The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain
Page 29
Thin gloves, clean and black, rotated a dial slowly, precisely. There was an art to withdrawing secret treasures from their hiding places, and a thrill to doing it with the requisite skill. He had long since learned the skill needed for this particular task. The security here was light; it was not the kind of place that one of his expertise would normally target. Ironically, that fact made his targeting it tonight all the more enjoyable.
The figure squatted in a tiny, dark office in the back of a convenience store that was, conveniently, closed for a few more hours. Flashlight lighting up the dial, he completed one final turn and lifted the lever on the door. The safe popped open. The combination he had copied down at McWrait's mansion worked.
He reached inside and released the safe's contents from their confinement. There was cash, and a lot of it. Maybe $50,000, even $100,000, he guessed, judging by the stack of $100 bills. He had found McWrait's hidden treasure trove indeed—using careful research, just as his father had taught him. Information was the key to many endeavors, and a little research first thing this morning had led him from McWrait's mansion last night to this small vault hidden in a low-security store in a dark corner of the city—the first store McWrait had acquired.
Why would McWrait, with all his millions, keep so much cash here rather than at his mansion? The figure mulled over the question as he scooped the loot into his satchel. McWrait would hardly miss such a small amount, but with all the harm his nefarious deeds—yet to be proven in court, but well attested in the city's darker circles all the same—had done to the innocent folks of this city, any injury that could be done to him in turn was a noble act. Robin Hood again, the figure told himself, robbing the rich and all that. Robin would be proud.
What to do with this money? A small portion of it he would, of course, put aside for himself as compensation for his efforts. But most of it he would deliver as anonymous donations to worthy organizations—the mission, the library, perhaps a museum. He did not play the thief to get rich; he had no such desire. His purpose today was simply to make McWrait pay for his involvement with the boy.
A thief again tonight, and proudly. He double-checked the safe for any loose bills. One curious item remained there—another manila folder, unmarked like the one he had found in McWrait's bedroom. He checked his watch—precisely one minute to spare. Simple the store's security system may have been, but it was not incapable of ruining his evening if he grew inattentive.
He opened the folder. The top paper, and several immediately beneath it, listed names, dollar amounts, and…purchases. Sales, too. Drug deals, big ones, the specific merchandise and quantities described in detail. McWrait's own name dominated the sheets. The police—all the more, the FBI—had sought information like this on McWrait for more than a decade. The fact that they had not acquired it was essentially the reason the man still walked free.
So this is why he keeps the money here, the figure realized. Drug money. It had to come and go frequently and on short notice as McWrait's dealers managed the man's shadier transactions. To host such a steady flow of cash at his home would draw undesirable attention in the wrong part of town. But to keep it here in a place no one would expect must suit him well—a busy little store where his couriers could find it tucked away in a secret hole behind an old, cheap portrait of sailing ships on the office wall.
These papers—blessed information—might prove useful. The figure tucked them into the satchel alongside the cash, set the clasp, and withdrew a small note he had prepared in advance. "For Zechariah," it read—a simple message, so that McWrait would understand the purpose behind the theft.
He set it where the manila folder had been and closed the safe. A few seconds remained for him to reset the portrait and double-check lest he leave any trace of himself. Satisfied that he had left none, he negotiated his way out of the store, careful to avoid tripping the surveillance devices he had left functioning. The others would reactivate themselves momentarily.
Finished with his work here, he exited the building through the rear door right on time and disappeared into the thick darkness of the alley behind the store, his satchel firmly in hand.
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