by Tessa Vidal
“I missed your Fort Stockton Instagram, but maybe this one leads to something photogenic.”
She smiled. “Is it a road name, a horse farm, what?”
“I'm not sure. I thought it was maybe something we could explore together.”
A young local was rolling past with an equipment cart. Clary waved him over. He studied the photo, then called over one of the older guys.
“That takes me back.” He rubbed his silver beard. “It was an art colony in the 1960s. Some West Texas draft dodgers were hiding out there, or so they say. There were pretty wild stories about some pretty wild parties. Artists, you know. It's been abandoned a long time, but I've heard people say there's still a sculpture of a giant roadrunner back there.”
Clary's green eyes danced. “Ooh, that would be perfect for my Instagram. If it's really still out there. The Fort Stockton image got a quarter million likes. People like floof dogs, movie stars, and roadrunners.” That smile of hers did crazy things to my heartbeat.
“Then it's a date,” I said. “We'll explore together. I won't sneak a peek. Yukon and I will save that trail for when you can come along.”
“Where's my fucking star?” The break was over. Claus Keller was obsessed with taking advantage of every daylight hour. “And where is the makeup? I want more mica in that makeup. More sparkle.”
While a tiny blonde whisked powder over Clary's already perfect skin, I took the rare opportunity to approach Keller. “We need to talk.”
Always concerned with time and light, he flicked an eye at his watch. “If you can keep it brief.”
“I'd like to touch base about the plans for protecting the Ademar.”
“You do not need to worry, this is already all arranged. There will be a four-man escort supplied by the Smithsonian within arm's length of the stone at all times. Every man on the team is a former Secret Service agent.”
“I know they're sending a good team.”
Too good. Matt's clever trap wasn't all that clever if the thief decided there wasn't any safe way to grab the stone. How would we prove Malory's innocence if we couldn't catch Bailey in an actual swap? We needed to get the perp with that nanobot tracker burning hot in her pocket.
One thing was for sure. This heist couldn't work the way the DeWitte heist worked. If Clary was arrested, the stone would go to an evidence locker here, not in Los Angeles. New Orleans did enjoy a certain notoriety for police corruption. Did Bailey have a local cop ready to take a pay-off?
Hmm.
“You worry too much.” Keller did that hand-wave thing a lot of directors like to do. “My actors walk on the red carpet with loaned million-dollar stones all the time. I am telling you, ja, Veronica, this will all work out very well for all of us.”
Maybe he was right. On the red carpet of last year's Academy Awards, Clary herself had worn a glittering twelve-million-dollar rose sapphire on loan from Harry Winston. The sleek lines of her designer dress had drawn all eyes to the precious gem at the hollow of her throat. And not just the gem, but the beautiful woman wearing it. The video from that event was undoubtedly part of the reason Keller cast her in this film.
He believed in her. And I needed to believe in her.
This will work. All we really have to do is wait for Bailey to take the bait.
Filming ran long that day, as it did every day. During one of the brief breaks, I stole a moment to massage Clary's tense neck.
“That feels so good,” she said. “I need that so much.”
“You need a lot more than that. And you'll be getting it later.”
“Watch out. You're going to spoil me.”
“I'm sure going to try.”
Chapter Twenty
Clary
The last two days of filming took place in New Orleans proper. The state's film commission wangled permission for us to lease an antebellum plantation house in a leafy Mid-City neighborhood on Bayou St. John. The ballroom was spacious, wide enough in its day for all the city's gentry to attend the party, but the set felt crowded.
I felt crowded.
I understood the Ademar was valuable― and nobody understood better than me how easy it was for a small, precious object to disappear right under somebody's nose― but a four-member security escort crowded into the place on top of the entire film crew and our own security was oppressive. Twice, one of the men had stepped over the taped marks on the wide cypress floor, spoiling the scene and spurring Claus to scream German imprecations.
There were a lot of eyes on me. Too many eyes. What if Flowers decided to back off? This might be the only chance I'd have to catch the real thief and clear my name, and they were making it impossible for anybody to move in on the stone.
I'd already suggested to Claus that he ban the museum's security team from the actual filming.
“They're spoiling the mood. Make them wait outside.”
“Impossible, my dear, as much as I wish it were otherwise. The insurance company would have my head.”
It wasn't really something I could push. As it was, if Flowers did somehow get away with the stone, I'd be the first to fall under suspicion. Claus would remember I tried to get him to pull back the team.
Play it smarter, Clary. And keep your damn eyes open.
“Rolling,” Claus said.
My lead, Taylor Tercelle, was a former Abercrombie & Fitch model better known for his pretty face than for his abilities as an actor. He pasted on his famous smile before he touched the stone at my neck. “This piece of rock will buy a lot of happiness...” He stopped cold, looking beyond me to the members of the security team.
All four of them had drawn their weapons.
The famous smile slipped, and the granite jaw dropped. “Well, this is a little stressy.”
“Cut!” Claus didn't sound delighted.
“You think it's stressy,” I whispered. “The stone's on my neck.”
