by Mary Stone
She didn’t have time to think about it. Sun made the turnoff from Highway 1 onto a small side road where the faded green rental bungalow sat at the end of a short cul-de-sac. They were less than a minute away from the scene.
Parked in front of the home was a San Clemente cruiser. Sheriff Marchwood and Detective Patterson had arrived first. The front door stood open. Winter opened her mouth to tell Sun to hurry, but it was too late.
One side of the small house exploded, shards of siding and broken wood blasting outward as far as fifty feet. As if the structure had taken its last breath, half the roof collapsed in a crooked dive inward. They heard the impact through the rolled-up windows of the car.
Sun slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into park at a crazy angle to the police cruiser. They were out of the vehicle and moving toward the house when a figure stumbled through the open front door and crumpled to the ground.
“Shannon!” Sun yelled.
The figure didn’t move.
They reached her at the same time, squinting against the intense heat of the fire that rolled off the house in waves. Was there a second bomb? Anything else that could detonate under the penetrating heat of the flames?
Winter had no time to worry about that.
Sheriff Marchwood’s eyebrows and lashes were gone. Her face was already a painful red color, beginning to blister.
“Son of a bitch.” Sun stared down at the woman in horror, transfixed.
“Sun!” Winter yelled. “Move. Call for backup.”
She didn’t react.
“Now!”
Winter didn’t wait to see if Sun obeyed. She grabbed Marchwood under the arms and pulled her away from the house, toward where the cars were parked. She held her breath against the smell of cooked flesh and tried not to think about the damage she could be doing to the woman’s burned skin. She also tried not to think about Detective Patterson.
It could have been them.
The fact that Sun had pulled over while Winter had her vision had kept them from getting to the house before the other two arrived. She flinched as, with a creaking, rumbling crash, the rest of the roof caved.
Working as fast as she could move, she slapped out any embers still glowing on the sheriff’s clothing and held her breath as she checked for a pulse. As she heard Sun’s voice in the background, higher than normal and shaky, she started CPR. Sun’s voice faded away.
Everything else faded away too. Even time, as the seconds unraveled into minutes.
She was unaware of anything for a while except counting. Rhythmic chest compressions, the blowing of breath into another person. Aching arms, quivering with strain, but knowing that she couldn’t stop. She was breathing for Shannon Marchwood. Pumping her heart. Sending oxygen through her limp body. Keeping her from having permanent brain damage when she was resuscitated.
If she was resuscitated.
Instead of thinking about that, Winter focused on the dull throbbing in her palms, where her hands, one over the other with fingers interlaced, pushed down on Shannon’s sternum in a repeated rhythm, hard enough that she knew they’d be sore and bruised the next day.
Sometime later, Winter registered sirens in a vague way, but she kept going. There were voices, loud and questioning, but she ignored them. Hands finally pulled her away.
“Come on.” It was Sun. Her face was grim, but she grabbed Winter’s arm in a gentle grip and pulled her toward the car.
Winter felt lightheaded, the sun too bright, and blinked against the feeling. “We need to stay here. This is an active crime scene.”
“There are officers, firefighters, and EMTs swarming this place. San Clemente’s undersheriff is in charge right now, and the Orange County Sheriff’s Department has more on the way. I’ve called Max Osbourne back at home. He’s coordinating with the OCSD and the FBI office in San Diego in case they need more agents to assist. Things are covered here.”
Sun steered Winter to the car with manual effort and opened the door for her. She all but pushed Winter in, holding her head down like she was loading a perp into the back of a cruiser.
She climbed in the driver’s side, tersely instructed Winter to buckle up, and took out her purse. She dug out a small packet of hand wipes, some sanitizer, a half-drunk bottle of water, and a stick of peppermint gum, passing them over to Winter as she did.
Then, not saying a word, she drove them back to San Clemente.
9
Almost forty-eight hours to the minute after Heidi dropped him off at the Park Lane Hotel, Ryan received a brief text.
