King of Thieves

by Shea Godfrey

  “It means I used to be a cop, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “It’s okay, but, listen, I won’t see you tomorrow.”

  Casey had not expected to hear that. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll find you, okay? As soon as I can.”

  Casey waited for more, but she received only silence. It hadn’t really occurred to her that Finn’s phone call might’ve been about something else entirely. Perhaps you’re not the center of the world just yet, you idiot. Casey closed her eyes. “Who should I be looking for, then?”

  “Well, in the spirit of transparency, and goodwill in general”—Finn sounded extremely tired, Casey could almost feel it, but she could hear the smile in her voice—“his name is Malik Kaseem, and he’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. Don’t give him a hard time, okay? He’s not as tough as I am.”

  Casey’s thoughts adjusted to the information. Malik Kaseem, just as Colin said. “I’ll be gentle.”

  “Don’t be gentle, just be careful.”

  Casey searched across the room, and her eyes stopped at the ’47 Cheval Blanc, which sat beside her empty glass. In her own way, Finn was asking her not to shake him loose. “What is it you think will happen to me, Finn, if someone isn’t keeping an eye on me?” Casey waited far longer than she thought it was possible for her to wait, until she couldn’t take it. “Finnegan,” she whispered into the phone.

  “I’m afraid I won’t see you again. Just promise me, please, okay? You can trust Malik.”

  Casey thought about Finn’s statement, and the idea of never seeing Finn again was not a scenario she wished to contemplate. “But can I trust you, Finnegan Starkweather?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply. “But that decision isn’t mine to make—it’s yours.”

  Casey wished Asher were still alive, and not for the first time. She was a better thief than he had been, but he could get to the bottom of any given situation faster than a gravedigger with a new shovel, as Jack liked to say.

  And I have a vested interest in you, Finnegan Starkweather, whether I like it or not, she thought, her emotions fighting it out between a definite sense of want and a good deal of well-founded anxiety. Finn’s energy was an amazing thing, and when it was focused on her, she felt safe and wickedly reckless, two emotions that rarely felt at home in the same room, much less familiar and honest as they sat together on the couch.

  Asher whispered through her thoughts, and at least for now, that much was enough.

  There will be a time, Domino, when you must make a choice between the heart inside you and protecting yourself against what you know to be true of the world. And the world has no concern for such things. It does not give a shit about you and what you want.

  Your moment? You will have precious little time to make up your mind—you must trust me on that. Either you cross the tracks before the train passes, kicking the world in the balls, or you stand and wait, and count the cars like everyone else.

  What can you live with? What can you not? An easy question, that is what I say. Better to choose for yourself than to have that choice taken away from you. Better to be crushed down, every now and then, than to spend your life afraid to make a fucking decision. When I look back? My heart has always won out, and I have no regrets.

  She could hear the echo of Asher’s laughter, rough from cigarettes and cursing the horses at Vincennes, though she had never seen him bet more than fifty francs on any given day.

  And if you choose the wrong thing? There is always another train coming at you, yes? The train from Paris to Marseille runs four times a day. Move faster next time. Choose better.

  Casey smiled. “All right. I’ll be careful, and I won’t hurt him.”

  “I have to go now.”

  “Finn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Watch your back, whatever it is.”

  “Always.” Finn’s reassurance did very little to reassure her.

  “And, Finn?”

  “Yes?”

  Casey bit at the corner of her lower lip as she debated her next words. She could demand to know why Finn was following her, but she knew it wasn’t the question she really wanted to ask. She’d find that out on her own, anyway, and Finn had just opened the door for her. No, what she really wanted to know had nothing to do with such mundane details. “Do you always kiss so deeply?”

  Casey closed her eyes while she waited. She could feel the heat within her face, and she felt like a teenager, hopelessly at the mercy of a single word.

  “There is no deep enough with you, Cassandra Marinos,” Finn said in a quiet, seductive voice. “I found that much out, anyway. I’ll always want to be deeper inside you…and you can take that any way you’d like.”

  Casey smiled, her eyes still shut as her phone went silent.

  Chapter Twelve

  Casey sat in the old high-backed chair, her shoulders pressed against the thin cushion that still remained. Her arms were crossed and she held herself, the strength of her own embrace some small defense against the riot of emotions that raced through her. Her right leg was hooked over her left knee, and she sat as still as a marble statue.

  The lamp beside the chair gave off a full golden light, and she had tipped the shade slightly so as to illuminate the matching chair that faced her, as well as its occupant.

  Each breath she took was slow and even, and her eyes were focused and clear as they followed the brushstrokes. Deep gold, cupped and holding a lighter tone, with a splash of orange here and there. Short brushstrokes layered on top of each other as they moved up the canvas, until the fall of a man’s shadow dropped over them, green with threads of blue pulled through it.

  The man who walked upon the road was dressed in workman’s clothes, most likely wool with button fasteners, which befitted the time when he would’ve walked the road. Blue and black as he followed the path, a box of paints in one hand and a canvas under his other arm, his easel strapped to his back. His straw hat was gold, the color a match to the wheat fields behind him, and a beautiful contrast to the triangle of green grass that cut across the land. The trees that framed him on the road were simple, but the leaves looked as if they would fall if you shook the canvas too hard, bubbles of green and black that might catch the breeze and blow away.