Taylor pushed a loose brown curl out of his eyes, a habitual gesture said to appeal to the straight ladies. “Maybe so, but I'm not used to a whole lot of firearms being pointed in my direction. Claus, if you could just ask them to please put their guns away.”
That was the wrong firecracker to light under Claus Keller's tail. “It is very far from the first time a weapon has been pointed your way, and it is very far from the last time a weapon will be pointed your way. You love the risk. You are in love with danger. If you are not risking death, you do not truly feel alive. On my set, you are never an actor. You are a man of action.”
“For fuck's sake,” Taylor muttered. “Remind me why I took this job.”
“I can think of fifteen million reasons.” I glanced beyond the director to Yukon, who sat relaxed and waiting near an empty chair. Where the hell was Ronnie? Even with four ex-Secret Service bird-dogging my every step, I still felt better with her in the room.
“From your entrance, Clary,” Claus said. “Lights!”
Hours later, we finally wrapped. It went long because Claus was a perfectionist, not because the scene wasn't working. The Ken doll that was Taylor Tercelle looked surprisingly real when he had to act and react literally under the gun.
“You've never turned in a better performance,” I told him.
“Oh, fuck you.”
I could only laugh.
As far as I could tell, no one had made a play for the Ademar. Yet again, I glanced out for Ronnie, but I couldn't see much past the four-man team closing in around me. The lead officer carefully unclasped the diamond-studded strand from around my neck. The hollow of my throat felt cool and bare without the weight of the emerald.
That was it.
The emerald was back in the proper hands. It wasn't my responsibility anymore.
Except I couldn't help but worry.
Maybe I was wrong about everything after all. Maybe the stone had been swapped, and I just didn't know it yet. Maybe there really was some kind of way somebody could witch the real stone right off my neck to replace it with a fake. Vegas magicians worked simil
ar tricks every fucking day of the week.
Hell, maybe somebody on the security team was in on it. Maybe all four of them were.
Who could I trust when I already knew at least one corrupt cop had been involved from the very beginning?
Yukon padded up to me, his leash trailing on the floor.
Where was Ronnie? She'd been gone too long. Unless she'd come back and left again, and I'd never even noticed.
No. I'd notice.
Something was badly wrong.
“Hey, boy.”
He snuggled his head into my hands, blissfully unconcerned about anything except getting his ears scratched.
“Lunch,” Claus said.
Taylor had vanished. He always smelled of cigarettes, so I figured he was outside on the back patio maintaining his habit. It was hours past a reasonable lunchtime, and most of the crew were hovering around the nearest craft service table. The shrimp salad was supposed to be marvelous.
Fuck the shrimp salad.
I fetched my handbag and my phone. No messages, well, not from anyone who counted. And there was only one person who counted right now. A quick text was in order.
Me: Ronnie? Where'd you go? The ballroom scene is over. The stone is packed up.
Me: Did you intercept Bailey? Is it done?
A familiar ringtone warbled in the bottom of my bag.
Ronnie's phone. What the actual unholy fuck? What was it doing in there? As I pawed through my things for it, I found something else.
Something hard and cold and precious.
The pear-cut stone weighed around ten carats or so, small when I'd been wearing the ninety-carat Ademar, but still impressive. Held up to the nearest indoor light, it was the color of rich merlot. Inhaling sharply, I pushed myself through cast and crew to the nearest exit. Ever-loyal Yukon tagged along.
The security guy on the door nodded, but I barely saw him. My eyes were glued to the stone. Outside, on a beautiful sunny day, it turned a perfect shade of liquid blue to match the sky.
My knees buckled.
It was the Stroganov Alexandrite. Or its evil twin, the counterfeit once intended for Yukon's dog collar. I wouldn't be able to tell the difference with my naked eyes.
Real or fake, it couldn't have been planted in my handbag for any good purpose.
That was when I heard the first scream from deeper in the back garden. Taylor's fans would have been amazed to hear such a high-pitched shriek coming from his handsome throat.
I ran, Yukon galloping alongside me. Not away from the screaming but toward it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ronnie
It started the way so many things do, with my phone singing a soft tune to let me know I was receiving a text.
Bailey: Meet me in the old red barn. Leave the dog.
Don't make it too easy, I thought. She'll be suspicious of easy.
Me: Fuck off.
Bailey: I'm not playing with you, baby. If you want that little red-haired princess to keep her happy ass out of jail...
Me: ???
Bailey: Check your tracking app. And don't even bother to pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Nobody's got your precious stone. We need to talk.
Bailey: So check things out, and come meet me in the fucking barn.
Bailey: No fucking dog.
Me: Why?
No answer.
It was happening. Whatever it really was. Judging from the text, Bailey wasn't going after the tagged stone. How the hell did she know about the tracker anyway?
And why would she want me to know she knew?
I thumbed the app's icon. Matt had sent it to my phone some days ago. A map loaded with a red dot blinking in its center. Zooming in with satellite view, I recognized the historic plantation house on the shores of Bayou St. John. The stone was where it should be― inside the ballroom and presumably around Clary's neck.
