?”
“No, somebody needs to get to that central control unit by the front door and switch it back to single sector. You hear me, Fletcher?”
“Yes, yes, I see,” came Fletcher’s voice. “So you keep all the art down here in the gallery.”
“In the meantime,” Happy said, “tell me what we’re looking at. Where in the room are you?”
“I’m crouched down—really uncomfortably, I might add—at the safe,” Andrew said. “Middle of the south wall. It’s inside an old phonograph.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal: the alarm system uses passive infrared sensors. They go off when they detect changes in temperature caused by the radiation you emit.”
“I’m actually not radioactive,” Andrew deadpanned. “So maybe we’re okay.”
“We all are, man, to some degree. The sensors are probably installed on the wall closest to the security hub, which would be the south wall. If it were me, I’d direct one sensor at the outside door and put one in the corner, about seven or eight feet off the ground, to cover the rest of the room. Can you roll your eyes in that direction and see if there’s anything solid between you and that wall?”
Andrew turned his head as little and as slowly as possible, cranking his eyes in their sockets. “Yeah, there’s a big leather armchair right behind me.”
“So no line of sight between you and the far wall?”
“Not really. I can see the very top, where it meets the ceiling, but I don’t see any motion detectors.”
Happy sighed. “Well, you’re stuck there for now, but you can go ahead and crack the safe while you wait.”
“Nice,” Andrew said. “I’m taking my ears off for a minute. When I put them back on, I want to hear good news.” He removed the headset and set it on the floor in front of him, then slipped the stethoscope around his neck.
The Victrola was about a hundred years old and had clearly been refinished, a fact that made Andrew wince. He pulled open the cabinet doors and instantly began to deflate. Lined up neatly inside the cabinet were about twenty-five old 78s. Not what Andrew was after. Could the safe be hidden up inside the resonance chamber? That would make this a much more difficult process—probably not one that could be undertaken from his present position, sheltered by the armchair. Though perhaps he could access it from beneath?
He grabbed at a few albums, intent on quietly moving the stack down to the floor, only to find that the records were a veneer—the face of one album glued to the spines of many more, all lying over a small safe, hiding it from view. The façade folded sharply in two and clattered to the floor. Andrew cursed to himself. He was still unsure as to whether the sound sensors were active or how much cover Happy’s squealer device provided him.
Sweat was crowding Andrew’s eyes, and he wiped it onto his sleeve. Crouched as he was, his legs were falling asleep, but he dared not move despite the discomfort. Even worse was the pain of the .38 snub-nosed revolver, clipped into a holster in his waistband and digging into his side. That pain, at least, he deserved. Real grifters didn’t carry guns on a job unless it was part of a character they were filling out. But this was no ordinary
job, the Alchemist was no ordinary client, and Julian Faust was no ordinary mark. True, Andrew did have the Dog-B-Gone, but he knew that Special Forces training often involved building up a tolerance to pepper spray to the point where one could use it like potpourri to spice up a stale room.
Andrew inserted the ends of the stethoscope into his ears and held the diaphragm up to the safe. He spun the dial five times to the left, while simultaneously pulling out a folded piece of graph paper and a pencil from the sparkly fanny pack, which he found even less funny given his current predicament.
He closed his eyes and gave the dial another spin. It was happening automatically now, the result of innumerable practice runs. The drive pin made contact with the first wheel and he had his first number. His left hand spun while his right wrote down the contact points.
This was more like it. A safe had secrets, just like a man had secrets, and Andrew Bishop could con either into giving them up.
“And here are the Renoirs,” Faust said. “I believe these are the two in question. Here are the authenticating documents, and I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction.”
The gallery was just slightly smaller than Fletcher’s entire house. Make that Brad’s house. Dozens of framed paintings adorned the walls, accented with tasteful directed lighting. Small sculptures, distributed throughout, broke the room into a variety of natural lateral paths.
“Hurry it up, Fletcher,” Happy chided through the earpiece, “Andrew is pinned down and night security will arrive in about ten minutes. Or sooner. You need to get to that central control and punch in the code.”
Fletcher pulled on a white cotton glove and took a step toward the painting. He studied the scrawled signature and reached up toward the canvas, suddenly going wobbly at the knees. Standing straight, he said, “I forgot my water by the door. Let me go grab it a minute.”
“I can get it,” Belltower said helpfully.
“Oh no, sir, I can—”
“No. Let him get it,” Faust said, his eyes hard and demanding.
“I think we need you in the equation,” Happy said to Dante. Plans were forming as he spoke. “Time for the Uncle Billy, but sober him up a little bit. Ring the bell and tell them you’re there for a free puppy. Force your way in the front door and draw their attention away from the keypad while Fletcher switches the mode. Stall until Andrew is out the door, then you leave when he trips the proximity alarm.” He ran it through his head again and nodded. “It’s doable.”
“Have you been tripping the alarm whenever someone walks away from the house?”
Happy thought for a moment. “No. Only when they approach.”
“Then we’re going to arouse suspicion. Let’s do this instead: I make a distraction for Fletcher. Then you show up to claim your own free puppy right when Andrew trips the alarm. Then we all clear out as fast as we can.”
Happy shook his head adamantly. “I’m the worst grifter you’ve ever met. They don’t let me near the action.”
“No choice, man. This is the only way we get Andrew out of that room without a squad car involved. Or worse.”
Andrew had repeated the process three times over—once for each wheel—and written down all four contact points. In the movies, this would be where he spun the handle triumphantly and opened the safe. If only.
