A Heist Story

by Ellen Simpson

  Fuck, he knew her well. Marcey glared at him. She swiped the tears from her eyes. Eyeliner and mud smeared in the wake of her hand. She needed to wash her hands. “Kat Barber set me up, Shelly. You saw right through that. She set me up knowing that there would be cops all over that place. She wanted me to get caught. For what purpose, I have no fucking clue, but this was what she wanted.” She pushed past them. “I’m going to go call Kat Barber.”

  “The fuck would you do that for?” Shelly hurried after her. She grabbed Marcey’s shoulder and turned her around. Her expression was hard. “She wanted this, Marcey. She wanted you there, on that street, at that time, looking at that painting. Did you ever stop and think of why?”

  Marcey jerked her shoulder away from Shelly. “She wanted me to impress her. She wanted me to prove myself and then she went and made it as hard as she possibly could for me to do that. I’m going to call her, and I’m going to ask why.”

  Shelly softened. “And what if she tells you an answer you don’t like?”

  “Without something on Johnson, I’m just going to be that face on the campaign posters, a criminal forever. I think she can help with that. This painting… There’s something here, something she wasn’t telling us. Charlie’s job was about that damn painting. I want to know what it is before I end up some fucking statistic locked away because that idiot, Officer LePage, in there saw my poster and just assume I was good for it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Devon cut in. “LePage? What’s his first name?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure. He never said. Or if he did, I was too distracted by his terrible Macklemore hair.” She dug in her pocket. “Hang on, I stole a business card from his desk.” She produced the crumpled card and passed it to Shelly.

  Shelly stared at it, her lips pinched into a tight frown. “That man wasn’t an officer.”

  “Then who the fuck was he?”

  “Trouble,” Devon answered. He stepped into the street and hailed a cab, waiting until they had all clambered into it and were headed toward Marcey’s home address before he spoke again. “He’s Johnson’s investigator. One of those detectives permanently assigned to the DA’s office to do further investigation of anything the cops don’t have the manpower to get to, or anything supplemental.” He frowned. “I mentioned him when you first came to visit me about this.”

  Marcey nodded. “Yeah, the guy who got the jump on Charlie with Topeté in Rio and ended up getting him arrested.”

  “Oh, there’s more to it than that.” Shelly sat back. “Rio was a hot mess. I’m not sure whose side everyone was on, what with Gwen and LePage bringing their personal drama into an already heated situation because of Topeté.” She glanced at Devon. Marcey felt squished in between them. “That was about the time she stopped walking the line, right?”

  “Thereabouts, yeah,” he agreed. “If LePage was the one who arrested you, it’s because someone’s given Johnson a tip. And if Johnson’s involved, then Topeté can’t be far behind.”

  “I thought that Topeté was Johnson’s pet?” Marcey turned to Shelly. “Wasn’t that what you said?”

  Shelly was silent for a long time, tapping a red-tipped finger against the cab door. “If you go running to Kat Barber, you’re playing into whatever game Johnson’s setting up. She wants what you have, Marcey.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “I’m serious,” Shelly said sharply. “Be pissed at Kat if you want. Hell, I know I would be, but LePage arrested you. He was playing at beat cop because he wasn’t sure you were a threat. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

  “And if Kat set me up?”

  “Then she’s switched sides and you don’t want any part in it.” Devon pulled a ten from his wallet and passed it to the cabbie. They were at Marcey’s place. “Don’t be pissed, Marcey. Just be careful.” He didn’t get out of the cab. Shelly did, following Marcey and pulling her into a tight hug.

  “If you do call Kat, get the fucking details of whatever job she was planning with Charlie. It’s no coincidence that that painting was the one she asked you to find. It’s up in his storage unit for a reason. I, for one, am mighty curious what sort of game she wants to play.”

  Marcey nodded, waved her good-bye, and went inside. She wanted a shower. She wanted sleep. She wanted to figure out what the hell she was doing.