According to Matt, no one outside the CIA knew about the existence of the nanobot tracker except for me, him, the director of the FBI, and some senior staff at the Smithsonian. Even the four-man ground team was under the impression they were guarding the actual stone. National security. A trust I couldn't break. As far as Clary or anybody else knew, it was the actual Ademar currently snuggled against the sweet hollow of her throat.
So why would Matt tell Bailey? The director would never give him permission to pull her into the loop. The Ademar wasn't LAPD's circus, and we didn't need their monkeys.
Had Bailey learned about the nanobot some other way? Or was Matt himself dirty?
Thanks to the multiple banks of lights, the spacious interior felt warmer than you'd expect. And yet my blood ran cold. If my boss had turned to the dark side, Clary and I could be in a world of hurt.
“Stay here, boy.” I scratched behind Yukon's ear. “You keep an eye on our princess.” Bailey's word, but not a bad one.
He sat up a little straighter to impress me with his watchfulness.
“Good boy.”
Even without the emerald, the director would have demanded extra security for filming within the city. If nothing else, the nuisance press always needed to be chased off. A uniformed guard I didn't recognize stood outside the back door. He was awkward and stood a little too close to the exit, forcing me to brush by him as I went outside.
He recognized me just fine. “Afternoon, agent.”
“Afternoon.”
“Can I help you with something?”
The back yard was large enough to keep a small army of landscapers employed. The many azaleas, most of them in shades of pink and rose, were in full bloom.
Taylor Tercelle stood alone on the patio, a guilty cigarette in his fingers. When he saw me glance his way, he put it behind his back. For fuck's sake. I wasn't the smoking police.
“Is there a barn?” I asked.
The guard lifted an eyebrow. “A barn, agent?”
“Somebody said something about a red barn that made a good background for Instagram.”
“Ah. I would've called it more of a portable building. Yes, it's a little bit of a walk around the garden path, but go around the other side of that clump of trees and you'll find it almost at the back fence.”
“Thanks.”
Keller's voice roared from inside. “Where's my fucking star?”
I waved at Tercelle as we passed each other. He forced a smile and went inside.
Once I turned left at the clump of trees, the day got darker and the plantation house seemed to disappear from view. Good garden design, but a little spooky. That fast, I felt isolated even in the middle of this bright spring day in the heart of a busy city.
There had been so much visible security on the set that I'd left my Glock locked in the gun safe inside Clary's Fleetwood. Now I felt the absence against my body where the holster should have been. Bailey would have her service weapon. Maybe I should think again. It would take less than ten minutes to grab the Glock from the car.
Don't be ridiculous. This is Bailey. Whatever she's done, whatever she's got to say, she isn't going to shoot you in a pleasant city garden. She wants to get away with the money, not find herself arraigned for murder.
Like the guard said, the structure turned out to be a modern portable shed designed in the shape of an old-fashioned barn. Red paint over plywood. No windows. Nothing more than an out-of-the-way place to stow landscaping tools.
It would be stuffy inside. Not a place you'd usually schedule a meeting.
Especially if you were the one who had to wait.
My uneasiness grew. Was this really like Bailey? Had she texted to me using another bot? Was she actually somewhere else doing something else?
If she knew the Ademar was a fake, she wouldn't be making a play for the stone. What else could she be after?
The door to the so-called barn was cracked open. The combination padlock that normally secured it had been tossed to the ground several yards away.
I stopped to listen. Nothing.
“Bailey?”
<
br /> Far off in the distance, a mockingbird sang. I listened long enough to hear him run through a cycle of at least eight different bird tunes and then the distinctive beep of a car alarm.
“Bailey? Can you come out here where I can see you?”
Still nothing.
“We know everything, Bailey. It's over. You're not getting away with it this time.”
Silence. I was getting the distinct impression I was talking to myself.
“You don't have to do this. We can fix this. Come on in, tell the FBI what you know, and you can cut a deal. It's the only way you'll ever have a future now.”
More silence. Even the mockingbird had stopped singing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clary
The sound of sirens. Far off but already coming closer. Someone had called nine-one-one. Good. I didn't have to try to do it one-handed as I ran down the garden path in the direction of Taylor's shrieks. Yukon kept up, and several security men weren't far behind.
Around a clump of trees and down a path to the back fence, and there he was. My erstwhile romantic lead was down on all-fours in front of a garish shed the color of blood.
Everything seemed to be happening so fast.
His shoulders jerked up and down. Had he been shot? I never heard any shots, but I dropped anyway, then scrambled on all-fours to his side to see if he needed help.
“Fuck off,” he croaked. Ah. So he wasn't shot. He was throwing up.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He pushed himself to sit back on his heels and tried to firm his jaw. Yukon, sensing a man in need of reassurance, snuggled into him from the other side. “It was just a fucking shock, you know? All I came out here for was a selfie. On my last break, I heard that FBI agent talking about how there's a barn that's a good place for an Instagram.” He grabbed Yukon's scruff and rubbed into his neck.
Yukon floofed him back. The security team swarmed all around us. Someone looked inside the shed, and there were more shouts.