He flipped over the graph paper and began to chart the data he’d collected. This part was not automatic, and Andrew always found it a challenge to overcome the adrenaline clouding his mind and think analytically. It was the kind of math that had prompted him as a child to raise his hand and demand, “When will I use this in real life?” Only his teachers had never answered, “Thirty years from now, when you’re cracking safes in the libraries of wealthy capital investors.”
He pulled the headset back on. “Almost done,” he said. “Give me some good news.”
“We’re coming down,” Dante said.
“We? No, no, we don’t let Happy interact with the mark. He’s a bundle of tells.”
“There’s no other way,” Happy said. “I can do this.”
Andrew circled the combination several times. “Hang on just a second. Don’t do anything crazy. Let me make sure I’ve got what I need.” He carefully dialed in the combination. The safe door released and swung open easily.
“I’ve got it,” he said, grabbing the old leather satchel. “Just one more thing.” He pulled a small device from Fletcher’s fanny pack and placed it in the safe before shutting it securely and carefully replacing the album façade. He checked his watch. “Whatever we’re gonna do, we need to do it right now.”
“Just a second!” Happy grabbed Dante’s sleeve, delaying his descent from their lookout point. He held on tight and took a deep breath. “Let me get into character a minute.”
“Into character?”
“What’s my backstory?”
“You’re a guy who wants a free puppy.”
“But what’s my motivation?”
Dante yanked his sleeve free. “Puppies. Come on!”
Happy leaned over his knees, feeling like he might hyperventilate. A sound grabbed his attention from down near the house. The sound of a gate closing against a chain link fence.
“Oh no, we’ve got a big problem here.” He pointed down at the night security guard arriving early, milling about the yard, finishing a smoke.
“No,” Dante said. “I think we’ve got the solution to our problem.”
CHAPTER 30
Andrew’s voice came through the headset, bordering on anger. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Overnight guard is here,” Dante said. “I think he’s your way out.”
“What? How?”
“He’s going to swipe a card on that reader, right? That shuts down motion sensors between the door and the security hub.” He glanced over at Happy. “For how long?”
Happy shrugged. “Thirty seconds? How long does it take to walk through the room? Just stay out of sight, Andrew.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Andrew said. “He’ll see the suction cup deal on the window and raise the alarm. We’re made.”
“Maybe not,” Dante said. “I’m heading down.”
The guard was texting now and smoking. Happy held his breath as he watched the security guard approach the door. According to the dossier Andrew had compiled, this man had kept it together in the thick of the action in Afghanistan, earning practically every medal there was, and had been known for his ability to spot the enemy in a crowded urban setting. But he wasn’t a soldier in the heat of battle right now. He was a guy killing a few minutes before his shift started.
The guard laughed at the words on the little screen, pocketed his cell phone, flicked the cigarette down next to the door, and swiped his card.
“My man didn’t find much on you,” Faust said. “Seems a bit odd, them sending you here with such a sparse résumé.”
Fletcher smiled. “What can I say? It’s a good time to specialize in Impressionism. Five of the eight leading experts have either died or retired in the last few years, leaving the field wide open, and I’ve really been establishing myself.” He leaned in, as if to disclose a secret. “I’m eccentric. The art world loves that.”
“Mm-hmm,” Faust said slowly. “Tell me, what do you think of Sisley’s work?”
Fletcher cocked his head. “Lane of Poplars is a nice piece, I suppose. He was more quantity than quality, though—probably the reason he never made it out of Monet’s shadow.” He returned his attention to the Renoir.
Andrew heard a click from the electronic dead bolt, followed by the scrape of a key sliding into the door lock. He pulled himself into a tight ball behind the chair and closed his eyes. He was reasonably sure he could not be seen from the door. Well, maybe that was less reason and more hope.
He heard the man’s heavy footsteps move through the room and then round the corner toward the security hub.
“If he settles in at the monitors, he’ll see you leaving,” Happy said. “Fle
tcher, you need to draw this guy away.”
Fletcher stepped back from the second painting and took them both in for a moment before raising his arms above his head and emitting an ear-splitting “Aaaarrrrrrghh!” He fell to his knees and slammed his fists against the floor. “Why?” he shouted.
Faust took a step back from him while Belltower hurried to his side.
“There’s a doctor in the library,” the old man said. “I’ll go get him.”
“Stay here,” Faust ordered. A young man in his twenties with a muscled physique came rushing up from the back of the house, his hand inside his jacket.
Belltower frowned at him. “You’re not the doctor.”
“Is everything all right, sir?” the young man asked Faust.
Fletcher stood. “I apologize,” he said, straightening his tie. “Like I said, I’m eccentric. And I can’t believe they flew me up here for this.” He pointed at the place where the artist had signed each of the paintings. “Near the end of his life, Renoir’s signature changed significantly. Everyone knows this, but some overeager student intern at Ultima flagged it as an irregularity. Probably trying to impress the brass. Moron.”
He turned to Belltower, who was visibly shaken, and smiled. “Sir, your home is lovely and your paintings are, of course, genuine. I’m sorry we’ve wasted your time.”
Andrew gently pulled the door closed and felt the cooler night air setting in around him. The sun was setting behind the house, and it was difficult to see anything in the yard stretched out before him. He thought of the peanut butter rubbed into his pants, beckoning the pack of dogs, and he readied the Dog-B-Gone again. But he immediately realized he wouldn’t need it. The sound of the snoring mastiffs rose up from various locations around the yard. Andrew spotted the meanest of the bunch sleeping a few yards away from him and resisted the urge to scratch the thing behind the ears.
He quickly made his way across the grass and up over the fence, pulling the floor mats with him as he dropped to the ground. He quickly rolled them up and tucked them under his arm. From forty feet away he could barely make out the top of Happy’s head protruding from his perch.
The Last Con Page 17