  An envelope was taped to the apartment door. Marcey pulled it away, glancing over her shoulder, back to the stairs. If she hurried, maybe Shelly and Devon wouldn’t have left yet. But at the same time, she didn’t want them to see it. Not just yet, at any rate. There was something to be said for holding back on details. Especially when Shelly’s reaction and her willingness to go running to Devon said that she knew more about what was going on than she let on.

  The note was from Kat Barber, written in the same hand, on the same stationary as the other one. Marcey jammed her key into the lock and let herself into the apartment.

  M

  When I said impress me, did you mistake my meaning for an edict to do everything at once? Your arrest was not my intention, but I could not have the painting stolen just yet. I believe it’s time we talk.

  K

  “That bitch,” Marcey muttered, throwing the letter down in disgust. Kat had set her up because she wasn’t playing into Kat’s hand. Annoyed, Marcey stripped off her dirty jeans and headed to the shower. She’d figure out what to do after she was free of alleyway grime and jail cell dirt.

  It was much later before Marcey figured out what she wanted to do. Kat was an enigma, but there were pieces missing here. Why that painting? Shelly was right; it was just a lesser work, not worth the value Kat had assigned. It wasn’t worth the effort, or arrest under false pretenses.

  Somehow, in the process of saving the painting from Marcey’s aborted attempt at stealing it, Kat had inadvertently put Marcey back onto Johnson’s radar. It was ammo for Johnson’s continued crusade and vendetta. It’d get funneled through backchannels to that Super PAC, the one that was so determined to smear Marcey’s name by any means necessary.

  After she showered, Marcey took an Uber up to Charlie’s storage unit and found as many papers as she could on the painting at the Perôt. If he was looking into it, there was something bigger at play here. Marcey just had to put it together before she called Kat and let her anger fly. If she could be angry but have proof enough to pull one over on Kat, she’d be golden.

  She returned home and took up residence of the couch, which was where her mother found her hours later, papers spread out over the coffee table.

  “Where were you last night?” Her mom asked, toeing off her shoes. “I was worried.”

  “I was out, sorry. Passed out on a friend’s couch.” Marcey exhaled, rubbing at her eyes. The words were starting to blur together, and she hadn’t made heads or tails of Charlie’s plans.

  “Where did you get all of that dusty junk?”

  “Storage unit.” Marcey grunted, not looking up.

  Her mother wrinkled her nose as she peered down at the mess of papers covered in Charlie’s spindly handwriting. Marcey saw it like a slow-moving accident. The photograph sticking out of the top of Charlie’s book in her mother’s hand before Marcey could reach up and stop her. This wasn’t good. No, no. Oh no…

  “This is…” Her mother’s tone took on a far-off tone, as though the memory evoked in her was long-denied. She stared at it for a long time before tucking the photograph back into the notebook and disappearing down the hall. Marcey swallowed. Should she go after her mother and demand to know the truth about what had happened between her and Charlie all those years ago? Marcey didn’t move. She didn’t want to have that conversation. Not now. Not ever. Her mother was a liar, and Marcey couldn’t bear the idea of her admitting it to her face.

  She gathered her things and retreated into her bedroom, where she locked the door and slid down to sit on the floor. The emotions of the day flowed off her in tears. Relief, gratitude, and fear all massed into a messy series of sobs as s
he stared, blurry-eyed, at the photograph of Shelly, Kat, and Charlie. What was she going to do? Her mother had seen.

  It was only a matter of time before other people did too. Johnson, Shelly, even Kat Barber would see through her. See that she was in over her head. She picked her phone up and dialed Kat’s number, putting it to her ear and listening to the crackle-pulse tone of the line. It wasn’t that late, and she was still in the city.

  “I see that you continue to have no concept of when is an unacceptable time to call.”

  “Coming from someone with no respect for a person’s privacy, you’re one to talk.” Marcey closed her eyes. She could push back, even with nothing, right? “Aren’t you still in New York if you’re leaving messages on my door?”