Floating Mountain Tea House. 6:30.
He’d read the dossier she’d put together on him. She had him well and truly by the balls. But he’d had a lot of time to think in the last two days. He was ready for her.
The tea room was about a mile and a half from his hotel. The sky was dark with impending snow, but Ryan opted to walk. Two days in one room was two days too many. He wanted a clear head when dealing with Heidi.
She’d gone for hipster this time, he noted. Black hair, loose and shoulder-length, except for a couple of small braids twisted back at her temples, and black-framed Buddy Holly glasses. Jeans, no makeup, and a thick, ugly green sweater added bulk to her slim frame.
She was already seated in an alcove near a window that overlooked 72nd Street, cross-legged on a flat cushion on the floor. What looked like a textbook was open on the low table in front of her, with a pen and notebook beside it. She could pass for a college student studying for an exam.
There were a few other artsy and pretentious-looking customers in the tea house. Most had earbuds in and were seated on the floor with their own books. A few couples spoke in low voices and had their own little tables farther away.
He ordered what he hoped was just a strong black tea with nothing weird in it and joined Heidi. Still in his Oliver persona—the professor to her student, he supposed—he sat down on the floor cushion with a little feigned difficulty.
Without speaking, she moved the small potted plant on the table to one side and slid the book across the table. She’d written in the top margin of the book in neat, precise handwriting.
The Phoenix Hotel, p. 263.
He looked up at Heidi. Her eyes were once again the normal nondescript brown behind her glasses. There was no expression in them.
The Phoenix was one of the most exclusive hotels in New York. He had an admitted weakness for luxury and had come across an article on the internet about the place. If a regular person wanted a room there, they could splurge on one for fifteen hundred a night. If a rich person wanted to stay there, they could get fancier digs for a few thousand a night. An insanely wealthy person could rent a suite for a half million a month.
The hotel had been around since the 1930s, renovated in the last decade or so, and a fortunate few were rumored to live there full-time. Their annual housing costs might feed a starving third-world country for a year.
He turned to page 263 of what looked like a textbook history of modern crime in New York and began to read about The Phoenix Hotel robbery.
By 1972, Samuel Nato and Bobby Comfort already had a successful string of high-profile hotel heists under their belts. Affiliated with the Lucchese crime family, they’d hit most of the shining jewels of New York City’s luxury hotel hot spots, including the Sherry Netherland, the Regency, the Drake, The Carlyle, and The Saint Regis.
After organizing a hit on The Phoenix, they would top their careers off with the crowning achievement of ending up in the Guinness Book of World Records as the most successful hotel robbers in history.
One thing struck Ryan as odd. Despite the gang’s heavy mob connections and the fact that their group included Ali-Ben, a professional killer from the Albanian mafia, they pulled off the heist with no bloodshed. They carried three dozen pairs of handcuffs and targeted the hotel on New Years’ Day when staffing was slim, and most of the guests were hungover.
One by one, they politely cuffed security guards and hotel staff
, lining them up on the floor of the registration area. They were careful to treat everyone well, leaving the cuffs off anyone who looked sick. They even went as far as to summon a doctor—a fellow hotel guest—for a man who claimed to be having a heart attack.
Then, they broke into dozens of lockboxes belonging to the wealthy guests whose names they recognized from the newspapers. A short time later, the group walked away, having lifted millions in stolen goods and cash after informing the handcuffed group that anyone who identified them would be murdered. That was pretty much the extent of the violence, and they could have been polite about it, he supposed.
Ryan had to grin at the last detail in the story. On their way out, the gang presented a twenty-dollar tip to each staff member of the hotel. Coincidentally, not one of them were able to provide any identifying information on any of the gang members later when questioned by police.
You had to appreciate manners, class, and a willingness to reward cooperation.
