Red alert. Red alert. We’re in public. There are other ears around.
Stan lowered his voice. “This is Dean’s kid.”
Carl stared at my face for a full five seconds before his eyes widened. “Ho … ly … shit.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Last time we saw you, you were only about this high.” He put his hand flat over the table.
I stared at him, confused.
“We came over and played cards with your dad occasionally when he and your mom were still together,” Stan explained. “How is your mom, anyway?”
I sat back in my chair, holding my wine glass close to my chest. “She’s fine. Sorry, this is super weird for me. How did you know it was me?”
“You talk just like him. And you look like him, even with the red hair.” Stan smiled. “You look like your mother too, though.”
“And he’s got a few pictures of you around his place in Florida,” Carl chimed in.
I gulped the rest of my wine far too quickly. Usually I don’t drink while on assignment, but this was just too weird for me.
In a way, it felt like being reunited with long-distance cousins. Cousins who knew all about me, while I didn’t know shit about them.
Stan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that Scottish jackass in Paris with you?”
A few months prior, before Rhys and I were friends and occasional partners, my father had given Rhys an incorrect lead and sent Rhys to California to talk to Stan—this very Stan!—about a missing diamond necklace. Rhys hadn’t been permitted to see Stan, but he evidently knew who Rhys was.
And apparently Stan and my father were still buddies.
“Y-yes.” I winced. “He’s not here, though.”
“Good,” Carl said. “That guy’s an asshole.”
“He has his moments.” I set my empty wine glass back on the table.
The Muscle rejoined us at the table. We continued our chat for a bit, but after a few minutes, The Muscle put a briefcase on the table, opened the latches and flipped the side open.
Oh god. This is how I die. They’re going to shoot me. Right here in this bar. They’re not family at all! They’re cold-blooded … Seriously?
The Muscle took two items out of the briefcase and placed them on the table: a box of fine-tip markers and a coloring book. He put the briefcase back down by his feet while the three of us watched him. He opened up the coloring book to a half-colored page and started filling in a mandala design with red marker. He eventually looked up.
“What?”
“We’re out havin’ a few drinks and you’re coloring?” Carl stared at him, eyes narrowed and pudgy hands flailing. “What are you, five?”
The Muscle flipped the book closed and pointed to the cover. “Coloring is for adults too. It says adult coloring book right there.”
I nodded. “They’re very popular right now.”
Carl frowned at me and then continued flailing in The Muscle’s direction. “Do you have to do that now?”
“My therapist said I need to relax more.” The Muscle flipped the book open again. “This relaxes me.”
While Carl berated The Muscle a bit more, Stan leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Did you steal the Picasso?”
If he thinks I may have stolen the original Picasso, then he may not be involved. He just happens to be in Paris while the Picasso is missing. Is that too much of a coincidence?
“No. Did you?”
“I wish.” Stan sipped his drink. “Do you think your friend Delacroix is involved?”
“No.”
“Then why were you pretending to be interested in him?”
“I want at that art collection of his. If that—” I mouthed ‘Picasso’ “—is among them, all the better. He seems too dim to be involved in that.”
Stan sat back in his chair. “You’re telling me you just happened to be in Paris.”
The mood had suddenly gone from friendly to tense.
I smiled. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
He grinned. “That’s not my deal. I have bigger fish to fry.”
“I don’t know, Stan. That’s an awfully big, pricy fish.”
“From what I’ve heard, that seems more like your kind of fish.”
“To be honest, it’s a great distraction,” I said. “I’m just out looking for smaller fish, and poof. One of the biggest fish of all is snatched up.”
The Muscle stared at me and then at his boss. “Are you guys talking about fish?”
We all burst out laughing. I ended up having another glass of wine and got pretty drunk. At the end of the night, they gave me a lift back to the apartment.
I fumbled with my keys, dropping them outside the door. I struggled to find the keyhole, but the door whipped open before I could locate it.
Rhys, wearing PJ pants, raised an eyebrow at me. His hair was messy, and he definitely looked like I’d woken him up with my key jingling.
“Are you drunk?”
I peered up at him, one eye closed as I tried to focus. “Very.”
I tossed my clutch down on the counter and fell face-down onto the sofa.
“Do you want a glass of water?”
“Yes, please,” I said into the couch cushion.
Why is the room spinning?
Rhys moved me so I was sitting up and handed me a glass. I took a sip and put my head on his shoulder.
“You got drunk with Delacroix?”
“No,” I said into his neck.
Ohmygod, he smells so good.
“Did you see any paintings in his hotel room?”
I shook my head. “Can I go to sleep now?”
“No, finish your water first.”
I took another sip of water. Apparently water wasn’t what my body wanted, because I totally puked onto the floor, hitting Rhys’s bare toes. I made my way to the bathroom and threw my head into the toilet.
“Can you come hold my wig?” I hollered between full-body retches.
Nothing brings two people closer together than drunken vomiting, right?
CHAPTER TWENTY
My eyes snapped open the next morning as a shock of brightness hit my eyes. I winced as the stream of light from the window burned my retinas.