  “No,” Kat said shortly. She yawned. It was four in the morning in the UK. Marcey decided she didn’t care that she’d woken Kat up. “You’ll finally allow yourself in my presence then, Marcey Daniels?”

  “I got caught. You made sure I did. Why?”

  “You’re three steps behind, Marcey. This isn’t about you.”

  “William LePage was the arresting officer.”

  That got Kat’s attention. The sharp inhalation and click of her tongue told Marcey Kat was surprised. Good.

  “Ah,” she said. “That changes things.”

  “Does it?”

  “Come and see me, Marcey. I believe it’s time we discussed the elephant in the room.” It was spoken like a dare, a challenge. A crooked finger beckoning her back into darkness. A siren’s call.

  CHAPTER 11

  Kat, Away

  Marcey slung her carry-on bag over her shoulder, her body aching and her mind muddled. Her seat was at the middle of the center row of the transatlantic flight. She was tired, jet lagged, and desperately wanted to be away from people. Grudgingly, she followed the signs for domestic baggage claim and arrivals, hating all the noise. Anxiety sat like a knot in her stomach. She’d never done anything like this before, flying halfway around the world to meet someone. Someone who terrified and intrigued Marcey, her presence a blinding light looming large on the horizon.

  Unfamiliar accents and a cacophonous multitude of languages surrounded her. She’d never been to Heathrow Airport before, or England for that matter. At least she’d cleared customs. A shrill beeping cut through the buzz of conversation like a gunshot. Marcey fumbled in her pocket. A few other people did the same, but it was Marcey’s phone ringing. Marcey slid her finger over the phone’s screen. The number was restricted. Only the caller’s location, Dannemora, NY was visible.

  Marcey grinned. Darius. A politely disinterested operator’s voice came onto the line. “This is a collect call from an inmate at a New York State penitentiary. Would you like to accept the charges for this call?”

  “Yes.” A pause. Marcey bit back a huff of annoyance. There was a very specific script for this, and the operators, she had learned, were trained to listen for a certain line and nothing else. “Yes, I will accept the charges,” she clarified.

  There was a moment of static before Darius’s drawling voice came over the line. “Hey, Mar.”

  She missed him. Missed his voice and his letters. They didn’t talk nearly as much as they’d used to, but the communication was always constant. She’d been too caught up in Charlie’s book, and Darius had retreated into preparations for his appearance before the parole board. He was too busy using his limited phone availability to speak to Devon or his ma to have any time for Marcey. A little twitch of dread appeared in Marcey’s stomach. Did he know what she was up to?

  This call was a pleasant surprise, one that Marcey couldn’t quite contain her joy over receiving. “Darius,” she said breathlessly. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  He chuckled. “Yours too.”

  She paused under a sign indicating that arrivals and domestic baggage claim were down a set of stairs. “Is everything okay, Dar?”

  “Been hearin’ the craziest things. Devon won’t shut up about you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t sure what to make of his awful attempt at small talk. I figured you’d tell me better.”

  “They monitor these calls,” Marcey said, her voice flat. “I can’t exactly tell you anything.”

  “Tell me why Devon’s being so weird about this parole board hearing then.” The phone receiver rattled in Marcey’s ear. “I heard your name today, from some dude in here for white-collar stuff. Not Devon.” He let the implication of all that he wasn’t saying sink in for a moment. He shouldn’t have overheard at all. “He said he heard from a buddy of his that you were the heir apparent, whatever that means.”

  A cold knife of fear cut through Marcey’s resolve. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, chewing nervously on chapped skin. “I know exactly what it means,” she answered. “And even if you didn’t, you probably already asked Devon to tell you all about it, didn’t you?”

  “Never said that,” Darius shot back. “You aren’t getting involved in something, are you, Mar? We talked about this.”

  A hot flash of anger surged in Marcey’s stomach. It was a familiar companion, the same rage Marcey had felt when she’d realized she’d been set up at the Perôt. This wasn’t acting though, pushing more hurt and fear into a situation to see what would happen. No, this was genuine, hatred that tasted coppery in her mouth as the retort rose to her lips without warning. “You’re not my protector anymore, Darius. What I do is my business, not yours, and certainly not Devon Austin Jackson’s.”

