The Brummie Con (Sunken City Capers Book 4)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  “What is the government’s official leading theory about who is responsible for the British Museum heist?” Ty asks.

  “Just like that?” I ask.

  “Just like that,” Ty says smoothly.

  The exchange ushers in a silence broken only by the steady wheeze of an air vent.

  “Fine,” I say, annoyance, frustration seethe under my countenance. Suddenly, here is target for all my anxiety. “Ask your stupid questions.” I bite off the rest of my response.

  He cocks an eyebrow but repeats the question.

  “Which government?” I ask to clarify. The Brits have the lead obviously, and most of the material is coming from them. But there’s unofficial leaks from Britain’s biggest allies in the American and European presses as well as Britain’s frenemies of Russia and China.

  “Ours,” Ty clarifies.

  “There is no official theory,” I answer. “Only admitting to basic facts.”

  “What facts?” Ranbir quietly interjects.

  The group shifts to stand together and face me. Fun. Is this what exams in college were like?

  I answer, “The thieves entered through the Elgin replicas dropped from drones. They escaped in the underground tunnels to St. Pancras station where they blew it to cover their escape. They were well prepared and are considered to be professionals.”

  “Professionals at what?” Ty asks.

  “Thievery,” I say. “There’s some rumors they may be special forces of some kind, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why?” Ty asks.

  “Because the job was so ... loud. Dropping stones on multiple sites. Blowing the train station. Hardly covert.”

  “Unless that’s what they wanted people to think,” Ty says.

  I roll my eyes. “Unless that’s what they wanted you to want me to think. Occam’s razor,” I say with a shrug.

  “How many people do they think were involved?” Ty asks.

  “Confirmed two. So I think anywhere between two and ten. I’d peg it closer on the lower end than the higher end.”

  “Why?” Grady asks.

  “Higher profit per share. Less mouths to get caught,” I say.

  “Who made the Elgin replicas?” Ty asks.

  “Ohh, now that’s an interesting question, isn’t it?” I ask. “You don’t really believe that it was that poor innocent college student who didn’t know what he was doing, do you?”

  Ty’s jaws tighten before asking, “And you don’t?”

  “No! Of course not! It’s too perfect. How would someone not know they were doing something illegal making those? And he turns himself in almost a week after the Elgin replicas becomes public knowledge?” I stare at Ty in disbelief. “C’mon, that kid is going for his fifteen minutes of fame here.” Which is fine by me, we really didn’t use that kid to do it, so I know he’s lying.

  “What’d they steal?” Arlene asks interrupting Ty and tossing me a softball.

  “Chinese jade.” It’s been all over the news this last week. It took the Brits weeks to sort through the mess to figure out what was missing.

  “Which means?” Ty asks in a patronizing tone.

  “The thieves have good taste?” I answer.

  “It’s suggestive, don’t you think?” Ty is leaning forward, his eyes bright and piercing. His head is tilted up in an annoyingly superior way.

  It ticks my annoyance meter a level higher. I can almost hear him screaming in his head in his impatience, “C’mon think, damn it!”

  “No. I don’t think,” I answer. “It’s a mistake to infer—”

  “They must have had a buyer lined up,” Ty cuts in.

  “Of course they had a buyer lined up!” I say, barely suppressing a dumbass. “No self-respecting team of thieves is going to go through that much planning and expense not to have a buyer lined up. It could’ve been diamonds, marble sculpture or fossilized elephant poop. There’s no way they’d go after something unless they knew they could move it.”

  “I like her,” Margaret says.

  “Me too,” Grady says.

  “All right, hang on,” Ty tries to regain control of the questioning.

  “She’s got my vote,” Arleen says.

  Ty sighs and looks at Ranbir who nods once.

  “One more question,” Ty says, rubbing his hands over his face, his goatee prickling audibly at the massage. “Do you have a pet theory?”

  Now this is more of what I was expecting. I could say no, but I’m trying to ingratiate myself. If I offer up something good they haven’t thought of, they’ll only trust me faster. “You first.”