He looked up at Heidi, considering. If she wanted to pull another stylish robbery like The Phoenix, he could get behind an idea like that. For the time being, he had to work with her until he found another way out. And this was a hell of a lot more appealing than the thought of another violent bank robbery.
He thought about the bank manager, sprawled out on the floor of the lobby, a surprised expression on what was left of her face. That wasn’t his kind of job, and it left a bad taste in his mouth. He preferred finesse over brute force and blood.
As his mind played through the upcoming events, Heidi sipped her tea, watching him. Waiting for a response.
“Just two people?” he asked in a voice that wouldn’t carry.
Heidi shrugged. “That’s all we’ll need.”
“New Years?”
“Tonight.”
Ryan’s palms went damp at her flat statement, and he gripped his mug more securely before it could slip from his grasp. He was good—an experienced and accomplished thief with a natural cleverness and aptitude for the work—but bloody hell.
She was insane.
10
In a neat black suit that hugged his portly middle just enough to not be tacky, Oliver Brown, a middle-aged professor on sabbatical from Oxford University, walked in a slow, sedate way across the checkerboard-patterned floor of the lobby of The Phoenix.
His eyes, behind the clear glass of tortoiseshell frames, appeared to take in an appreciative view of the lobby’s rich gilding. The sumptuous chandeliers, dripping with crystal. The velvet-upholstered furniture that picked up the green accents in the silk that hung on the wall behind the reception counter.
But canny Ryan O’Connelly studied the exits, the hallways, and the number of employees that moved through the lobby with brisk and efficient purpose. They were all dressed in formal white-gloved, black and white uniforms. He guessed that Heidi would take advantage of the standard uniforms as a way for them both to blend in. He wouldn’t have to worry about maneuvering Oliver Brown’s bulging belly out of any tight spots.
Behind the concierge desk stood two men, one of them security judging by his graying crew cut, heavy build, and alert gaze. That gaze skimmed right over the well-dressed, unassuming professor.
Near a claw-footed mahogany table stood a blonde, just this side of overweight. The older woman had the contented, well-fed look of a sophisticated society matron. In a plum-colored pantsuit, with discreet winks of gold at her ears and wrist, she waited for the professor, fingering the leaf of an exotic bird of paradise flower spearing out of a decorative gold urn. The absent way in which she performed the small movement was probably as calculated as everything else she did.
Not for the first time, he had to admire Ms. Presley’s skill at disguise. She was possibly even better than he was. If he hadn’t been expecting it, he might have walked right past her, and he was an observant sort by nature.
She was a chameleon.
“Oliver,” she called out, crossing in front of the concierge desk. “So good to see you.” She gave him a seductive smile that made him want to gag as she held out one French-manicured hand.
He took it with an obliging, obsequious flourish. “My dear Constance, the pleasure is mine,” he replied, bringing Heidi’s cold fingers up to brush against his lips with exaggerated gallantry.
“How has your stay been so far?” Heidi purred, all simper and good manners.
“Excellent. I at last found the time to finish that chapter that’s been plaguing me for two weeks. You’re looking the very picture of loveliness, as always. Shall we go get a drink?” He smiled in a wolfish way, the way a slightly older man with thick jowls and a paunch might at a passably attractive female who showed lukewarm interest. “I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”
It was like performing a very boring play for an audience who paid no attention.
She laughed in a dutiful trill—ha, ha, ha—tucking her arm through his.
Exit stage left.
They visited the Rotunda, with its spectacular curving staircases and exquisite murals. They ate a high-priced dinner at Perrine, and then moved on to the Two E, a chic lounge that featured excellent live jazz in the evenings.
Then, Constance Foster and Oliver Brown went up to her room together, an expensive suite on the forty-first floor.
There, Constance disappeared into the bathroom to shed her plum-colored pantsuit in favor of something more comfortable. However, instead of donning lingerie, Heidi came out in a crisp, black and white uniform, a tidy brunette wig, drawn back into a bun. She wore pristine white gloves on her hands and low, rubber-soled black boots instead of dress shoes.
