The Day Before Yesterday's Thief: A Prequel to the Eric Beckman Series

by Al Macy

  Bolton nodded.

  “We’ll give you a thousand dollars for thirty minutes of work. It’s something for … just something for a joke, understand?”

  Bolton scoffed. “A joke worth a thousand dollars?”

  Danny looked at his companions. “Okay, you’re a smart kid. We’re just going to do something to scare someone, and we want you to help. Okay?”

  “You gotta tell me more, first.”

  “Right. Sure. Smart kid. We want you to write something using the handwriting in a letter that we’re going to show you, okay?”

  Bolton shrugged.

  “But let me tell you something, kid. If you ever tell anyone about this, we’ll kill you and drop your body in the ocean.” He pointed in the general direction of the Atlantic.

  They showed him the letter. It was just an everyday letter from a man to his mother. Then they showed him what they wanted to write. He could remember it still.

  Goodbye cruel world,

  I can’t go on any longer. I can’t live with the guilt of killing Sammy Wilton and framing an inocent man for his killing.

  Sincerely,

  Gary McArdle

  Bolton looked at Danny and then at the big men against the wall. “Are you kidding me?”

  The three visitors exchanged looks.

  Danny said, “It’s not really what it seems.”

  Bolton shook his head. “‘Goodbye cruel world? I cannot go on?’ No one’s going to believe someone would write that, even if they’re about to croak themselves. And think about it, the writing style is totally different. This McArdle guy uses better words, and he wouldn’t misspell the word ‘innocent.’”

  “You can do better?”

  “Of course I can. But it will cost you two grand, not one.”

  They agreed, and why not? The mob paying two grand was like a Rockefeller putting two pennies in a gumball machine. Bolton wrote a new suicide note while worrying about the intelligence of the people he was getting involved with. When the ink was dry, he wiped the paper with a dry towel to remove any fingerprints.

  They paid up and, as before, told him there was more money where that came from.

  After they left, Bolton spread the money on the table. It was more than he earned in half a year.

  They brought him other forgery jobs, sometimes just signatures, a few suicide notes, and even a prison-release form to be signed with a judge’s handwriting. It wasn’t long before he quit his day job. Soon after that, the crime syndicate started paying him a generous monthly payment—a retainah, Danny called it. He got respect, and soon they were talking about other operations with him and even bringing him into some meetings.

  Bolton was smarter than he’d given himself credit for. He could have done better in school. Good thing he didn’t. In a real job, he’d never make the kind of money he was making from the mob.

  He found that the mob wasn’t much different from a corporation. Or a military organization. He often thought of the joke: The most important thing in this job is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it made. In the mob, the most important thing was a lack of conscience, and that was something he didn’t need to fake.

  Advancement in the mob included tests but not the written kind. One test came early, when Bolton was called in to write a suicide note for a man who was about to “jump” off a cliff. The man, a mobster who had been skimming the collections, was in the next room pleading his case. As soon as Bolton signed the note, they handed him an aluminum bat. “One hit on the top of the head,” they said. Bolton didn’t hesitate, even when he discovered he knew the guy he was about to murder.

  Not caring whether he lived or died was another valuable asset in his new line of work. He volunteered for the riskiest jobs. If the mob had annual performance reviews, his would have received a check mark next to Cool under Pressure.

  Bolton worked his way up. Organizing and administering protection rackets. Heists. Hits.

  How to succeed in organized crime without really trying? Smarts, an absent conscience, and a missing will to live.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Our marriage had become a pressure cooker. A pressure cooker with a broken relief valve.

  Bolton, in addition to leading a double life, had a new boss and a big heist coming up. Me, I wanted to kill him for his lies and deceit—no loss to the world—but I couldn’t let on that I knew his secrets—not until the time was right. Aargh!

  I couldn’t go to the police. I was a criminal, and any extra attention could alert the authorities to my true history. In addition, it was likely the mob had “agents” among the police. Could I go to the FBI? Not to the fat creep Sibbett but to Elon Bah. No, I would handle things myself.