  He laughs to himself. “Uh-uh. You first.”

  I look at each of them in turn, tilting my head as I pretend to consider if I can trust them. Greed is at the center of all cons in some form or another. And greedy/suspicious people are all too happy to recognize it in others.

  “All right,” I say guardedly. “The British Museum defenses. The thieves had to know what they were.”

  No one looks impressed at this proclamation. Puo’s hacking of the squiddies has not been released to the public, but anyone with half an interest in the case realizes the thieves must have cased the job first.

  I continue, “There was a small news story in late October about the Ministry of Undersea Protection swarming Wembley Island.”

  “A building fell down tripping their sensors,” Grady says. “Happens all the time.”

  I shake my head no. “And they send out that many officers and resources each time? No. I bet it was related to the British Museum heist. The thieves must have done some reconnaissance and something happened.”

  “That’s pretty good,” Ty admits. “We should look more into that.”

  “So, I’m in?” I ask.

  Ty glances again at everyone in the room and then says, when there are no objections, “You’re in.”

  “Great, so what’s your pet theory?”

  Instead of answering, Ty turns on his heel and walks away toward the back where Margaret had emerged from.

  I glance up at the ceiling suppressing some choice words and notice a reflective lens, a camera, hidden in the recessed lighting of the ceiling. Damn, I can’t plant the real bug here.

  “He does that,” Arleen says. “Ex-officer and all. Likes a bit of the dramatic. But he’s not so bad.”

  “Officer of what?” I ask because it’s expected—it’s another thing I already know.

  Ty Randal Sauer is an ex-officer of the British Army with his own budding private security company. Ty’s hurting for both name recognition and startup money. Solving the British Museum would be Godsend for him. There are two weaknesses to a person in Ty’s position: greed and paranoia.

  We plan to exploit both.

  Ty comes back as Arleen finishes telling me what I already know and Ty hands me a marbled dark brown folder with several papers in it. “Everything we currently know and are running down.”

  Somehow I doubt it’s everything. I take the folder and start thumbing through it. Nothing surprising so far.

  “Look that over,” Ty says. “Study it. And we’ll reconvene one week from today on the 28th.”

  Fuck! I fight to keep the impatience off my face, and fail to suppress the image of my father’s beaten and scared face. We might not have a week. “So that’s it then for the test?” It was short. “I actually did study.”

  “Well,” Grady cuts in with a sly smile, “You did show up.”

  Ty presses his lips together in a disapproving line.

  “Having trouble finding people?” I ask.

  The people behind Ty’s back nod yes. “No,” Ty says. “We’re having trouble finding the right people.” The people behind him shake their head no.

  Heh, this group might be fun. “Is there a charter I need to sign?” I ask. “Some sort of document with bylaws and such?”

  “Yes,” Ty says. “It’s in the back of your folder.”

  I pull it out and skim it over. “Whoa,” I say when I get to
the end. “There’s nothing in here about the distribution of reward money.”

  “We all get equal shares,” Ty says, “except I, as founder, get a double share. Since there’s six of us, take any reward money and divide by seven and that’s your cut.”

  Well, hello greed.

  “But it’s not in writing.” I hold up the organization document to prove it.

  Ranbir asks to see my copy and scans it. “She’s correct.”

  Silence once more befalls our little group as everyone turns their attention to Ty.

  “Really?” Ty asks confused holding his hand out for the document. “An oversight,” Ty says quickly, turning the document over in his hands. “A simple mistake.”

  Bullshit.

  “Mine definitely has it,” Margaret says.

  Ty latches onto the lifeline like a drowning swimmer. “I must have printed out an old draft or something. I’ll bring updated ones for everyone on the 28th just to be safe. Ok?”

  We all give him the look you give the doctor when they say: this shouldn’t hurt.

  Arleen transitions from the awkward moment with, “We’re headed to the pub now. Want to join us?”

