Wicked Business

by Janet Evanovich

  Diesel left Storrow Drive for the flat of the hill, found Mt. Vernon Street, and turned into Louisburg Square. He counted off houses and idled in front of a perfectly renovated town house that sat in the middle of the block.

  “This is the address on the computer printout,” he said. “According to the text I just got from my assistant, the house is owned by Gerald Belker. He’s president of Belker Extrusion. Has a wife and two adult children. This is one of three houses he owns. It’s not clear if he’s in residence. Reedy was let into the house to see the painting, but that was a couple weeks ago. My assistant called the house and got a machine.”

  “What’s your assistant’s name?” I asked Diesel.

  “I don’t know. She’s been with me for three weeks, and it’s too late to ask. She’d get insulted and quit.”

  “So how are we going to get in to see the painting?”

  “We ring the doorbell. If someone answers, we lie our way in. If no one answers, we break in.”

  “I don’t like either of those ideas.”

  Diesel parked two houses down. “What’s your plan?”

  “You treat me to dinner at a nice restaurant, we go home, and we pretend we didn’t discover the computer printout of the second painting.”

  “Not gonna happen, but after we break into the house, I’ll buy you a pizza and a beer.”

  “I’m not breaking into the house. Look at these places. They all have alarm systems. The police will come and arrest us.”

  “No worries. There’s not a jail that can hold me.”

  “But what about me? I can’t do the whole Houdini thing you do with locks.”

  “Yeah, you’d be behind bars for a long time.”

  “Good grief.”

  Diesel grinned. “I’m kidding. I’ll take care of the alarm.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Usually.”

  “Only usually?”

  “Almost always.”

  I followed him up the stairs to Belker’s house and waited while he rang the bell. No answer. He rang again. Still no answer.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I said. “I don’t think we should break in. It’s daylight. People will see us.”

  Diesel put his hand to the door and the lock tumbled. “No one’s looking.”

  He opened the door, we stepped in, and the alarm went off.

  “Bummer,” he said. “I usually block the electrical signal.”

  “Shut it off! Shut it off! Do something.”

  “Look around for the painting.”

  “Are you insane? You set the alarm off. The police are rushing over here.”

  Diesel was going room by room. “The alarm company will call first.”

  The phone rang.

  “What should I do? Should I answer it?” I asked him.

  “No. You don’t know the code word. Just look for the painting.”

  My heart was racing, and I was having a hard time breathing. “I’m gonna go to jail. What’ll I tell my mother? Who’ll make cupcakes for Mr. Nelson?”

  “I found it,” Diesel yelled from upstairs, barely audible over the screaming alarm.

  “I’m leaving,” I yelled back. “You’re on your own. I can’t eat prison food. It’s probably all carbs.”

  Diesel jogged down the stairs with the painting.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “I’m borrowing it.”

  “Omigod, you’re stealing it.”

  “Only for a little while. Help me wrap this bed sheet around it.”

  “It’s huge!”

  “Yeah, it didn’t look this big in the book. The gold frame doesn’t help, either.”

  We got the sheet around the painting, and Diesel hustled it out the door and down the street to his car. I had the hood pulled up on my sweatshirt and my face tucked down in case someone was looking and making notes or, God forbid, taking pictures. We slid the painting into the back of the SUV, scrambled into the front seat, and Diesel took off. He turned out of Louisburg Square, onto Pinckney. I looked back and saw the flashing lights of two cop cars as they came in and angle parked in front of Belker’s house.

  “See,” Diesel said. “No problems.”

  “We missed getting arrested by two minutes. And we’ve got a hot painting in the back of the car. It’s probably worth millions. I mean, this isn’t like shoplifting a candy bar. This would be a felony. Remember what they did to Martha Stewart? They put her in jail. I don’t even remember why. I think she told a fib.”

  “Nobody said saving mankind was going to be easy,” Diesel said.

  “We’re art thieves.”

  Diesel looked over at me. “Does that turn you on?”

  “No! It scares the bejeezus out of me. Aren’t you worried?”

  “No, but I’m hungry.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  We retrieved Carl from Diesel’s apartment, got takeout pizza in Marblehead, and brought it back to my house. Diesel hung sheets and towels over my kitchen windows so no one could look in, and we propped the painting up against a wall.

  “It’s nice,” Diesel said, working his way through a piece of pepperoni with extra cheese, “but it’s just branches and flowers to me. I’m not seeing any clues.”

  “Reedy thought you had to believe in true love to see the clue.”

  Diesel took another piece of pizza. “I’ve gotta be honest with you. I don’t even know what true love means. If it wasn’t for John Lovey living in the nineteenth century, I’d think the whole true-love thing was invented by Disney.”

  I’d been staring at the painting for a half hour and I didn’t see any clues, either. I looked at it up close, and I looked at it far away. I looked at it with one eye closed. I examined the back. Nothing. But when I touched it, I felt the energy.

  “Do you see a clue?” Diesel asked me.

  “No.”