“Oh god, ow,” I mumbled before rolling over and covering my face with the comforter.
Standing next to the open curtain, Rhys laughed. “Rise and shine, princess!”
I sunk further down into the bed. “I’m going to fucking murder you.”
He sat on the bed next to me and patted the blanket lump that was my head. “Well, you did wake me up last night, and then you puked on my feet.”
I pulled the blanket down to my nose and peered over the top. “Sorry.” I winced at the window. “Can you please close the curtains? I’m begging you.”
“Bit of a headache?”
“Yes, and why are you talking so loud?”
Rhys rolled his eyes and pulled the curtains together, dimming the room.
“Thank you.” The darkness brought a hint of relief to my eyeballs and head.
“Now,” he said, “you’re going to tell me what the hell you got up to last night.”
The inside of my mouth felt like I’d just eaten a gob of toothpaste, and it still tasted like vomit. I’m sure my breath was just delightful at that moment.
I explained to Rhys how Delacroix became an obnoxious drunk as the evening went on, how we met Stan and his boys and how I ended up drinking late into the night.
He nodded, taking in my hungover retelling. “Do you think Stan being in Paris is related to the missing Picasso?”
I thought about our conversation last night. “No.”
Rhys frowned. “His guys took kindly to you. Not so much to me when I met them.”
“Yeah.” I hesitated. “They’re not huge fans of you.”
He checked something on his phone. “Sophie called last night while you were out, looking for an update.”
“She was actually at the gala last
night,” I said. “What did she say?”
“She thinks Delacroix isn’t a suspect, because he’s loaded, so he would have no need for a stolen Picasso or a forgery.”
“Except he’s not. He’s broke. He was trying to sell a bunch of paintings to Stan before they, ya know, drugged him.”
Rhys nodded. “Right. I did some digging online. His family paid huge donations to arts programs until eight months ago, when his father died. I had a peek at Alastair’s personal accounts—he’s a million dollars in debt.”
“Where did the family’s money go? Did it all die with Old Man Delacroix?”
“Almost all of it went to charity. Young Delacroix got a cool half million, and it’s just gone.” Rhys hesitated, avoiding eye contact with me. “So, you didn’t see inside Delacroix’s hotel room?”
“Nope.”
“You’re gonna have to get in there,” Rhys said. “Another date perhaps?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not a honey pot. That’s not my thing. I’ll get back into his room, but I need to do it my way.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.”
I showered and brushed my teeth, attempting to de-hangover. Once my voice didn’t sound scratchy and I was feeling a little better, I called Dad and told him about my evening with Stan and company.
“Stan obviously wouldn’t steal the painting himself,” Dad said.
“Obviously.”
“His daughter really is in Paris studying art. So that wasn’t a lie.”
“How much of that kind of business does he do?”
“Not much. Art’s not really his thing.”
“What is Stan’s thing?”
Dad hesitated. “Stan’s portfolio is … diverse. Let’s just say I would never want you working for him, and I wouldn’t want you to be going after the same assignment.” He was quiet for a moment. “Punkin,’ I know you’ll be smart about this. Just … just be careful. A lot of people will be looking for that painting.”
“I know.” I smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
Rhys and I spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon on my bed watching Pulp Fiction on his laptop. As the credits rolled, he glanced over at me and smiled.
I took a bite of toast. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I don’t think we’ve watched a movie together before.”
“Why would we?”
“We’ve spent a fair amount of time together. And movies are fun and universally enjoyed.”
“We’re usually off breaking into buildings. We don’t usually have a ton of downtime.” I thought for a moment. “This is the longest assignment I’ve ever been on.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rhys said, leaning his head back against the headboard, his bare feet at the end of the bed. “Hopefully all this work pays off in the end.”
Without moving my head, my eyes traveled the length of his body, from the tip of his pudgy little toes to the top of his head.
I sat up in bed, the sheet draped around my shoulders. I pulled my knees up to my chest. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”
His eyebrows went up. “You want to know about my girlfriend?”
“Yes. We’re friends, and I know nothing about her.”
Rhys winced. “It’s complicated.”
I shrugged. “We’ve got time.”
He let out a long sigh and told me about meeting Danika through a friend of a friend.
“Your girlfriend’s name is Danika? That’s a badass name,” I said.
“She’s a badass gal.”
They’d only been going out for a few months, but he really liked her.
“Things got a little weird when I found out what she does for a living.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “She’s a high-end escort.”
My jaw dropped open. “You’re dating a hooker?”
Rhys frowned. “Escort. And yes.”
“Wow.” What do I even say to that? “That is something.”
“She enjoys it, she’s her own boss and she makes good money.” He shrugged. “I can’t really judge her for her career choice. I’m a professional thief.”
“Good point.”
Rhys’s phone beeped twice, and he grabbed it off the bed. His eyes quickly scanned the screen.
“Our boy Delacroix just bought a ticket to Amsterdam. He’s leaving Paris tomorrow at noon.”