  The horizon was a pure sort of blue that depicted a town, perhaps, in the distance. It brought out the blue of the rocks and pebbles that littered the top of the road he walked. The sky was a thousand spots of pale blue and green, the green becoming lost among the leaves of the trees in the foreground.

  Casey took in a deep breath and let it out slowly between her lips.

  She imagined the colors as they were meant to be seen, thick and bright and filled with the afternoon sun. In reality they were faded, with years and with time and with the vagaries of fate that had named the painting a miracle, just for having survived intact. There was some damage to the lower left side of the canvas, smoke and heat. Someone had put out the flames as they had touched the paint. It made perfect sense.

  The painting was Painter on the Road to Tarascon, created by Vincent van Gogh in the year 1888. And while that was a game-changing fact, it was not the most interesting one.

  It had been seized and labeled degenerate art by the Nazis, and somehow it had wound up in Magdeburg, stored away and waiting to be destroyed. Or at least that had been the plan. As far as the rest of the world knew, it had been turned to ash when the Allies bombed the city in 1945.

  Someone in the Kaiser Friedrich Museum had seen the wonder of it, though, and had most likely risked their life to pull it from the flames. Who had saved it, and where it had been since 1945, Casey had absolutely no idea.

  What she did know was it had sat in Mabelle Babineaux’s attic since Asher had stored it there. When and where he had come by it, she didn’t know that either, but he’d been expecting her to retrieve it. He had left it for her, and the letter attached to the back of the frame, tacked beside the edge of the can
vas, had told her as much.

  Along with the letter, there were papers of authentication, signed by Sir Verle Dandemount, who at one time had been the world’s foremost authority on Vincent van Gogh. He was dead now, but the papers had been signed, witnessed, and notarized. His reputation and expertise were beyond reproach. Why he had kept silent about the survival of the painting was a question that Casey had tried to answer for three years, and she had yet to come close to an answer. She knew that Asher and Sir Verle had known each other for many years, though, and Sir Verle Dandemount had not been the cloistered scholar the world had considered him to be. This did not, however, negate his expertise.

  Mabelle Babineaux had been a talented jewel thief in her time, and she had taken some part in Asher’s education when he was young. Her well-kept Victorian home near Duboce Park in San Francisco had always been a safe house, not just for Asher and herself, but for Blackjack Vermillion and many others throughout the years. Its upkeep and restoration had been financed by any number of people who owed Aunt Mabelle a debt of gratitude, and the house was spectacular in just about every way. This included state of the art security, and two separate escape tunnels that would lead you to the far side of the park. They had been constructed during the Roaring Twenties, apparently, and Mabelle had seen to their safe restoration. Asher had a permanent room on the top floor, with access to a private attic, and since his death three years ago, the room had belonged to Casey.

  Asher’s last message to her had sent her here, and she had found the painting just as it was at that very moment, waiting to be discovered.

  Casey glanced at the table to her right.

  Asher’s letter still sat there beside the lamp, safe within the envelope she had found it in. She knew what it said, and at the moment, she wasn’t sure if she could handle seeing his handwriting. Everything was wild within her head, and seeing the proof that she was all alone in the world was not something she felt was a good idea. Asher had possessed beautiful handwriting, slanted and with strange flourishes that made a letter from him not only a message from the man who had been her father, but a reminder that he was truly gone from her world.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  She smiled suddenly, and she let out a soft breath of surprised laughter, her eyes drawn to the porthole window and the lights of the city beyond it.

  She could smell Finn’s cologne.

  She hadn’t been wrong, when she had first watched Finn at the bar of the Campton. Women like her were far too dangerous. But then again, she had already made up her mind that she had never met a woman quite like Finnegan Starkweather.

  Her eyes returned to the painting.

  “Maybe she wants you.”

  She didn’t really believe that, though, and the fact that she could still feel Finn’s mouth against her own was proof enough for her. She’d been caught up in more than a few games in her line of work, and no matter how much someone might want, there were no lies in a kiss such as that.

  “The sort of kiss…” she whispered, though she didn’t finish her sentence.

  Eric had told her he had a special buyer, and though they would run the auction as usual, he had no doubt his new client would pay whatever outrageous sum was needed to obtain Vincent’s lost painting. They were surprisingly scary words.

  She could retire on this one. She could be done with it all, and only dabble if the fancy struck her or she couldn’t resist. She could attend university if she wanted, which would make Asher chuckle and laugh, that such a thought had finally entered her head. She could…

  “I could stop running,” she whispered again, and still her voice felt too loud.

  She blinked and wiped at her cheeks.

  “I could start clean.”

  She had no idea what that would feel like. To start fresh, with no restrictions on what she might want to do, or where she might wish to go. She had money already, yes, and plenty of it. But money ran out, and with one bad investment, or a single wrong move, it could be cut in half. It could even disappear if she were truly careless. The house in the Dordogne, and the land, had taken almost every bit of her available assets. A superb investment, to be sure, but years of jobs, years of planning and risk, and with one fell swoop, her budget for living a retirement of ease and comfort was looking a bit pinched.