When Ryan left the suite’s second bedroom, having changed into his own matching uniform, keeping the wig in place at Heidi’s request, Heidi was screwing a silencer on to her pistol.
“Yours is on the bed,” she nodded, eying him.
Her scrutiny made him uneasy. He’d done his best to change his attitude. The charming, devil-may-care Ryan was back, at least on the surface. Not the trapped rat that had spent two days pacing his small room at the Park Lane Hotel, trying to figure out a way to escape this mess. He’d been ready to gnaw off his own arm.
He hated feeling trapped. Always had. That was one reason Heidi’s threats held so much weight. He’d rather kill himself than go to prison.
But he realized his mistake in those two days. He was letting on that he was intimidated. He needed to bluff his way through this.
He grinned at her. “Thanks, love, but where are the handcuffs? Not sure how you plan for just the two of us to carry three dozen pairs, but I’m game if you are.”
She narrowed her eyes, unamused. “Handcuffs aren’t efficient. Bullets are.”
His gut twisted, but he didn’t let his smile slip.
“Maybe you should fill me in on the plan, since it appears to be about go-time. I had the impression we’d be working in the spirit of the original heist.”
“You were wrong.” She set her gun on a nearby table that already held an open laptop facing away from him and sat down in a chair within arms’ reach of the weapon. “The original heist could have been handled in a much more effective way.”
“The security cameras on floors forty-one through forty-four are set to loop, starting at 2:36 a.m. At that time, the hotel elevators will stop working above this floor. The corresponding stairwell door locks will only open with my card key. We’ll have about fifty-two minutes to hit three targets.”
Ryan struggled to keep his posture relaxed, his tone unconcerned, but his anxiety had come back full-force. “And those targets are?”
“Qaaid Al-Muhammad is first. He’s a minor Saudi prince. He’s also wealthy enough to have the entire forty-second floor completely reserved. A man like that will have cash, without a doubt.”
Ryan was appalled. “But will he be alone? A high-profile guy like that wouldn’t be. There’s no way.”
“He has bodyguards,” she snapped, clearly impatient. “But only two in his r
ooms at any given time. He doesn’t like to feel crowded. They rotate shifts.”
Great. Bodyguards. Probably trained to assassinate anyone who tried to assassinate their employer.
“On the forty-third floor, Richard Covington. He’s a financial genius, on the fast-track to be the next Warren Buffet. At last check, he was worth upwards of seventy billion.”
And probably had a security system to match, Ryan thought. It was madness to think they could do this successfully on such short notice.
“On the same floor, our last target is Charlotte Edwards. She’s ninety-six years old and the only surviving heir to an industrial magnate who made his fortune in the early part of the last century.”
Now, he wanted to drop his head in his hands. An old lady. They were going to kill an old lady. He kept the disgust off his face through sheer force of will.
Still, Heidi sensed his disquiet. Her lip lifted in a slight sneer. “You’ll be handling that one. Just smother her with a pillow, since you’re squeamish. We’ll do the prince first and then split up.”
Not an old woman. He couldn’t.
Ryan was back into trapped-rat mode, trying to figure a way out of this. Heidi gave him no opportunity. With one hard look, she had him trailing her, following her lead.
The whole experience was lowering, for a man of his talent. And then, it got disturbing.
Ryan was sickened by just how “efficient” Heidi proved herself to be. At the door to the prince’s rooms, she produced a master key. She let herself in as he followed. Two men—the bodyguards, he assumed—were lounging in a luxurious, well-appointed sitting room, watching television.
Before either of them fully realized they weren’t alone, there was a mass of gore where both their throats had been. The silencer muffled Heidi’s two rapid shots so that they weren’t much louder than a staple gun. His stomach heaved, and he looked away.
“Make sure they’re dead,” she hissed at him and moved at a rapid clip toward where he assumed the bedrooms were.