  “Hunh,” Diesel said.

  “What’s hunh supposed to mean?”

  “Looks to me like I’m not the only one who’s cynical about true love.”

  I sunk my teeth into a piece of pizza. “I’m starting to think John Lovey was a nut.”

  Diesel gave a bark of laughter and took a long pull from his bottle of beer.

  “Eeh?” Carl asked, pointing to the pizza box.

  Diesel gave him a second piece and cut a slice off for Cat.

  “Do you want me to help read through the papers you took off Reedy’s desk?” I asked Diesel.

  “No, but thanks. I left them in my apartment. I’m going to spend the night here watching the game and guarding your body.”

  “How much of the night are you talking about?”

  “The whole night. All of it. And then some.”

  This was a real dilemma. I didn’t want another Wulf encounter in the middle of the night, but I also didn’t want a Diesel episode in the middle of the night.

  “The whole night might not be a good idea,” I said. “It’s, you know, awkward.”

  That got another smile. “Afraid you can’t keep your hands off me?”

  “It’s not my hands I’m worried about.”

  “Better my hands than Wulf’s hands,” Diesel said.

  “That’s true, but it wasn’t the answer I was hoping to hear.”

  The game was in overtime when I went to bed. I brushed my teeth and went with the least seductive outfit I could find . . . a lightweight T-shirt and black Pilates pants. I crawled into bed, and Cat took his position at my feet. I shut the light off, and heard Diesel on the stairs.

  “Bruins won,” he said, coming into the bedroom, carting the Van Gogh with him.

  “What’s with the picture?”

  “I didn’t want to leave it downstairs where it could get snatched.”

  “You could have slept downstairs with it.”

  “I don’t fit on the couch.”

  “You don’t fit here, either.”

  “True. But I fit better.”

  Carl looked over th
e edge of the bed. “Eep?”

  Cat rotated his head and looked slitty-eyed at Carl. Cat wasn’t big on sharing his bed with a monkey. Probably, he wasn’t crazy about sharing it with Diesel, either.

  Carl inched his way around the bed to the point where he was farthest away from Cat, carefully climbed onto the bed, and sat hunched, trying to make himself small.

  “Does Carl sleep with you when you’re home?” I asked Diesel.

  Diesel stripped his T-shirt over his head and kicked his shoes off. “No. He has his own bedroom. You only have one bedroom, so he doesn’t know where to sleep.”

  “Like you.”

  “Honey, I know exactly where to sleep.”

  His jeans hit the floor, and I told myself to look away, but I couldn’t force myself to do it. Diesel naked was a masterpiece of male perfection. I was tempted to turn the light back on, but I was afraid that would be too obvious. He dropped his boxers and slipped under the covers next to me.

  “This thing that happens when two people with special abilities get together. You want to explain that to me again?” I said to him.

  “One of them loses all their special abilities. No way of knowing ahead which one will be the loser.”

  “And just exactly what is it that triggers this power outage? I mean, does there have to be penetration? Does there have to be an exchange of body fluids?”

  “Exchange of body fluids is a given, beyond that it’s a gray area.”

  “How about contraception? A condom would contain body fluids. What then?”

  I could feel Diesel smile. “You want me bad.”

  “I do not! That’s ridiculous. I’m just asking.”

  He slid his arm around me and nuzzled my neck. He was warm, and he smelled great, and I liked the way he felt pressed against me.

  “How about we just fool around a little,” he said.

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is that probably like the I probably can defuse the alarm system?”

  “Yeah, it might be similar.”

  I heard rustling in the dark room and realized Carl was creeping across the bed, trying to get closer to Diesel and me, trying to find a place to sleep. At the same time, there was movement at the foot of the bed. Cat was uncurling, slowly stalking Carl.

  “Maybe you can find a place for Carl to sleep,” I said to Diesel. “I don’t think Cat likes having a monkey in his bed.”

  “They’re fine,” Diesel said. “They’ll figure it out.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  YEOWL.

  EEeeeee!

  Cat pounced on Carl, and Carl went postal. There was a lot of screeching and hissing and growling and monkey bitch slapping. I dove under the covers, and I felt Diesel roll over me. I peeked out and saw he had Cat and Carl by the scruffs of their necks, holding them both at arm’s length.

  I switched the light on, and Diesel marched out of the room, still holding Cat and Carl. Minutes later, Diesel returned to bed and shut the light off.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked him.

  “I have Carl on the couch in the sleeping bag, and Cat is in his bed in the kitchen.”

  “Was anybody bleeding?”

  “Not that I could see.” There was a beat of silence. “Now that I’m back in bed, would you like me to demonstrate some of the things we shouldn’t be doing?”

  “No!”

  Carl and Cat had saved me from doing something stupid. And it had the added bonus of seeing Diesel with the light on. Sweet dreams tonight.

  I was snuggled into Diesel when I woke up. He was still asleep, so I carefully eased away from him and shut the alarm off before it rang. Cat had returned to the foot of the bed. No sign of Carl. I grabbed clothes and tiptoed into the bathroom. I showered and dressed, and Cat and I went downstairs.