  Our pressure cooker exploded less than a week after I discovered he was in the mob. Like the low-energy button press that sets off a nuclear explosion, it started with a tiny thing.

  Bolton’s beard grew quickly. If he didn’t shave it, I’d get a bad case of whisker burn when we were intimate. And yes, I endured our lovemaking even though I wanted to cut off his Bolton-bolt. I faked more headaches than usual, but I was determined to keep what I knew under his radar—even under the covers.

  On a night soon after I’d learned who he really was, we had a tense dinner. I can’t remember what we argued over, perhaps he’d objected to some embarrassing thing I’d said when we were out with friends, or I had complained about how he treated our housecleaner. In any case, the stage was set.

  From early in our relationship, I would occasionally remind him he hadn’t shaved, with a gentle caress of his cheek. On that night, that caress was the spark in the powder keg that our marriage had become. I was taking in some plates from the table after dinner—my night to clean up—when I absentmindedly reached around and grazed his stubbly cheek with the backs of my fingers.

  Back when we were first married, he might have taken my wrist gently, maybe kissed my hand, and said, “Guess someone needs to shave before tonight.” That’s not what happened.

  He spun around and yelled, “I hate that!” Spilling his wine, he flung my arm out of the way and backhanded me across the face with his right hand. Or attempted to do that. I jerked back, dropping the plates, and grabbed his pinkie and ring fingers before his hand could connect. Apparently, they hadn’t taught him to fight in the mob.

  People talk about things going into slow motion during accidents or fights. I must be different, because for me, things go into super slow motion. A wonderful relaxation comes over me, and I feel as if I’m a wise observer, directing my actions with all the time in the world.

  Perhaps it’s this magical experience that fuels my addiction to jewel heists. The plates were halfway to the floor, separating slightly as they fell. I foresaw what was going to happen next: I’d bend his fingers back until he bent his knees and leaned back to prevent them from breaking. His left fist was already coming around but would only serve to throw him off-balance, since it would connect with nothing but air. I’d spin him down to the ground and decide where to go from there.

  Unfortunately, the time dilation gave my rational mind the opportunity to ask some questions: Do you really want to reveal your fighting skills to him? His fist came around into the straightaway. At some point, might your life not depend on keeping him in the dark?

  La naiba! I released his fingers and watched his left fist come at me, expanding to fill my entire visual field.

  * * *

  Bolton’s left fist connected solidly with Viviana’s cheek, and her head arched back. Perfect punch! Her body followed. The dishes crashed to the floor, breaking into pieces. Viviana’s ass hit next. She rolled back until her head smashed into the floor and she slid into the corner. Too bad for you, you stupid-ass bitch.

  He rubbed his fist and looked at her, not surprised at his lack of remorse. Remorse wasn’t in his DNA. He’d known that for years. The heist was only a few days away. It’s good she learned this lesson—she’d be easier to control.

&nbs
p; Bolton took his coat from the rack and left the condo.

  * * *

  I listened to the sound of our condo door closing. I sat up, smiling. Could have been worse. I’d pulled back enough so that his blow didn’t do any real damage but would still let him feel the connection.

  I took one for the team.

  Had done the smart thing? Da. Of course. His time would come. The fact that he was a wife beater would help me subdue my conscience.

  I got up, kicked the broken plates away, and took some ice from the freezer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Bolton had assembled the gang in the dining room of the safe house, and he sat at the head of the table. The Delfina’s pizzas that Lucy brought were half gone, and the room smelled like a garlic factory. The empty Budweiser longnecks had been pushed to the far end of the table.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” He looked to Gregor.

  Gregor held up his hands. “I’m just observing here. This is your show, Vance.”

  “Right. The job is a cakewalk. The family will be in France, and we’ve paid off the night watchman. We’re going to beat the hell out of him and leave him tied up, so they won’t suspect him.”

  Gregor said, “They will, though. Just kill him.”