  But not with this one.

  This one would give her freedom beyond any and all attachments and limitations. This one would give her power. And power was something she had never really had before. Power over her own destiny, and the ability to keep what she loved, no matter what life might bring.

  She picked up Asher’s letter and brought the envelope close. The fact that she could smell Finn’s cologne as she thought of Asher did not seem out of place, though she had no idea why.

  He had wanted her to have it. He had left it for her.

  This was the life she had chosen. She had no idea if there was room enough for the promises Finn had made with her kiss. Casey wasn’t even sure if Finn had been aware of them, the taste of that fleeting dream she’d not had since she was a girl. A dream of being safe and warm, and surrounded by…by what?

  Casey swallowed over a tight throat and wiped at her cheeks again. She tucked the letter in the inner pocket of her jacket, pushed up from the chair, and clicked off the light before she made her way in the dark.

  * * *

  Orléans, France

  August 1997

  “But I don’t need it.”

  “Of course you do. Do you think I will give my secrets over to a girl who cannot keep track of her own accounts?” Asher exhaled smoke toward the half-open car window. His French accent was still evident in his English, but it was not as heavy as it once was.

  Casey pulled her left foot onto the seat and cast him a glance as she laced her fingers against her shin. “Is this the part where you lament your lack of education and explain to me how it’s kept you from polite society?”

  Asher chuckled, and the sound hit a lovely high note that always amused her. “You see? I never used such words when I was your age. And I went to school. If I had gone to university, we would be living a different life.”

  Casey smiled, irritated but still entertained. “I think you went off the track a bit with that one. Should you try again?”

  Asher gave a scoff and pulled lightly at his smoke. “Yes, okay, you’re right. Who wants to live like those rich pricks, in houses that all look the same? Dinner at seven and then”—he made an odd, somewhat sinister digging gesture with both hands, and scrunched up his face—“tuck, tuck my little rat children, who will whine and sneer and click their teeth, and who will forget you in twenty years because you are old and you shame them.”

  Casey laughed. “Well, those rich pricks and their spoiled whiny brats are going to pay for our trip to Provence.”

  Asher smiled, but his eyes said something more. “Only after you finish your exams.”

  Casey groaned and dropped her head back.

  “What?”

  “I’m so bored there, Oncle.”

  Asher nodded. “Yes. You are seventeen years old—of course it bores you. So then you take your graduation exams early, yes?”

  Casey narrowed her eyes at him, caught off guard and wary of his statement.

  The headlights of a car flared within the rearview mirror and they both stilled, Asher’s eyes quick and alert. The black Volvo passed them by just as Asher turned his face away. His eyes met Casey’s. “Take them, and you are done with school.”

  There was a long silence between them as Casey tried to decide if he was serious or not. She had tried in the past to convince him that she should test out and move on, but he had always refused to sign the papers. “Do not fuck with me,” she warned.

  “Why would I fuck with you? And watch your language, please.”

  “Why would you agree now?”

  “Because you are a young woman. There is nothing else they can teach you if you pass their exams.”
He made a face of acceptance and pulled on his cigarette once more before he flicked it out the window. “I see the logic in this. You have not asked me since the last time, however, and I have changed my mind since then. So now I say, if you pass? We will move on. Get me the papers and I will sign them.”

  Casey’s heartbeat quickened and she sat up straighter. “Don’t mess with me, please.”

  Asher pulled in his shoulders with a shrug. “What is that? I am not messing with you. I promise, my little Domino.”

  Casey’s smile was slow to form, but it was heartfelt when it arrived.

  “Listen,” Asher replied, and his tone was gentle, “maybe this is not the time, but since we are talking of big things…” He wore a serious expression within the shadows of the car, and she steeled herself for what he might say. “I tell you now, that I know.”

  Casey held his gaze for a long time, and her smile faded just as carefully as it had arrived. “You know what?”

  “I know what you’re hiding from me. I know, my sweet girl.”

  Casey’s words left her completely and she swallowed upon a tight throat.

  “Do not be afraid, Cassandra. I don’t care about such things, my darling. I care only that you are happy.” His expression contained genuine warmth, and his eyes were filled with love for her. Despite that, she felt the blood beneath her skin become hot and panicked. “Love is only love, isn’t that what they say? Love is just love.”

  Casey felt the blush burn its way down her throat and into her chest.

  “But what I do care about is that those girls at school, they are worthless. I am seeing that, Domino, and they are not good enough for you.” He made a face. “So you pass your exams and we have a party, a lovely party, and then we go to the coast.” His grin returned. “There are girls there, Domino, who will appreciate a young woman such as yourself, brilliant and beautiful. We will go, and we will have ourselves a grand summer, yes? We will have another adventure.”

  Casey reached for her voice, but when she closed her thoughts about it, her tongue came back empty. A grand summer, yes, Oncle, she wanted to say, scarcely believing it.