  Four hours later, I was in the bakery kitchen helping Clara make meat pies and Diesel strolled in, carrying the painting wrapped in the bedsheet.

  “I need you to babysit this,” Diesel said. “There’s a problem I have to solve, and I don’t want to leave this unguarded in your house.”

  “Put it against the far wall and make sure it’s covered. I’m up to my elbows in bread dough and meat filling here.”

  “I’ll be back before you leave today,” Diesel said, propping the painting against the wall. “Call me if there’s an issue.”

  He went out the back door, closing and locking it behind him.

  “What’s under the sheet?” Clara wanted to know.

  “A painting. We sort of borrowed a Van Gogh yesterday.”

  “A real Van Gogh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Borrowed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Borrowed what?” Glo asked, coming in from the front shop.

  “A painting,” Clara said. “It’s under the sheet.”

  Glo pulled the sheet away, and we all looked at the painting.

  “It looks like wallpaper,” Glo said. “My grammy had wallpaper like this in her bedroom, but it wasn’t 3D.”

  “What do you mean 3D?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s the branches and flowers, and then in front of them, there’s writing and some bells with numbers and musical notes, and then a man’s name.”

  “I don’t see any of that,” Clara said. “You haven’t been smoking mushrooms, have you?”

  “No,” Glo said, “but I had some on pizza a couple days ago.”

  “What does the writing say?” I asked her.

  “‘Hope endures in the reader of this message. Love comes to those who still hope,’” Glo said. “I’d like to think that’s true, because I haven’t had great luck so far in the love department.”

  “Yes, but you’re such an optimist,” I told her. “Every time you meet a man, you’re sure he’s going to be your perfect match.”

  “What else do you see?” Clara asked. “You said there were bells and a man’s name.”

  “Charles Duane.”

  “Draw a picture of the bells, so I can see them,” I said to Glo.

  “Sure, but they’re just plain old bells that are numbered one through nine.” Glo’s eyes went wide. “This is about saving mankind, isn’t it? I bet this is some kind of clue to finding the Luxuria Stone. And I’m the only one who can read the clue. This is definitely a sign of wizardry. This is so awesome.”

  “The clue is only good if you can figure out where it takes you,” Clara said. “Just reading the clue isn’t enough.”

  “True,” Glo said. “But I still feel special. And I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

  I returned to the meat pies, and Glo sketched the bells on a napkin and went back to tending the shop.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Diesel called at noon and said he was having problems. “My boss has me looking for a guy named Sandman. He’s one of us. His specialty is putting people to sleep and robbing them.”

  “One of us?”

  “That’s what I’m told. In the registry, his ability is listed as mid-level metal bender, but clearly he has something new with the sleep thing.”

  “There’s a registry?”

  “Yeah. That’s how I found you. A lot of people slip through the cracks, but for the most part, it’s all documented.”

  “How?” I asked him.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. I just do my job, and after twenty years of service I can retire, and I’ll have my own island in the South Pacific.”

  “Where’s all this going?”

  “I can’t find him,” Diesel said. “He’s not where he’s supposed to be. Take the painting with you when you leave work, and I’ll hook up with you later.”

  I cleaned my area, wedged the painting into the backseat of my car, and headed for home. I had my radio tuned to a news station, and they were talking about an art theft. A rare Van Gogh had been boldly stolen in broad daylight from a Boston town house. No one saw the robbery take place. The owner was overseas at the time.

  I wo
ndered how such a thing could happen . . . a robbery like that in broad daylight. And then I realized they were talking about the Van Gogh I had in the backseat. Good God, I was the one who’d committed the robbery.

  I had a moment of dizziness, followed by nausea. Stay calm, I told myself. Don’t panic. It’s not as bad as it sounds. The painting wasn’t actually stolen. It was borrowed. Probably, I wouldn’t have to do more than ten years for borrowing. Time off for good behavior might have me out before I turned forty. A sob inadvertently escaped from somewhere deep in my chest, and I changed the radio station to seventies rock.

  I parked in front of my house and hustled the painting inside, being careful not to let the bedsheet slip away. I locked the door behind me, carried the painting upstairs, and slid it under my bed. Out of sight, out of mind. Except it wasn’t totally out of my mind.

  “This is a mess,” I said to Cat. “What if I get caught? What will I say? I’m sorry, your honor, but I was trying to save all of mankind. And then I’ll tell the court I’m special because I can identify bewitched objects. Even I don’t believe it.”

  I sat on my couch with my computer and Googled Charles Duane. I assumed he was a composer, since his name seemed to be attached to the musical notes on the painting. I was surprised to see he was the rector of the Old North Church from 1893 to 1911.

  “This does me no good at all,” I said to Cat.

  The doorbell rang and my heart jumped in my chest. I peeked out my front window, fearing a SWAT team, seeing Glo instead.

  I opened the door to her. “Why aren’t you at work?”