  Lucy shook her head. “We don’t need to. The guy who contacted him is a temporary guy from out of town. And we’re going to wear stockings over our heads.”

  “It’s not worth it. He’ll hear your voices, see your—never mind. It’s your ass, Bolton.”

  “Look. I know heists.” Bolton clenched his jaw, something he was doing too often lately. Gregor was a rackets man. He doesn’t belong here. “Big score or small score, the penalty if we’re caught is the same. But add in murder, and it’s a whole new ballgame.”

  “But if he’s dead, they won’t catch you. But, like I said, it’s your ass.”

  Bolton took a pull from his beer and counted in his head, calming himself. “Okay. Lucy will be the lookout. She’ll be in the woods by the driveway with a walkie-talkie. Tommy is going to steal a U-Haul truck. You don’t have it already?”

  Tommy looked less like a gangster than anyone in the room, with curly blond hair and a deep tan. And he was always smiling. “No, I’ll steal it on the day of. No problem.”

  Gregor raised his eyebrows, but Bolton ignored him. “Tommy will back the truck up to the house, and we start loading it up. It’s going to be a target-rich environment, but I have a list of the things that are most important. There are five paintings that we’re going to take. No reason to cut them out of the frames, just pull them off the walls. The most important is this one.” He slid a photo of The Storm on the Sea of Galilee to the center of the table. “This is a Rembrandt, the only seascape he ever painted.”

  “A fucking Rembrandt,” Tommy said.

  Bolton nodded. “Right. It’s an insurance policy.”

  Gregor frowned. “Insurance?”

  “Exactly. It’s not like stealing money or jewels. What most people don’t know about high-end art theft is this: If you’re caught, you can often trade what you stole for leniency.”

  “How the hell does that work?”

  “Art like this—” he tapped the print “—is priceless. There’s a lot of pressure to get it back. So, you just say, ‘I didn’t have anything to do with the theft, but I can get it for you if you reduce my sentence.’”

  “And that works?”

  “All the time. You just don’t hear about it.”

  Gregor looked down at the floor and shook his head. “I think you ought to worry more about not getting caught than what you’re going to do if they nab you.”

  “I’m just explaining how art theft works.” Bolton’s head felt as if it were being squeezed with a giant pipe clamp.

  “And the safe?”

  “Right. I was getting to that. On the day of, we’re going to kidnap Viviana and the kid. Jimmy here is going to help with that. We’ve got a place to stash them until we’re ready, then Jimmy and his partner will bring them to the Chabot place. The kid opens the safe, then we tie him up and take him with us—for future jobs.”

  Gregor made a time-out sign, a “T” with his hands. “Just take the kid. Your wife is trouble we don’t need.”

  “The kid can’t be controlled unless she’s with him. He’ll flip out. Trust me.”

  “Jeez. He’s only sixteen and pretty small, from what you’ve said. We’ll bring in Fat Phil. He’ll handle the kid.”

  “You don’t under—look, this is my show, right?”

  Gregor waved his hand as if shooing away a fly. “Whatever. And have you got enough guys for this?”

  “Too many on the gang and it gets unwieldy. We’ve got all the time in the world to load up the truck.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “What?”

  “I’m coming on the heist. Just to observe.”

  Bolton massaged his temples. This is going to be a clusterfuck.

  * * *

  On the morning of July 25, I walked into Samuel’s office with two Egg McMuffins in a McDonald’s bag. After dropping them on his desk, I poured myself a cup of coffee.

  “It’s good you’re here. I’ve been trying—” He looked up. “Oh, Viviana!”

  I touched my shiner. Aargh!

  Samuel stood and came around the desk. He wore old-fashioned argyle socks, no shoes. He got in close. A vein in his forehead pulsed. “Who did that to you?”

  “Forget it. I’ve got things under control.” I pulled the visitor chair close to the desk, sat, and distributed the McMuffins. “What have you got?”

  “Bolton did that?”

  I said nothing.

  Samuel shook his head. “I received the information from my confidential informant but thirty minutes ago. I called you, but you must have already left.”