  No. “Sure.” I still need to plant at least one of these tracker chips.

  ***

  Margaret locks the studio’s red door behind us as we all herd toward the elevator like a group of lab mice, our scuffles and voices echoing off the high white walls.

  “Is this your studio?” I ask, trying to make conversation and stay in the moment.

  I already know the answer to this and other questions I’ll likely ask—part of our college study night was dedicated to building dossiers on existing Chapter members. But the point is to make conversation. You don’t trust people you don’t talk to and get to know. Plus, there’s no better intel resource than actually talking to people—the difference between what they say and what you know to be true can be quite illuminating.

  Margaret nods once. “Yeah.” She walks past me with her hands in her navy-blue winter jacket and doesn’t elaborate.

  Well, all right then. “What kind of artist are you?” I ask to try and draw her out.

  “Digital,” she says over her shoulder not looking at me and keeping her head down. “I don’t really like to talk about it though.”

  You don’t say. Must be in a rough patch of self-doubt. I consider telling her how I love art, but decide against it. Anything I say on the subject will just have her retreat further.

  I genuinely do enjoy art (and not just its profitability). It’s hard to capture emotion in an inanimate piece, capture a snapshot in time of culture that causes the purveyor to stop and reflect, create an essence that reaches deep within them and connects to something we all share. Great art make it look effortless, like the pieces weren’t made, but discovered and unearthed.

  So instead I ask Margaret’s back, “What pub are we going to?” I slip my right hand into my jeans to get the tracker chip ready, while carrying the dark brown folder with the Chapter’s intel on the British Museum heist in my other hand. The quicker I plant this chip, the quicker I can get back to Puo and see if he learned anything. The elevator at the end of the hall should provide an excellent opportunity.

  “Fishy’s,” she says, perking back up, probably relieved she doesn’t have to talk about her art, the passion that’s silently killing her.

  “Really?” I ask. That doesn’t seem like a great pub name; it conjures up images of little red plastic baskets full of oily fried fish. The imaginary greasy smell is enough to overpower my desire for a clean tasting beer. “Is its specialty fish?”

  The group gridlocks at the closed elevator doors, our foggy reflections dancing and warping on the doors as we shift about waiting. Warping like the edges of my father’s photo.

  “No, actually,” Margaret answers my question thoughtfully as if she never considered it before. “Their specialties are soups.”

  I have to pull myself back into the conversation, remember what we were talking about. “Really?” I ask, and discretely moderate my breath.

  Arleen says, “Yeah, they take the biscuit.”

  “And they have a great beer selection,” Grady adds. He’s standing in profile to me and his nose sticks out pretty far from this vantage, almost as if trying to balance out his ponytail.

  The elevator dings as it arrives and all six of us pile on. I make sure to maneuver my way behind Ty.

  It’s a tight fit, and all our heads are focused upward. Now seems like an ideal time.

  I tuck the dark brown folder between my left arm and body and slip the tracking chip out of my pocket, positioned on my right forefinger. The tracking chip is a standard-looking chip with some adhesive. There’s no disguise to it—and that’s the point.

  Ty needs to be able to find that chip. It’s how we plan to steer him toward the convincer, that moment when the mark presses the “I believe” button and then you have them by the throat until your done with them. Puo made sure to install a little audio device on the chip that will emit a buzz in case Ty proves incompetent at finding it in the time frame we need.

  “This is a nice jacket,” I say and squeeze Ty’s arm with my left hand while simultaneously pinching the bottom edge of his black double-breasted peacoat.

  Anndd ... done. It’s just that easy. I switch back to holding the folder in my left hand and counting the seconds until I can ditch them and get back. Ty should find that soon enough. The interesting part is, how will he react? And will he inform the rest of the group?

  “Thanks—” Ty says, starting to turn around.

  “Did you just plant something on Ty?” Margaret says, cutting in.

  Uh, shit. It wasn’t supposed to be that fast.

  Everyone in the elevator shifts to stare at me.