  He exhaled. He knew her tells as well as she knew his. This was the moment when Darius rolled over and died, allowing Marcey’s rage to build. He never participated in the rage—in allowing Marcey to let the creatures that lurked beneath the surface of her calm exterior loose into the wild. No. Instead Darius preferred to completely disengage with Marcey when she reached these moments of emotion. Sometimes she wondered if it was because he did not want to experience her emotion, or if it was because he was simply unable to relate.

  It cut into her, a knife sinking into her skin and reminding Marcey, yet again, that she was shouldering the guilt of what happened to Darius for no reason. He hated that about her. Hated how she blamed herself for what happened to him.

  “I’m not some prop for your guilt complex,” Darius shot back. “If you go through with this, Mar, we’re done.”

  “Done?” Marcey scowled. “For what? For me caring about you and wanting to make sure that your life isn’t fucking shit when you get out of that hellhole?”

  “Linda isn’t going to let me out and we both know it. I have two years left on this sentence. I can’t count on it being a sure thing that my good behavior gets me an appearance before the parole board, let alone a chance. She’s gonna fucking show up and tell them about how those EMTs had to give her daughter a damn Narcan shot because she’d taken too many of those pills.”

  Air escaped Marcey’s nose sharply. “You don’t think she would actually do that, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her if you fucking piss her off.” His glare was evident in his tone. Marcey worked her jaw, stewing. “You’re not just fucking with your own life when you do shit like this. You gotta fucking remember that when you do this impulsive bullshit.”

  “I’m not—”

  The airport intercom chose that moment to announce, in plain English, that Marcey was welcome to and should enjoy her stay in London. Marcey’s eyes fluttered closed. “I can’t really talk now, Dar. I have no idea how expensive calling collect is internationally.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Can’t say.” It was pretty fucking obvious, and Darius wasn’t stupid, but Marcey didn’t want Darius to repeat the location in case anyone could overhear. That wouldn’t work for the plan.

  There were eyes on her. Marcey looked down the stairs at a blonde woman standing with her hands plunged deep into the pockets of her long khaki rain jacket. Marcey’s breath left her. Kat Barber was shorter than Marcey had e
xpected, standing in dark brown boots up to her knees, an expectant look on her face.

  “Why not?”

  Kat Barber was smiling up at her, her lips curling into a crooked smile that dimpled her cheek. Marcey raised a hand tentatively and waved. Kat Barber pulled her hand from her pocket and waved back. There was cheekiness about her smile, like she’d just gotten away with something, like she was plotting the end of the world. Marcey took in Kat’s dirty-blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looked amazing, a dream come alive only to realize that such dreams never came without some trepidation.

  “Seriously, Marcey, where the hell are you?”

  “Tell you later, Dar.” She hung up on him and headed down to the final security checkpoint. She’d cleared customs in two countries without incident. This was an accomplishment, a victory to be savored.

  “I thought you’d be taller, Marcey Daniels.” Kat Barber’s voice was far richer in person, full of warmth and humor. On the floor beside Kat was Marcey’s checked bag.

  Kat Barber’s eyes were green, and her makeup was soft but absolutely perfect despite the late afternoon hour. Marcey felt rumpled, standing next to her, but she had been on a plane for the better part of seven hours and Marcey felt she was allowed.

  “I thought you’d be…” Marcey cast around for an appropriate response to Kat’s barb, but nothing came. Her preconceived notions of Kathryn Barber were not entirely unfounded—they came from the picture of her and Shelly with Charlie on the beach in Rio. Kat, sun-kissed, the highlights in her hair shining in the sun. She settled on, “More blonde.” In the picture, Kat’s hair was the color of straw just harvested. It was faded now, dull with the winter. Marcey liked it better this way.

  It won her a quirk of pretty lips stained dark with lipstick and a polite, but dismissive, nod. “We’re going to have to work on that.”