  “And?”

  “The Chabots left for France today. And they have a big safe in their basement.”

  I froze mid-gulp then poured the rest of the coffee down my throat. I grabbed a McMuffin and stuffed it into the pocket of my cargo pants. I headed for the door.

  “You’re going to get Andrei,” Samuel said.

  “Of course. I hope it’s not too late.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  I pointed to his socks. “No time.”

  * * *

  After making record time driving to Pathways, I slammed my Porsche’s door open and ran up the path. I blasted through the entrance doors.

  The reception nurse and one other looked at me. They both frowned. One cocked her head. My black eye was pretty shocking.

  “Viviana?” The head nurse seemed confused and something more. As if she knew she’d done something wrong.

  No, please no!

  “I need to get Andrei,” I said. “I’m going to take him on a trip, and we may be gone for a while.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her expression only got more puzzled. And frightened.

  “I need him, now. It’s an emergency.”

  The receptionist looked at the other nurse then back to Viviana.

  “But your husband already came and picked him up. You didn’t know?”

  “Bolton came?” La naiba! “And you let him take Andrei?”

  “Yes. He’s your husband. I met him at your wedding. Everything seemed okay.” Her eyes told a different story.

  “When?”

  “Just an hour ago. Is there a—?”

  “How was Andrei?”

  “You mean—?”

  “How did act with Bolton?”

  She couldn’t meet Viviana’s gaze. “It wasn’t good. But Bolton told him he was taking him to you. Andrei had a mini-meltdown, but he was manageable. There was nothing we could do. We called you, but there was no answer.”

  I headed toward the door. I stopped and turned. “If they come back—” not likely “—hide him away, and don’t let anyone know where he is. No matter what.”

  I pushed through the door and sprinted t
o my car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bolton had put Andrei in the back with Fat Phil. Phil lived up to his name and then some. Bolton figured he had some kind of glandular disorder. His double chin would have made Jabba the Hutt jealous. When he spoke, it put on a show that was impossible to look away from.

  Fat Phil was mean. He’d been a hit man when younger, but now, in his fifties, he was sent out to talk to those whose loans from the mob were overdue. Remind them of their responsibilities, as he put it.

  Gregor hadn’t understood—as Bolton did—what would happen when they kidnapped Andrei, but Fat Phil turned out to be the perfect choice for the job. His all-encompassing layers of fat protected him when Andrei kicked and flailed.

  The staff at the home had seemed uncertain, but Bolton could be charming. Disarming. It was one of his skills. They’d brought Andrei down, and Bolton got him to go with him down the front walk to the waiting Chevy Suburban. As planned, he led Andrei and his yes/no board around to the opposite side of the car. When the kid rebelled, Bolton grabbed his arm and passed him to Fat Phil waiting in the backseat. The windows were tinted. Bolton came back around giving a big smile and wave to the apprehensive nurses who had come out front.

  He headed down the drive, glancing back. The nurses were suspicious, but it didn’t matter anymore.

  The wailing began during the handover. Perhaps Andrei had just realized that Viviana wasn’t in the car. Or maybe Fat Phil just freaked him out—he freaked most people out. Soon Andrei’s yelling outclassed what he’d seen when Viviana left them alone in the apartment.

  Bolton glanced in the mirror. Could Fat Phil hold on to Andrei? Teenagers are strong. Maybe Fat Phil’s muscles were strong from pushing his 400 pounds around day after day, Bolton wasn’t sure how that worked.

  Andrei got loose while they were traveling south on 101. He climbed over Fat Phil into the cargo compartment of the Suburban and opened one of the side-by-side doors at the back.

  “Get him!” Bolton yelled, turning back. He swerved, careening into a logging truck in the neighboring lane. The car rocked from the collision and, with a squeal of tires, swerved far into the lane on the opposite side. Bolton got the vehicle under control, watching the action in the rearview mirror. Andrei was definitely going to jump out of the back of the car while they drove sixty-five on the crowded freeway.