  “What? No,” I say. “I just like his coat.”

  “Your hand. Your other hand,” Margaret plows on, her cheeks turning red. “You slipped it under his coat.”

  “If I did,” I say getting worked up, “it was an accident. Paranoid much?” Damn it. Ty was supposed to find it on his own. But I almost don’t care. You want fight? Fine.

  “Check your coat,” Margaret orders Ty.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say dismissively.

  Ty slides his coat off. “What’s this?” He finds the tracker chip and holds it up for everyone to see. His forehead is wrinkled in concentration as he stares at me.

  The group all turns to corner me. The silence in the elevator is too oppressive to breathe as I think of way to spin this without giving in to my desires to unload on these people.

  “What is this about?” Ty tries again. There are no smiles now, no friendly atmosphere.

  The elevator rumbles to a stop, the ding of arrival breaks silence.

  “Hold on,” Ty instructs with heat in his voice.

  No one moves toward the doors sliding open. Instead, they all continue to stand there staring at me.

  “Well—” Ty prompts again.

  “Of course it’s a bug!” I explode, an idea forming. “That’s a lot of reward money, mister oops-I-forgot-the-money-part! What? You think I’m going to allow you to cut out the dumb American that’s visiting?” I finish in a huff. Greed. Always fall back on greed in a con.

  Ranbir flicks his gaze to Ty, his eyes narrowing.

  Ty says, “I told you it was an oversight—”

  “Yeah, well,” I say, “excuse me for wanting to make sure I get paid and not screwed over.”

  “It will be remedied,” Ty says. None of the suspicion wrinkles ease on his forehead. “But who are you exactly, that you would plant a bug?”

  The empty lobby looms behind us. The float screen still shows the map with the red dot locating Margaret’s studio. My heart beats against my neck as I consider the implications of sticking it out or exploding on them and making a run for it. Ty found the chip. This might still be salvageable.

  “Treasure hunter,” I answer Ty’s question.

 
Ty leans his head back in understanding. “That’s why you’re good at lock picking. And why you’re even over here.”

  “Duh.”

  Ty looks between the tracking chip on his finger and the other members of the Amateur Sleuths Birmingham Chapter, clearly considering his next move carefully.

  “I don’t trust her,” Margaret announces.

  Fickle, that one. You plant one little bug and suddenly you’re not to be trusted.

  “I don’t trust you,” I snap back, motioning to the group in general.

  “Everyone calm down—” Ty says.

  “You can’t be serious,” Margaret says, crossing her arms in front of her and staring hard at Ty. “Letting her in now, after that?”

  Ty exhales out his nose, and then looks between the tracking chip on his finger and me.

  In Ty’s eyes, the fact that I’m a treasure hunter with the equipment and chutzpah to plant a bug makes me that much more valuable to him. If nothing else, he’ll want to keep me close to keep an eye on me.

  “No,” Ty says addressing Margaret. “I’m not serious.” To me he says, “I’m sorry. There’s not room in our organization for this type of behavior.”

  So much for keeping an eye on me. “Fine. Stay out of my way.” I shoulder past him hard, grabbing the tracking chip as I pass.

  He arrests my forward motion by the scruff of my neck.

  “Hey—” he starts softly, but I don’t give him a chance.

  That fucker. Nobody grabs me like that. Nobody. I don’t care if they’re a mark in the middle of a con.

  I spin fast on him breaking his grip and snapping the bottom of my left palm to the tip of his nose with a satisfying crunch.

  He falls back onto the elevator floor, slamming up against the wall, blood pouring from his nose.

  Everyone stares at me in shock, their mouths open. No one moves, fixed in place as they watch how Ty will react.

  Ty pushes himself up to a sitting position, checking his blood flow. “Folder,” he manages to squeak.

  I throw the folder at him, the papers flying everywhere. “Don’t ever touch me again.” I point at each of them in turn, hoping one of them makes a move toward me. When they don’t, I stomp off the elevator into the lobby.