“Shit,” I said, my shoulders slumping. “When are we going to get the chance to check out his hotel room for paintings?”
Rhys smiled. “I guess we’re going out tonight.”
* * *
Rhys and I strolled into the hotel late that afternoon. Rhys leaned on the marble counter and smiled wide at the pretty young concierge.
“Buongiorno!” Rhys exclaimed in a Texan accent.
I chuckled. “I think you mean ‘bonjour,’ honey.” I slid my oversized sunglasses up to sit over my forehead. “Buongiorno is Italian.”
Rhys gave me a confused look. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” the concierge said, looking annoyed. “She is right.” She looked down at Rhys’s lime green fanny pack and then back up at him. “Are you checking in?”
“Yes ma’am! Our reservation is under the name Philips.”
She typed something on her computer. “Oui. You are in room 512.” She gave us two key cards and sent us on our way.
As we left the elevator on the fifth floor, I grinned at Rhys. “You should dress like that all time.”
Rhys winced. “You cannot be serious.” His Scottish accent was back.
“A Hawaiian shirt, socks and sandals and khaki shorts?” I waggled my eyebrows. “It’s a good look.”
“This outfit makes me want to vomit.” He waved his key card in front of the lock on our room, and I followed him inside.
The room was nice, but not my biggest concern. I dropped my suitcase on one of the beds, grabbed one of the water glasses from the bathroom and put it up against the wall and my ear against the glass.
Rhys had specifically put our names into the hotel’s booking system in this room because it was located beside 511, the room Alistair Delacroix had been staying in for a month.
Rhys put his ear up against the wall and listened with me. I shook my head—the room next door was silent. He ditched the fanny pack, sat on the bed and pulled his laptop from his suitcase, unbuttoning the Hawaiian shirt as he waited for something to load.
I opened both patio doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The view of Paris from here was spectacular, but I was more interested in how close the next balcony was. I rejoined Rhys inside, shutting the doors behind me.
“I could definitely get over to the next balcony no problem,” I said.
Rhys turned his laptop around so I could see the screen. “Or we could just turn off the security cameras and unlock every door in the building.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Where’s the fun in that, though?”
He snickered and turned his computer back around, typing frantically. He looked up at me over the top of his laptop. “How do we look around his room without him or housekeeping walking in on us?”
“Any way to see where he is right now?”
“His last credit card expense was at lunch. He’s still in Paris, but it’s hard to say where he is by now.” Rhys shrugged. “Are you sure our hot little redhead femme fatale can’t come back for the evening?”
“Hell, no. I’m done with her.” I raised an eyebrow. “Hot?”
He pretended not to hear the question. “What if we just went in at night when we know he’s sleeping, tranquilized him so he stays asleep and then riffled through his stuff?”
“He’s already been drugged once this week. He might get a little suspicious if he finds a hole in his neck where we needled him.”
I thought for a minute, looking around the room for ideas. The red, blinking light of the smoke detector on the ceiling caught my eye.
; I looked at Rhys. “What if we just evacuated the whole building?”
* * *
Rhys and I worked on our plan that evening, occasionally putting our ears to the wall and listening for Delacroix. His room remained silent.
Just before 9:00 p.m., Rhys typed something quickly on his laptop, shutting off the security cameras. I made sure the hallway was clear before locating a fire alarm. In one swift motion, our plan was underway.
The evacuation alarm sounded: three shrill, high-pitched beeps that made my eardrums quake. A French announcement came on, followed by an English announcement.
“Attention. Please exit the hotel immediately. Please use the stairwell. Do not use the elevator. Please remain calm. This is not a drill.”
A Chinese message followed, then Spanish. The beeping continued. Sorry, everyone who speaks another language. Sucks to be you, I guess.
The halls filled with the sound of thunderous footsteps, not all of them calm like the announcement requested. Frantic hotel guests yelled to one another while passing by our room. Rhys stood nearby, listening. After most of the guests left our floor, we heard knocking on a nearby room door, and then someone entering that room.
Rhys’s eyes widened, and he grabbed my arm, yanking me into the closet by the door.
“Bonjour, hello? Is anyone in there?” asked someone on the other side of the room door, just feet from us. He opened the door and stepped inside. “Hello? Bonjour?”
I held my breath until the employee left again, closing the door behind him. I exhaled quietly and looked at Rhys in the darkness. It was not the first time he and I had been wedged together in a closet while hiding from someone.
Rhys slipped back out of the closet. He went back to his laptop on the desk and tapped a single key. “Okay. All room doors are unlocked.”
I smiled at him. “You impress me sometimes.”
We checked the hallway and the main staircase for slow evacuees. It was clear. We pulled on our gas masks. Rhys made his way to room 511 while I pulled the key on a smoke grenade, a different kind than the ones we used to break into the gallery. I tossed this bad boy down the stairs, and thick gray smoke poured out of the canister.
Everything was deadly quiet except for the shrill ringing of the alarm. I gave a final look around before joining Rhys in room 511.
Thick as Thieves Page 13